My self published book, “Montana Wild Woman,” has an accumulated four-point-five star review on Amazon and one verbal review! Thanks, Carol.
Big shout out to all of my blog followers and Facebook followers for supporting me on my journey as an author. As of today I’ve sold 32 copies of my new book “Montana Wild Woman.” I want to apologize to all of my book readers for the typos and grammar errors that you have had to work through as you read. You’ll be happy to know, after making my many corrections, I have learned how to spell noise.
With the help of my adventure friend who happens to be the daughter of an English teacher and who may have found her new calling as a proofreader, I have corrected most of the errors and published the second edition. I know it seems backwards. I know I still feel impostor syndrome. I know my art teacher shakes her head in frustration when I say something negative about my creative endeavors.
You will now be proud to purchase this book as a gift for Father’s Day, birthdays or any other day that may require gift-giving.
You can share blog posts such as this one, with friends and family. You can even get on Amazon and write a review. Be like Carol.
Maybe you want to read more of my writing. You can always follow my blog Wild About Books. I’m also excited to self-publish my novel “Lucida Sans.” This time I’ll have Heidi proofread BEFORE I publish it.
I wrote “Lucida Sans” while experiencing the adventure known as perimenopause and was able to write all night instead of sleeping. I would have NPR news playing as background noise as I long-hand wrote in spiral notebooks. My characters guided my hand to tell their story. I filled up four notebooks before re-reading what I’d written.
The book is about a family growing up while fumbling through the unwritten rules of society. This family is not always aware of those rules. Life hits them with some upsetting realities and major bumps in the road as we experience how they navigate those bumps. Lucida Sans, better known as Luci, is the protagonist and narrator. We see the world through her eyes as she grows up with her older brother Times New Roman and little sister, Century Gothic. Their father, an author, named his children after fonts. The book deals with emotional health, racism, religion, homophobia and gun violence.
Once I have all of this off my plate, I will continue with my next novel.
The next book has no title at this time. The book is about an elderly woman who lives alone in the mountains of rural Montana. She has several male friends whom she has known most of her life. They are all widowed and are dealing with their offspring who are trying to get them to move to retirement communities. Life is very routine for them until a white cargo van with Idaho plates pulls up beside the woman as she is cross-country skiing from her friend’s house back to her house. Two men pull her into the van and demand that she give them all of her opioids. She doesn’t have any. The men don’t believe her. “All old people have opioids.” They take a baseball bat to her knees and drive her to the emergency room. “Come out with some opioids,” they demand. We see how the protagonist now lives life as a supplier of opioids to a drug ring, but can’t tell anyone for fear of being forced to move into a retirement home.
Writing has always been a dream of mine. My blog has given me an outlet to write and share my writing. This past spring Brett and I were doing a deep cleaning in our outside shed. We needed more room for the six bikes. While cleaning I came across papers I had written while in school that my mom had saved. I found two different autobiographies. One was written probably in sixth grade and one was written as a sophomore in high school. Both biographies ended with the desire to write books and be an author. I did not recall that this had been a lifelong dream until reading these old papers.
Also, if you need a great proofreader for your writing or websites, let me know. I’ll connect you with Heidi.
Published my book. It is available on Amazon. An ebook or a paperback.
WHAT?!!!!!
Yeah; I was really nervous about hitting the “publish” button on Kindle Direct Publishing. It felt so vulnerable. Like I was standing naked on the street.
Right off the bat I fucked up.
Version 1.0.0
I read my introduction as an ebook sample and the very first sentence is missing a coma. I would have never seen this in my draft. This was why I was nervous. What have I missed? What have I misspelled? And now I’m going to expose these mistakes to the whole world. I’M A FRAUD. I’M A PRETEND WRITER.
I couldn’t re-read the stories one more time. I didn’t see the glaring mistakes anymore.
I’m suddenly back in Algebra I class with Mrs. Idol at Western Guilford High School.
I’m sure I was an undiagnosed, on the spectrum, dyslexic. Luckily, I was given credit for doing the algebra problems correctly even though I rarely got the right answer. My numbers would get transposed along the way. I’d get a D and then get to take geometry. Theorems. Another D. Algebra II. It would have been better for me to fail the class and take it over than to be moved on to a more advanced class. My math books took a severe beating through the years resulting in hefty damage fees. My SAT scores were so bad in math that I was accepted to college only if I signed up for the remedial math classes. Vulnerability.
I knew the dyslexia existed when I worked my job at Bi-Rite Grocery store during my high school years. I would ring up a buggy full of groceries and say $89.67. The customer would look at the register and say $98.67. There it would be. Right in my face. I saw the correct numbers and totally said the wrong numbers. I heard myself say them. I’m an idiot. What is wrong with me?
Vulnerability. I would walk off the bus and into the high school while Andrew Martineau would walk right behind me quietly chanting “ug…ly…..ug….ly…….ug….ly…….”.
It took me three tries to pass my driver’s test to get a driver’s license. My mom took me. My dad took me. I think my dad’s wife took me the final time. I could drive. I could not drive with the driver’s exam person in the car.
My dad’s wife thought I might be gay since I didn’t have any dates in high school. She said it as if being gay were a fault, to be whispered about and kept tabs on. I didn’t play softball because I didn’t want people to think I might be gay, I had enough going against me already. I did play tennis my senior year of high school. An acceptable girl sport with no sexual labels. We had 12 girls on the team and I was ranked number 12. Kind of like my seat in band. Seat number 1 was the best. I had the last seat and pretended to play my clarinet for a whole year, then quit.
