A Weekend at Fort Peck with Friends

Friends and Food
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A Weekend at Fort Peck with Friends

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We were planning our annual Harlem High Class of ’63 reunion when we got a phone call. Actually we got two. They sounded something like this, “Can some of our class join you this year for your reunion? Your class has more fun.” And that is what led to a blended Class of ’61-’63 Gathering at Ft. Peck . It must be true—we, like blondes, have more fun.



Early Friday afternoon, along with driving rain and golf-ball sized hail, our group pulled into the Buckhorn Lodge at Fort Peck Lake . Some of us beat the stormy winds and black clouds, some rode the deluge in fear and trembling, and others followed behind, assaying the damage in Glasgow . Meanwhile, out at the Buckhorn, it rained a bit, hailed a bit, and the sun beamed until nightfall--true Montana weather.



One thing about our class, we eat well. Every fresh arrival brought more food, enough to pack two refrigerators and crowd the tops of two tables and the kitchen counters.



Friday night dinner came off with barely a hitch, although at times it resembled a fire drill. Jim had volunteered to man the grill, cooking the prime rib brought by Fred, possibly from his own beef. Whenever I glanced out at the back patio, I saw what looked like dinner by committee. Jim, Fred and Jess each had strong opinions about the best way to cook the cow, but true friends, they worked out their differences without resorting to fisticuffs. Once the flash-fire seared (don’t ask) rack of beef was sliced, the chefs plunked a huge chunk of perfection on every plate. Unanimous in our accord, we agreed—this was without doubt the best prime rib we’d ever eaten. The accompanying baked potatoes and pasta salad were perfect, the huckleberry-topped cheesecake divine.



Before and after the meal we played cards, poured over photo albums and school annuals, snacked on salmon, told stories, and soaked up being together while the tunes we had enjoyed in our high school days played in the background. We had come from California , Washington and Oregon ; from Harlem, Chinook, Conrad, Billings and Glasgow . And if you weren’t there, we talked about you.



Saturday morning, after a leisurely breakfast of country sausage, eggs, sourdough waffles and fresh garden raspberries with whipped cream, we waddled out the door and caravanned across the four miles of earth-filled dam. We viewed the lake from the overlook, then we drove on to the spillway where we stood in awe, feeling the sheer power of the rushing water. We went down the hill to the Interpretive Center where we were captivated by the story of the building of the dam. From there we continued on to tour of the fish hatchery. Not wanting to miss a thing, we took in the vintage car show and Art in the Park on the grounds of the old Fort Peck Hotel. I bought a wonderful wooden pink flamingo (I named him Floyd, of course), with a strip of flexible metal for a neck. Floyd now resides in my chokecherry orchard, feeling quite at home.



We wandered back to the Buckhorn to rest, tell more stories, and get ready for a dinner of sautéed shrimp and steak grilled to order. Fat and happy, those who chose went to the Fort Peck Theatre for an absolutely stunning performance of the musical, “ Chicago ”.



Sunday, after sour dough pancakes, so light they floated off the griddle, ham, fruit and gallons of steaming coffee, some of our friends gave us a farewell round of hugs and headed down the trail to home. A few of us went for a ride on the lake in Jim’s boat. When we returned I realized I had sacrificed my favorite best green sweater to the spirits of Fort Peck Lake . I didn’t mean to but I guess the lake wanted it. Those things can happen in a boat.



Stuffed with food and stimulated by our activities, we slept well each night. I know I did. After I arrived home in Harlem , a friend asked me what I liked most about the weekend. That was easy. Friends. Being with friends. Reconnecting, deepening our relationships, strengthening our bonds. I have a rather simple belief—life is about friends. Friendship is what’s important—not houses or cars or money. Not stocks or bonds or clothing or jewelry or awards. Simply friendship.



Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

July 28, 2011
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I Could Have Danced All Night

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I Could Have Danced All Night

We of the Harlem High School Class of ’63 were a tight bunch. Whether we were working on a school project like building floats for the Homecoming Parade or a community project such as Clean-Up Day, it often seemed that, without consulting one another, we worked as a unit, all of the same mind. We thought we would maintain that special closeness throughout our lives. Yet after graduation we scattered like seed in the wind, into jobs, the military, college, marriage, distant places.

So forty two years later, at the 2005 All-School Reunion, several of us put our heads together, looked into one another’s eyes and said, “We don’t know each other anymore. We don’t want to lose touch again. What can we do?” We made a commitment to meet annually. Since then we have come together in Virginia City , Big Sky and Ennis.

We have found healing and forgiveness in our gatherings, in re-union. Old hurts disappeared. New bonds formed. Smiles grew larger, laughter deeper. Between the reunions we email, write letters, and pick up the phone. We keep in touch. We are here for one another.

Reunions are such fun. First come the lies. And I love them. “Gosh, you look great!” “You haven’t aged a bit!” “We are a good looking bunch!”

Then comes all the catching up, the Remember Whens, the Children and Grand-children, and the Bragging-About-Accomplishments. Pictures are passed around. We look through old year books. In small groups and one by one, we regain the closeness we formerly had, but now with more depth. We have found that getting re-acquainted is a precious trust. We like one another even more than in the old high school days. By the second day layers of reticence peel away. We begin to tell the other stories, the things we each went home to and never talked about, things that made us who we are. Some were sweet, some were sad, some poignant, some brought tears. “I wish I could have been there for you.” “Ah, that’s why I liked to visit your home.” “I wish I had been a better friend.”

This year we gathered at the home of Donna and Duane in Lincoln . Donna had prepared mounds of spaghetti, huge vats of meat sauce and a table full of homemade French bread for Friday night supper. We played games in the back yard, a crazy kind of horseshoes. We mingled and mixed. Graduates from other Harlem classes who heard we would be in Lincoln joined us. We welcomed them and made them honorary members of the Class of ‘63. We didn’t want the evening to end but nightfall sent us, tired and happy, with hugs and handshakes, to our cabins or tents or rooms.

Bright and early Saturday morning we met for the promised skillets full of sausage gravy, platters of fresh biscuits and dozens of eggs. Did I mention homemade huckleberry jam? We fortified ourselves and headed out in search of the famous Lincoln grizzly bear. We toured the jerky factory, hiked, fished and identified wild flowers, and even poked through yard sale tables of treasure. We snared strangers to hold the cameras for group photos.

I love this stuff. Seeing my oldest friends, meeting their spouses, listening, laughing and even crying left me feeling full and overflowing. I could hardly wait for the Saturday evening finale. Donna and Duane had arranged for us to have steak dinners at the Bootlegger followed by dancing to live music.

Last year I had promised myself that this year I would dance at our reunion. At one time I loved to dance but that had been twenty seven years ago. Once I had small children I seldom had the opportunity, and finally, with a shattered knee, I was physically unable. I hoped that surgery a few months ago had given me the chance to try again.

Sax Cadillac, a band from Havre, were tuning up their instruments when we arrived at the Bootlegger for dinner. We devoured our steaks with gusto. When the music began, they played the same songs we had danced to in high school. Our songs. They were a hot band that night. The dance floor filled and never emptied.

But there was one problem for me. The beat was too fast. My brand new metallic knee was not ready for fast dancing. I was almost in tears. In my heart of hearts, I knew that if I did not dance this night, I might never have the courage to dance again.

Then Sax Cadillac changed gears and began a slow waltz. A man in a leather motorcycle jacket approached me, held out his hand and said, “May I have this dance?” With a smile, I took his hand and walked out onto the floor and into his arms. My feet flowed with the music. My heart sang with joy. Here we were, a group of classmates dancing in a small town pub to a small town band. For most people this would not be a big deal. But for me it was the best dance of my life. It was the dance I had almost missed. It was the dance that assured me I could do anything. I smiled at the stranger who guided me around the floor. I knew this would not be my last dance.
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