Like a pig at the trough

Like a pig at the trough

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My friend Kathy invited me to be her guest at her swank condo on the beach in Mexico. I would even fly on her companion ticket. The whole trip would hardly cost anything. I said the only thing I could say—YES!

Yet, as the day to leave approached, I felt strangely ambivalent. I wanted to go and I wanted to stay.

I could imagine how the breeze wafting off the ocean would smell as I climbed down the ramp of the airplane onto the tarmac. Hugs from Carmen and Ana would await our arrival, warm greetings from Rui and Susanna. As soon as we could shuck our clothes and tug on swimwear, Kathy and I would hit the beach. I could close my eyes and almost feel my toes sink into the warm sands of Mazatlan. I packed my bags a month ahead.

Remember back in the day when the thick Sears catalog arrived in the mail? Our mailbox was a mile down our country lane. I would walk back to the house slowly, thumbing through the pages that interested me most, toys, bicycles, and clothing. As I got older I used that time alone to surreptitiously study women’s underwear. I wondered if I should ever get to wear such mysterious garments. A few years later I graduated to memorizing pages showing young male models. They looked so debonair compared to our local louts. The catalog spread a cornucopia of delights. It little mattered to me that the only things I ever ordered were new shoes and school clothing. Every page was mine.

Most times my life is like that Sears catalog. Every day I have pages of delectable activities from which to choose. But here’s where my simile falls apart. Unlike the catalog orders which arrived promptly, my life is a bit sloppy. Sometimes items arrive that I didn’t order. Other times the order is damaged in shipping. Most days bring me bits of happiness spiced with bits of sadness. What is life if we don’t laugh a little and cry a little. Oh, so many choices.

Despite my packed bags, I felt blue about all the events I was going to miss.

Along with Anne and Ralph Schneider who teach music at the North Harlem Colony, I had been helping with a portion of the graduation and the Mother’s Day presentations.  We worked with Adrian and Royce, the two graduating boys, on a series of musical numbers.  I was excited to see the growth and the talent of these two young men and was proud to do my part. I would miss both celebrations.

Then there was the first swimming pool fundraiser, a dinner and auction at the VFW Club, and I felt torn to miss that important event. (By the way, I heard the group has garnered over $15,000 dollars to date. In little Harlem, this is momentous.)

Every May for the last several years I have gone to Billings for the annual MMIA training for elected officials. Not only is the trip fun, but I have always come back with useful information to help me in my civic duties. I look forward to greeting friends from all over the state, to meet new people, to share ideas, experiences and frustrations. Ah, next year.

Along with everything else, I had arranged to host the Missoula Children’s Theater directors in my home. They drove in as I drove out so I handed over the keys. I missed getting to know a team of dynamic young women. I missed our Harlem kids play “The Tortoise and the Hare”.

On the morning I left, I walked around my garden to check the progress of the budding tulips, the leaves popping on my chokecherries, the rhubarb already up and running, the iris and lilacs, the herb garden, hollyhocks, and everything else I knew was going to explode into full growth the minute I turned my back and headed for Mexico. I wanted to be here to celebrate every baby sprig and green of spring.

Now I’ve gone and come back home again. My cat greeted me with purrs and refuses to leave my side.  The garden is beautiful. Lilacs are blooming. Raspberries show promise of a good crop. I breathe deeply and smell Montana.

Already I miss sleeping to the sound of surf. But in Mexico I got a jump start on my farmer tan, ate sea creatures every day and added to my burgeoning vocabulary of mangled Spanglish. 

Self knowledge is a good thing. What I’ve learned is that I am a pig. I want it all. I want the truffles in the forest and the hog slop in the trough.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

May 17, 2012

Missoula Children’s Theatre Comes to Harlem

Missoula Children’s Theatre Comes to Harlem

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Saturday night, right here in my own home town of Harlem , I attended a live theatre production. Along with two hundred excited parents, family members and friends, I watched thirty children, cast in a variety of roles, cavort across the stage in “Pinocchio”.

But for me the fun began the previous Sunday afternoon when Dan Watson and Lydia Jane Graeff, a team of directors from the Missoula Children’s Theatre, drove their little red truck into my driveway, and came inside to meet me and to see what was to be their home for the following week. I showed them to their rooms so they could unpack and take a few moments to relax before their work began.

Missoula Children’s Theatre has been around for forty years. If co-founder Jim Caron, out of a job and on his way to Oregon , had not broken down while driving his ancient VW van near Missoula , MCT might not exist. While waiting for repairs, he noticed a poster advertising auditions for the musical, “Man of La Mancha”. “Why not,” he thought, “just for fun”. He found himself cast in the play and during the run developed a friendship with Don Collins who played the lead.

After “ La Mancha ” closed, Caron and Collins formed a company to present theatre for children. Their efforts in Missoula were such a success that soon Jim and Don were receiving requests from other communities to perform for their children.

When they started they cast adults in the plays, with children only playing appropriate roles. In the winter of ’72 the company was booked to travel to Miles City for a production of “Snow White”. Jim and Don were hesitant to take seven children on that long trip over the icy roads. They took the radical step of driving to Miles City ahead of the rest of the crew, hoping they would find seven children willing to spend the week of preparation and be part of play. Four hundred fifty children showed up for auditions and the present form of Missoula Children’s Theatre was conceived.

Today hopeful directors audition to be part of Missoula Children’s Theatre. They are intensively trained and placed in teams of two which travel throughout the United States in little red trucks with the MCT logo prominent on the doors. International teams take theatre around the world. My new friends, Dan and Lydia , rookies with MCT, are touring “Pinocchio” to Montana and Wyoming communities. In their truck they carry their clothing and personal effects, the scripts, lighting, props, costumes, make-up, sets and all the equipment needed to create a stage wherever they go. Every Sunday they arrive at a new home. They cast up to sixty children and rehearse throughout the week. On Saturday they raise the set, run through a dress rehearsal, briefly rest and on Saturday evening the kids perform for the community. After the play, Dan and Lydia tear down the set and load all the equipment back into the truck. Early Sunday morning they head down the road.

For some communities MCT is the only live theatre to which their children are exposed. This is the second year that the newly organized Harlem PTO has sponsored MCT’s appearance. Last year sixteen children participated. This year thirty children signed up for the hard work of rehearsals every night after school. This is not just simple entertainment. MCT states “the primary goal, indeed the organization’s mission, is the development of life skills in children through participation in the performing arts.” I know how hard our kids worked, because I saw their directors drag through my front door chewing their hair at the end of the evening, looking like road kill. Yet each day, Dan and Lydia returned to school eager to help the kids build the next layer of competence.

Finally the big night arrived. I went to the high school to see the play performed on the same stage where we had plays when I was a student. The old gym, with its stage on one side, is the only remaining part of old Harlem High. I sat through the performance, a grin pasted across my face, delighted at the bravery of the kids. I silently cheered for each young actor and held my breath whenever the action on the stage came to a halt, evidence of lost lines. But these children did it. They pulled it off. The show was a triumph.

After the play, parents took thousands of photographs, locking in memories forever. Dan and Lydia , together with a few community members, broke down the stage and packed the entire set and all the equipment into the little red truck. We came back to my house to celebrate and over a feast of pizza, talked theatre and life (and aren’t they the same thing) until midnight. Sunday morning I waved good-by to my two new friends as they headed down the road to their next gig.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 21, 2011
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