In my younger twenties, drinking alcohol and flashing my tits was a game changer. I would yell hooters, lift my shirt and was instantly the “fun girl”. I preformed and perfected the act of the full flesh flash for years. To this day, I can full flesh flash on my bike while riding no handed. I did not want to be known as “Lisa with the big nose and weak chin” as I had read on my chart at the orthodontist office while getting my braces tightened and rubber bands installed. I wanted to be known as “Lisa with the great tits”. It’s all about getting your arms up while you lift your shirt; everything else goes up too. It’s a great move.
Vulnerability. I’m better. Ever since I became a mom. Ever since I moved to Montana. But clearly it is in my skin, embedded. I think most people I know now would be shocked to hear of my insecurities.
I fear hitting the “publish” button. I could…… just not do it. No one would know I’m just a “writer want to be” who can’t spell.
Then there were the signs.
Yeah.
Literally signs.
I drove into Darby and there on the Bitterroot Community Federal Credit Union digital sign it said; “Believe in yourself”. I drive by that sign once or twice a day and it keeps telling me to believe in myself.
Then I went to my adult ed beginner drawing class at the Darby High School. The dated art room has a chalk board. On the chalk board was written in chalk; “Creativity Takes Courage!!! Henri Matissse”
I went home and hit “publish”.
I’ve been recommending books for over ten years on this blog and I am proud to recommend “Montana Wild Woman” by Lisa Poe as the book for this post. It may not be perfect. It might need some corrections. But I will lift my arms up high as everything else rises up. Thanks.
More great book recommendations and adventures can be found at Wild About Books.
Do you remember the end of the book “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas”? The part where the Grinch has stolen all of the presents, all of the decorations and lights. Yet when the people of Whoville woke up, they still celebrated Christmas. This is how I feel about the results of the last election.
Don’t get mad. Don’t get revengeful. And certainly don’t think to behave as a bully. We will gather hands and join for the common good of all people. This is what keeps me hopeful. Unity and love for our fellow citizen.
Here’s my story of Carl.
Carl works out at my gym in Darby. The Right to Bare Arms gym. Carl likes to visit. He told me of his journey nearly a year ago, of joining the gym, changing his diet and losing lots of weight. He eats only orgnaic and has cut oil out of his diet. I’m not one to chat much at the gym, or ever.
Most mornings I would hear Carl talking to others. He told the owner Dana that there was a winter storm warning. He told her he wished Montana had harsh bitterly cold winters like he had when he was a kid; “that would run the Democrats off”.
Wait! What?
I shook my head disgusted with this mentality that seems to prevail and is the majority of thinking where I live. People don’t think twice about wearing shirts that say things like “Black Guns Matter” as if the whole world agreed with them.
Another day I heard Carl explaining to someone else how the government had controlled the weather and caused deadly hurricanes in swing states.
I told you, since the election, I have been emboldened to have the conversation with people. Not in a fake insincere way, ha……… if you know me, fake and insincere are not part of my makeup.
The next time I went into the gym I went out of my way to say not just “hi” to Carl, but to ask him if he lifts everyday. To chat. Smile. I know Carl had forgotten my name as we talked.
The next day he looked up when I came in and yelled “Hey Lisa”.
As he was leaving he asked what else I had planned for the day. I told him about purchasing a used Fat Tire Bike. He was intrigued. I told him I was going to go ride up Skalkaho, start at the gate, see if I could get to the falls.
The next time I saw him he asked how the bike ride went.
We have not and probably will not talk about politics. I’m a minority and don’t usually advertise my political leaning anyway. Although I did just buy a new sweatshirt that says “Denali”.
I was setting up to do a shoulder workout, Carl asked me if I’d seen the NOAA weather for January. “No”, I said. “Above average snow fall and two weeks of below zero temps”, he said. “Yes!” I replied. “I’m excited”.
“Right” he said. “Maybe that will run off all the …………”
Oh jeez, I thought. Here it comes. How am I going to reply to what is coming, I’ll just tell him. I’ll fess up that we don’t see eye to eye politically. I won’t let this determine our friendship. Hopefully he feels the same.
But what did he say this time?
“Right”, he said. “Maybe that will run off all the people not used to the cold and snow.”
“Yes, it probably will” I agreed.
And why are the political signs still up in Ravalli County. You won. Let’s be neighbors and take down the signs. They didn’t work anyway. I didn’t change my mind no matter how many signs we posted, or full color flyers I received in my mailbox, or hateful TV advertisements I saw. Want to change my mind, show some love and compassion for all humans.
In the last post about politics I recommended the book “Good Reasonable People” by Keith Payne. Since that recommendation, I have applied and received a grant from Humanities Montana to purchase 10 copies of this book for a book club in my community. I hope to attract people in and out of my bubble to read and attend this discussion.
I figured out where Carl lives and have walked by his house several times before without knowing who lived there. He has a sign on his front fence that says “Black Cows Matter”. He also has a full size confederate flag on his barn. There are no political signs, commercials, or flyers that set me off as much as seeing a confederate flag. To me that is a clear symbol of white supremacy, racism, a system of hierarchy. These are not acceptable to me. Now what do I do? Do I pretend like Carl is my gym buddy and return his fist bump? Do I ask him what that flag on his barn represents to him? Ugh. Maybe I invite him to the book club.
My book recommendation is “Democracy Awaking Notes on the State of America” by political historian Heather Cox Richardson. This book was published in 2023. The book gives you the history and background leading up to where we are now. This book may help you understand people who vote differently from you.
“But Trump had done his work too well. His propaganda, cruelty, and demonstrations of dominance had empowered his followers and made his leadership central to their identity.”
This is not a book that I would use in a public book club. This is a book for people who are bamboozled by the fact that people would vote for a convicted felon for president. I challenge any of you who follow this blog who voted for Trump to read this book.
When you are backpacking there needs to be a plan. Finding a flat, open campsite that has access to water is non-negotiable.
‘Can’t you just stop and camp anywhere?’; people will assume.
Um…… No. Twice this summer I hiked well into dinner time looking for the flat open spot with access to water. On our Tin Cup to Boulder 55 mile hike we missed the outfitter camp we planned to stay at on day two. It was off the main trail and this was our first time doing this particular hike. We will know next time.
It had been a long day, a big climb, hot, smokey from the numerous forest fires. We were ready for dinner. We almost camped on a large moss covered rock, large, as in football field large. Everywhere else was too brushy. We continued until we found a place next to the creek, sort of flat, and maybe a little bit not too brushy, but mostly too brushy; uneven. The trek down to the water was treacherous in our camp sandals. Luckily, Heidi had brought the backpacking solar shower for a handwashing station which we ended up using as our gravity fed water source which resulted in fewer fewer trips to the creek.
There was too much brush to build a fire but it was a warm night so we were good.
A campfire is more than a source of warmth. A campfire gives you a reason to hang out. It gives you a focus when the conversation wanes. Watch a group of people sitting in the forest without a fire and the waning conversation results in an awkwardness that sends everyone to bed early. I have a fire pit in my yard. The home fire pit was like adding a room to the house. An evening by the home campfire is a signal that my granddaughter will get to eat marshmallows until the bag is empty. It limits the screen time by all being out by the campfire. It connects you to the earth and the trees and each other. It is like a cozy comforter or a warm matcha latte. Setting up camp in a brushy area is not conducive to a campfire. We went to bed early.
On another trip we had hiked in for an overnight. It was a very warm morning. The breeze felt like we were at the beach instead of in the Rocky Mountains. When we were only a mile from our camp at Elk Lake we started hearing loud crashing. Was it thunder? Were boulders dislodging and crashing through boulder fields? It was random. Distinct yet unknown. We were distracted by the huge ripe huckleberries, picking, eating, hiking, distant crashing.
We got to camp and found a flat, open, well used camp with a rock fire ring. But where was the water. We need water to drink, to rehydrate our backpacking meals, for evening tea and morning tea, and even; wait for it………..even to rehydrate our dehydrate toilet paper. Yep. The best invention ever. Toilet paper tabs. Gone are the days of hauling half rolls of TP, stuffing all of the hollow spots in your pack with ass wipe, always questioning if you have brought the correct amount. My poop kit is now a small bag with an aluminum trowel with serrated edges for roots, my toilet paper tabs and mycelium tabs to speed up the composting process in the cat hole. Small and light. Game changer.
We walked around the lake trying to find a better spot closer to water. What we did find was a forest fire. It was up on the ridge. We could see the flames as they torched entire trees. The smoke was rolling into our camp, you could smell it in the air. We did not find a better camp. We came back to the original spot, filled up the solar shower and called it good. We did question if we should go back due to the fire. We were eleven miles from the trailhead. Then it started to rain. It sprinkled for the next 30 minutes as we set up our tents, sleeping pads, sleeping bags, pillows. The rain stopped, there was a slight breeze but it stopped too. We made a campfire and laughed at Juno the yellow lab as she dragged Ernie the Yorkie around camp by her warm vest until the said vest was ultimately removed, like a magician on stage, from Ernie. Juno drug Ernie all through the forest and they’d come running back; Ernie naked and Juno so proud of removing Ernie’s outfit, prancing up to Scott with the dog vest in her mouth.
The next morning we woke to wet ash stuck to our tents. We made our hot drinks, rehydrated our breakfast and TP, packed up and headed back down. This is where is got weird. We munched on fresh huckleberries for the first mile. So hard to pass up a juicy ripe huckleberry. As we got more into the forested part of the hike we had to get around a huge tree down in the trail. Scott commented that he did not remember this tree. We’d been super lucky going in with the lack of downed trees on the trail. We climbed over more trees, we hiked off the trail for the downed trees that were impossible to climb over. We crawled on hands and knees, we threw our packs over first in the tight fitting crawl throughs. The smell of pine was strong in the air. Giant trees hundreds of years old had been uprooted taking out everything around it as it had crashed to the ground. What the heck had happened? This was clearly the mysterious noise we had heard while hiking in. We must have been just in front of this wind storm. A wind storm that never reached our camp. People in the Bitterroot Valley lost power, lost trees, an event was canceled at the Marcus Daly mansion due to the destruction of the massive trees on the property. All while we were tucked in our little oasis.
Back to the Tin Cup Hike. We had planned to hike the 55 miles in 6 days. That was one day more than my max I’m able to pack for and carry on my back. I took my most light weight set up and still weighed in at 30.2 pounds; 5.2 pounds over my comfort level. On our second to the last night we camped on Canyon Creek on the Idaho side of the pass that leads into Boulder Creek. The camp was flat, a little over grown and next to the creek. Perfect. It had been a long day, the trail was not well used. There were trees down that may never be cleaned up it was such a maze. We set up camp, made a rock fire ring, collected dry firewood and congregated around the fire with our one pound chairs, jet boil stoves and dinners. That’s when the rain started. From 5:00 to 8:00 it rained like I’ve never seen rain before. At 6:00 Heidi yelled; “we’re going to eat in our tent”. When you set up the rain fly on your tent, it is designed to create a nice vestibule on both sides. I was able to heat water in the vestibule for my tea and dinner. The rain had also brought a considerable drop in temperature. I was in my sleeping bag, with my hat and gloves on reading “Of Mice and Men”. I was going to burn the pages of my book as I read this small paperback, making my pack lighter, but we had not had a fire since the first night and tonight’s fire was put out as soon as it was started. I read, ate dinner, drink several cups of tea. Could I pee in the vestibule? I think so. As I was thinking trough the logistics of peeing in the vestibule, the rain slowed. It slowed enough that I could hear the voices of Scott and Heidi. Oh wait. Let’s back up. I had two things going on that was frowned upon in this bear country we were camping in. One; I just ate in my tent. Two; I had not hung my bear bag that contained the rest of my food. With the slow down of the rain, I was able to put on my rain coat, rain pants and camp sandals and go outside for a pee and to hang my bear bag. Scott and Heidi were doing the same. My bear bag is an Ursack. A bag made of kevlar. You put your food in a smell proof inner bag, put that in the Ursack, hang it on a tree above a branch at a level that is reachable but above the ground. You use a square knot to tie up the bag and a figure eight knot to tie it to the tree. Done. Scott and Heidi hung their bag the old fashioned way, using a parachute cord and a rock, throwing the rock high up onto a branch, then pulling the bag up into the tree way above the ground and far enough out from the tree that it would not be reachable if a bear climbed the tree. The only trees available are pine trees and the pine trees at this elevation were thick with needles and the branches all tilted down. They were like giant tree gods wearing big god like robes. It was impossible. And a real study in marital relationships. They did finally manage to hang their food and have since bought an Ursack as well.
It rained all night and into the next morning. I ate breakfast in my tent. I was able to pack up everything while in the tent. Then, I disassembled the interior of the tent. I packed everything except the rainfly and tent poles, used the backpack as a back rest and sat in my shelter watching Scott and Heidi finish packing up their gear.
The trail was brushy, the brush was wet. We were soaked to the bone. It continued to rain. There was nothing dry. Parts of the trail were more like a creek than a trail. We climbed for two miles. Snow spit on us as we neared the summit. We’d experienced three seasons in this multiple day hike. The forest fire smoke had been replaced by low hanging clouds. We reached our camp for the night on the other side of the pass. The original plan was to camp at Pickle’s Puddle, a less then three mile day, more of a layover day. Then do a side hike to Boulder Lake. We blew right past that camp.
We’d been in contact with my husband for the whole trip using a Garmin Inreach to text him. We had plans A, B, and C in case the trail became impassable. The night before he informed us that the high temperature at Pickle’s Puddle would be 37 that day. We had already decided our last night would be at Boulder Falls with an easy five mile hike out on the final day. When we arrived at Boulder Falls our boots were squishy on the inside. Our rain gear had gone past its intended capabilities. Everything was more soaked than before. We never stopped, we were dehydrated from not drinking enough, we ate protein bars as we walked. Stopping was not an option because we would get cold. Making a fire was going to be virtually impossible as every piece of wood was saturated. When we got to Boulder Falls we texted Brett and told him we were coming out today. Could he pick us up at the trailhead in a few hours?
I call it a death march. We hiked two days in one day. We didn’t stop for a break. Scott and Heidi used their long, strong legs and and desire to be in warm, dry clothes to drive their pace. I was dragging behind. We were half a mile from the trailhead when I saw Brett coming my way.
“Why don’t you have your hood on?” he asked.
“It’s not raining”.
“It is raining”.
“Ok.”
Before we left for this expedition, I had asked Brett to bring us cold drinks and potato chips when he picked us up. Luckily Brett brought us hot camomile tea, mugs and chips. We climbed into the truck smelling like wet dogs. We blamed the dogs; but it was all of us.
Form more great adventures and book recommendations follow Wild About Books.
I will talk and I will listen about politics. I will no longer discourage the conversation. I will embrace the conversation, encourage the conversation, be curious not judgemental. Is it possible? It will take practice.
I’ve been a wreck. I’m so disillusioned. I’m questioning everything I believe in. I thought this election would ‘obviously’ turn out with the opposite results. I’m struggling to sleep. How do I not know my neighbors, my community, the issues that are important to people? I’m in my ‘bubble’. My bubble of ‘how could anyone vote for him’. Well, fuck; turns out lots of people want him as our president. Sixty-nine percent of the voters in my county voted for him.
On a quiet morning in my gym as I was doing my shoulder workout, a fellow gym rat was excited for the upcoming cold front. He told the gym owner; “I wish we had Montana winters like we had when I was a kid. That would run the democrats off”. I should have asked him what that means. I ignored him. Kept lifting. Why did I not have the conversation? I love a cold Montana winter. Lots of snow. Cross country skiing from my back door. All that snow makes for a better summer too. Why does he think democrats are warm weather people? And is that a bad thing? Another day the same guy was telling the front desk worker, all about how the government created the hurricanes. He talked for a long time on that one. It’s probably better that I NOT join in on that conversation. But next time I will. I want to know. I will listen. Maybe even get the guy to go “huh, I never thought of it like that”. Maybe.
I’m going to look for opportunities. Not to debate or argue. But to discuss. It’s so hard. How do I talk with someone who believes the election is rigged; unless their side won; then it is fair? I lean to this one sided thinking on my part; again. I struggle to have an open mind. This is why I need to talk. I need to listen.
I need to write a thank you note to Kamala. I was really excited about her running for president. She had enthusiasm, joy, experience; is articulate, educated, inclusive. I was really excited. Now I feel so defeated. So scared. So disconnected. I don’t want to live in a country based on hate and dehumanization. A country that is not inclusive. A country that is more interested in building walls and deporting people than being a global neighbor and helping others. I thought writing this would help. Writing is therapeutic. I feel worse.
And when I tell myself to relax, sit back, it can’t be that bad………he appoints a Fox news host as the leader of the military, the national defense, the Pentagon. What?! Am I in some reality TV show? Am I reading a dystopian novel? No. This is the real deal. But it is ok. Remember, this is what the majority of voters wanted. We followed the democratic process of choosing a president. I am an anomaly. Maybe I’ll become a republican. My husband and I are both white working class, non college educated; we fit the current profile. I could pretend to be a Trump fan, believe the government controls the weather, believe in Jesus, I mean, I am pro life, that’s why I don’t own a gun. I’m pro choice, but who isn’t for life? But wait. I should own a gun too? Defend myself from all the immigrants. Like the women who work at my granddaughters daycare. The largest employer of immigrants in the state of Montana. Whose children play with my granddaughter everyday. Who rocked her to sleep when she was an infant. Them. Out. And no more books about a kid having two dads in the libraries. Yeah. And I want billionaires to run the country. Trump, Musk and that other guy who are going to clean up all the superfluous spending. These guys will make America great again. UGH!!!! I’m not feeling it. I’m just a cynical old bitch. This isn’t helping anyone.
First, listen to the podcast Assembly Required with Stacey Abrams, specifically the episode dated November 14 titled “Plotting Our Way Forward by Looking Back at History”. This is an action plan not a blaming or complaining conversation. Next read the book “Good Reasonable People” by Keith Payne. I just started it. This is a book about taking the steps to be “united” again, understanding what divides us, and how to have the conversation with each other. I challenge you to read this with me. All of you. All sides.
More great perplexing conundrums, adventures and book recommendations can be found at Wild About Books.
I remember when I turned thirty. I was living in Sula, Montana in basically a single wide trailer built on a foundation. The front door was a hollow interior door and the wood stove had holes in the stove and the stove pipe. This was not a warm home. We had a birthday party with Mark and Mindy and Charlie and Darlene and Stu and Karen and their daughter and of course me, my husband at the time and my six year old and four year old. What I remember from that party was the next morning. I woke up to the phone ringing;
“hel-lo”.
“Hi, Lisa, it’s Bonnie at the school. Is Zach home sick today?”
“Um…..yep, yes he is. Zach is home sick today; sorry I forgot to call.”
I don’t remember if I drove Zach the 25 miles to school that day or not; the kid did love school.
When I turned forty, we were living in a log home in downtown Darby, Montana. The house was not chinked and you could see daylight through the logs. The wood stove was an amazing big old stove but the stove pipe had lots of holes making the whole set up inefficient. The front door to the house was a large hard to move sliding glass door. This house was not very warm in the winter and hot as an oven in the summer. There was a car jack in the crawl space holding up the floor joist under the bathroom. My sister had come to visit for my birthday. I’d been divorced for two years. We spend the evening with Richard and Bruce playing pool and drinking beer at the Elks Lodge in Hamilton.
When I turned fifty I lived just outside of Darby, Montana tucked in the woods. The front door was an actual insulated door for the outside. The windows were double paned. The wood stove was efficient and there were no holes in the stove pipe. This was a very very warm house. For my birthday I planned a party at the Bitterroot Brewery in the upstairs dining area. I invited my friends, everyone from my job at the school and some people from my old job when I worked for a crook. I spent the day of the party on the floor balled up in a fetal position only getting up to take more Advil, hoping to deaden the pain of the period cramps that would not let me stand upright. I managed to make it to my own birthday party but it was a struggle to enjoy myself and be sociable. I was able to stand upright after many doses of Advil.
Tomorrow, I turn sixty. I still live in my warm house built by my warm husband. My plan is to summit Ward Mountain tomorrow. It’s about a six mile hike with a 5100 foot climb. It’s a bitch. The weather will be perfect. My fast friends are giving me a 90 minute head start. I’ve been doing everything I can this past six weeks to get faster. I’ve increased my weights in the gym, I’ve increased my protein intake, I started running. I’ve been climbing Goat Mountain for training every chance I get. It takes me about 65 minutes to get to the top of Goat Mountain. My fast friends do it in 30 minutes. Maybe I should leave before the sun comes up tomorrow. There’s also a good chance I don’t go at all. Wednesday when I was doing my run/walk I hurt my ankle. I’m not 100%. I don’t want to make my injury worse by climbing Ward. What do I do? If I don’t summit Ward tomorrow I’ll go mountain biking, so either way it is a good day. But I wanted to do something big for sixty.
Honestly, I’m 59 today, sitting in the sun in my front yard after a two hour ride on my gravel bike, watching the birds eat my new grass seed, my cat sitting in a planter box and my handicapped dog laying in the grass waiting for her afternoon one mile walk and writing my blog. Tomorrow is also the official start of my retirement. I’m so grateful for all of it. The decades that led me to this very moment. This is the real summit I’ve climbed.
It was a Friday and I was out for my morning walk. I called my mom as I often do durning my walk, as long as I’m in cell service.
Mom answered the phone and I asked my usual question; “hey, how’s it going?”
She replied her usual reply; “I’m losing my fucking mind.”
I asked what had transpired to bring her to this conclusion.
“Tasmania. I couldn’t remember where Tasmania is……….I just…..I couldn’t place it. All I could think of was Sri Lanka; which used to be Ceylon……and that’s south of India. How could I think Tasmania is Sri Lanka? Then I remembered……Hobart…….Hobart is the capitol of Tasmania and it all came back to me….. Australia.
I shook my head. I knew none of these facts. Was I losing my fucking mind too?
I made her reiterate the entire conversation. Fact by fact, sentence by sentence so that I had it in burned in my memory just so I could retell this mind fuckery of my mom, whose age is; well, let’s just assume she is older than me by a few decades, was dealing with.
“Mom. First of all, there is NO one I know that I could even have this conversation with. Maybe Steve Gideon or Noah Stout. Most people your age can’t remember where they left their teeth and you’re upset that you temporarily forgot where Tasmania is located. I think you are a tiny bit hard on yourself.”
We laughed really hard over this and mom seemed to realize that she had not actually lost her fucking mind in this instance.
Age. Aging. We all do it. Why do we think it will not happen to us?
Today I talked to my mom. She said she was moving slow. And she’s cold. A cold snap. She was bundled up in mulitple layers. I looked up her weather. Sixty one degrees and sunny. I’m not doubting she is cold and can’t warm up. But I don’t understand. How can I know what it is like to be her? I can’t. How many times can I ask her if she’s been to see her great grandson walk? She has not felt up to it. How many times can I ask her if she went back to the YMCA? I feel like I am shaming her. Am I?
Today she told me she made banana bread. From a box, she clarified as opposed to from scratch. “What can I substitute for eggs”? she asked me. I’m surprised by this question. Eggs? I said. I use a ‘flax egg’; one tablespoon ground flax and three tablespoons water. Let is sit for a bit to congeal. “Do you grind them or can I buy them ground”? she asks. I grind them in a coffee grinder, I say. It’s fresher. (I’m just reiterating what she told me several years ago). She repeats the process to me. Why? I asked. You eat eggs. Who are you cooking for? “They are so expensive” she replies. Here’s an idea, make banana bread from scratch and you’ll have enough money for eggs. Shaming again. Damn it. Plus she has enough money for eggs. The thought of paying that much for eggs is that with which she struggles. The thought.
Last month I asked her what she was having for dinner. I ask this often; one, because I want to know what she is eating and two for a conversation, and I just thought of a three; three, it’s a family thing, sharing what we’ve made for dinner, it’s a deal. She told me what she was making, which I forget most of it but one thing was potato salad. “Without the celery of course”. What? I said. Who eats potato salad without celery? “Have you seen the cost of celery?” she exclaims. “What do you pay for celery?” she asks me. I have no idea. Plus, I say, celery is one of the ‘dirty dozen’, I always buy it organic. Shaming. This thought is beyond her comprehension. “It goes bad before I can use it all” she explains. Throwing out food being the worst thing she can think of. Growing up, she often told my sister and I that her own mother would get a single orange for Christmas at the orphanage. They ate the whole thing including the peeling. I want to tell my son to go buy some celery and take a stalk to my mom. I don’t. She has the money for celery. It’s the thought of spending that much on celery that stops her. She doesn’t want my son buying expensive celery either.
On one call my mom told me of her outing that day. Her outings are an ordeal. Her prime window is 11:00 to 2:00. She gets everything done in that time frame. The effort exhausts her. But even more exhausting for her is the thought of the outing. It takes her a good week to recover from an outing. But she always comes home with entertaining stories. Flirting with men as she pumps gas; them flirting back. She heads to the store with her list written on an old envelope and ripped into the size of the list as the envelope can be used for more lists. She loves to randomly talk to strangers. She walks next to a woman in the produce section and says; “look at this list, I have written ‘vegetables’. All I have is corn and radishes. It’s all so expensive. I’m not going to pay for this expensive produce”. She tells this stranger her concerns with the expectation that the woman will commiserate in her pity party at the outrages prices of produce. But this particular stranger flips the script on her. The woman tells my mom to pick out all the vegetables my mom wants and the stranger will pay for them. “OH!. No.” My mom is embarrassed. As if she were a beggar on the street. She just wanted someone with whom to bitch. Someone who was angry with the system to join her. To wallow in her misery. Maybe even laugh about it together. How does my mom explain the thought of paying that much for vegetables is the problem, not a lack of money? How does my mom explain that she bought her own winter coat for Christmas when she was 13 and put it under the tree from Santa Claus? How does she explain that she owns her own house now. A two story house. She owns her own house damn it! Did my mom’s mom ever own her own house? Did her mom put expensive celery in her potato salad? Use a flax egg in her banana bread? Self shaming. That is the issue perhaps. It’s not something I can fix. Not something my sister can fix. It is in my mom’s DNA. A guilt that can not be removed. Expounded with age. This is not the woman who raised us. Who is this woman? Age. Or. Is this the woman who raised us who we are now seeing through our own older eyes? …….And you thought this was going to be a travel post.
She is from Sedona, Arizona. We adopted her on February 4, 2013. We named her Ginny Elote. She’s lived in Oregon, New Hampshire, Montana, California, Washington and Mexico. She has brought us many bundles of joy. Here is her story.
This story goes back even farther than February 4, 2013. This is a story of bonding. A story of women. A story with depth that is not measurable.
I was in Sedona Arizona for the Sedona Marathon. It was a reunion of old girlfriends who had raised our children together in Darby, Montana. A couple of us have stayed in Darby and the rest have moved on. We’ll always have these ties that bond us even if we don’t see each other that often.
Mary lived in Flagstaff at the time, we all congregated at her house for the first night. Deborah, Yoko, Debbie, Mary and myself. We have a history. Sitting at ball games together. Traveling to away games together. Spending holidays and birthdays together. And, raising our children together. The five of us have a combined total of 12 children. We’ve seen each other through the hurdles of life. And even though I rarely connect with them anymore. I still feel a sisterhood that will withstand time.
We stayed in a time share just outside of Sedona. Sedona was the draw and the marathon was the excuse. I ran……no, I participated in the half marathon (lots of hills), the rest of them participated in the 5K (Yoko’s exercise routine includes not sweating).
We read a Barbara Kingsolver book before the trip and had a book club one evening. We ate out at Elote, a restaurant which I highly recommend if it is still there. Yoko bought us all shots of tequila. We hiked, Debbie stayed by the car, as she is not comfortable with elevation. We shopped, I stayed by the car, I’m not comfortable with shopping.
We talked about our grown children and where they were in life. We talked about being good mothers, too good in fact as we did not have one single grandchild among us.
NO babies we preached when they were in high school. GO to college we preached when they graduated high school.
Still no babies; they were out pursuing successful careers, or higher education, masters degrees, law school. Only one among them was married at the time.
While shopping at Garland’s Jewelry in Oak Creek Canyon just north of Sedona, Mary had her eye on a broach……. Is that the right word? A pendent?….. I don’t know; a piece of silver with a stone all resembling a woman in an artistic kind of way with a stick pen attached to its back. I do admit it was stunning. And stunningly priced as well. Mary’s eyes got big as an idea formed in her head.
We’ll all buy it.
Together.
Oh the ideas started flowing as the man behind the desk watched us create a plan to buy this piece of jewelry.
She’ll bring us grandchildren.
She’ll be our grandchildren totem.
Grandmother’s In Need. G.I.N. ……We’ll name her Ginny.
Ginny Elote, Deborah said. We all screamed Ginny Elote!
We’ll get her a journal, I said. To travel with her.
Who gets her first?
Oh, yes, who for sure?
Debbie……. She has the oldest child among us and he’s the one that is married. Most likely to have children first. We bought broach. This was not in my budget. I pitched in my share. I wanted to be a grandmother too. We bought the journal. Debbie packed it all up in her bag and took Ginny to Oregon.
It worked. Ginny produced. The babies started coming and yes Debbie did have the first, then the second and even the third before Ginny started traveling to other parts of North America.
But wait. There is more to the story. Eleven months after our trip to Sedona, Debbie’s first grandchild was born. Seventeen months later Debbie had her second grandchild. Then there was a very long dry spell. The longest we’ve had.
Ginny had been lost.
Unbeknownst to the rest of us, Debbie had lost Ginny. She searched and searched. Her last memory of Ginny had been on her backpack while flying to Montana. Debbie never found her. She had to do something as no one was having grandchildren. Debbie found our pictures from the Sedona trip. She found a silver smith in Arizona. The silver smith created an exact replica of original Ginny and that was when Debbie told us of the missing Ginny. Once Ginny was recreated and in the hands of Debbie, another grandchild was announced. Ginny to the rescue after a three year drought. Another grandchild for Debbie. After that Ginny was a traveling fool. Back and forth across the country she traveled. A baby born, another pregnancy announced.
Ginny is magical. As of today, we all have at least one grandchild. We mail Ginny back and forth and sometimes hand deliver. Debbie has the most grandchildren with seven. Last summer we exchanged in person from me to Mary at Deborah’s daughter’s wedding.
Ginny is currently in Montana with Deborah who is expecting a grandson this summer. He will be the fourteenth grandchild for Ginny.
We are planning our reunion trip. Winter 2025 to Mexico. The five of us; LaLa, Baba, MarMar, Mimi and Oma.
More great stories can be found at Wild About Books. Bonus news: I’ve also compiled all of my adventures into a book which is coming out very soon.
I woke up on April 6, also known as Montana Day; 406; the area code for the whole state. Most states can not have a day based on their area code. Most states have more than one area code. I suppose part of North Carolina could celebrate on September 19 and part of North Carolina could celebrate on March the 36th. Here in Montana, the whole state has reason to pop another beer and celebrate on April 6th.
It was a Saturday as well. And Skiesta at Lost Trail Powder Mountain. And there was 5 inches of new snow. And they had been closed on Thursday and Friday due to rain. So Saturday April 6th was like Powder Thursday on a Saturday. All the signs were saying go snowboarding.
The Skiesta theme this year was Hippies and Cowboys, costumes were encouraged. We arrived early for first tracks, as we always do. The parking lot was already filling up. Part of the filling up fast parking lot was because a large chunk of the parking was roped off for the band stand, the bon fire and the food trucks.
You knew it was a special day because the two parking lot boys were the owner, Scott and a grey bearded balding man we’d never seen before. The parking was efficient and spacious. Way better than when the morning stoners are in charge of parking. The ticket window had not yet opened and we stood in line watching the people in their tie dyed shirts and cowboy hats and JEANS. These people are serious. Skiing in jeans for the party theme. And beer for breakfast seemed to be another theme.
The first few runs of the day were amazingly great. Just enough snow to cover up the weird ass rained on sun baked base. At least for the first couple of hours any way. Thunder run top to bottom on April 6! And everyone was in a great mood. It was the last weekend for the Lost Trail employees who had smiles all around.
We stopped for an early lunch at the lodge before treking over to chair four to check out the SacJac trees.
There was a long line by the time we got to chair four. It was getting icy. There were too many people congregating where you dismount from chair four. The dismount was icy. It’s already a tricky dismount on a good day. Steep. Short. I’ve been know to take out the safety fencing before. I was getting grumpy. It was time for me to be done. It’s not easy getting back to the lodge from chair four especially when everything is turning icy, especially on a snow board where you rely on a constant decent. I chose to walk from chair three to the car instead of taking chair five and the rope tow. I looked back and there were many people following my lead.
Back at the lodge the party had started. The music was blasting. People were dancing. It was warm enough to be outside. By the time Brett got back to the lodge people were climbing Charlie Brown to get in line for the pond skim.
Each year for Skiesta the Lost Trail Crew dig a pool in the snow, maybe three to four feet deep and 60 feet long and 10 feet wide. They line the pool with plastic and then the local fire departments bring up their water tenders and fill up the pool. It takes a lot of water. The fire trucks make several trips back down the mountain to fill up their tanks out of a local creek and back up the mountain to add it to the pond skim pool. All of the snow that is removed for the pool is turned into snow bleachers for the crowd. Just before the start of the event the crew had to break up the ice that had formed on the surface of the water and remove it.
The crowd quickly filled in the snow bleachers and lined up on along the roped off area to watch. The brave people were at the end where the skiers/snowboarders would have to come to an immediate stop after successfully skimming the pond, instead of wiping out the crowd. There was also a huge possibility of the crowd being splashed or drenched in waves of water.
There were two ski patrol people positioned on each side of the pool to rescue those who wrecked instead of skimming across the pond. The rescue people each had 8 foot long 2 x 2 poles with a dowel through one end for people to hang on to while being pulled out. In years past there was a rescue person wearing fishing waders to come in and get you and skis and hat and any other clothes that had been removed in the wreckage. This year you were given a pole to grab onto. On the pole was hand written in a black sharpie marker “pond skim rescue”. Just in case someone though they were going to use the pole for some other use.
You have to come full speed down Charlie Brown to make it across the pond. Slowing down or turning and you will not make it. Most people don’t. A few make it across and do a flip at the end as they land on the solid snow and the crowd goes wild. It is entertaining. Some people go through backwards, some people do a flip first, some people wear all of their ski gear and some people wear their bathing suits. We left before the end as the wind started to pick up and we were getting cold. The party continued with a bon fire and four bands throughout the rest of the day and night.
But I chose to come home and read. I’m reading this great novel that I want to recommend to you. “Cloud Cuckoo Land” by Anthony Doerr the author of “All the Light We Cannot See” which is also a Wild About Books recommended book. I started “Cloud Cuckoo Land” as a sample on my kindle since I loved “All the Litght We Cannot See”. But Doerr’s new novel starts as a futuristic sci-fi which is not a genre I lean towards even slightly. I moved on to other books. But then Carol told me she enjoyed “Cloud Cuckoo Land” and then another bookclub member recommended it at the March meeting. I found it at the library and gave it another try. Glad I did. This is really an incredible and smart novel. It does bounce around a lot, not a ‘beach book’. If you already read “Sun House” or “The Over Story” you are in the right mindset for reading “Cloud Cuckoo Land”. Don’t worry it’s all going to come together just keep reading as you follow the characters from modern day to 1430 Constantinople to a future space traveling commune. It is an amazing journey. I’m about half way through and it the story keeps getting better. I highly recommend “Cloud Cuckoo Land” by Anthony Doerr.
More great book recommendations and adventures can be found at Wild About Books.
It’s no surprise. I started a plan of retiring when one of my spiritual littermates retired after having worked with him for a decade. I needed a carrot. That was six years ago. People would laugh when I gave them my retirement date of October 27, 2024; the day I turn 60 and can collect my public employee’s retirement. It seemed so scripted to most people. It seemed like a great plan to me. It seemed so far away. And now here we are 2024.
But I can’t make it to the end of October.
Let’s back up a bit because this whole story will culminate into a book recommendation.
One of the adult education classes that is being offered this semester is based on the book “The Artist’s Way, A Spiritual Path to Creativity” by Julia Cameron. The copy I ordered is the 30th anniversary edition. I signed up for the class.
The first class was inspirational; listening to one of the participant’s story of not only using the method as described in the book but having met the author as well. Actually, everyone in the group had a great story for being in the class.
The first and probably foundational step in the book is “Morning Pages”. Morning pages is a journaling method. Every morning you write for three full pages. You throw up your random thoughts onto the paper. A brain drain. You don’t stop writing. No editing, no spell check. Even if you have to write; “I don’t know what to write”. Keep writing.
At first I wrote fast and had to remind myself that this is not timed writing. No matter how fast I write I still have to write three pages. So I slowed down. I’ve not had any problem filling up three pages. I’ve written every morning. The writing is therapeutic. It may start out as a bitch session, but it ends up as a resolution. A culmination of answers. Solutions. Closure. Release.
One of the lessons is to be aware of the universe (or a higher power or God; your choice).
What do I mean?
I think just be aware and observant. Watch for serendipitous events. Pay attention. That’s it. Pay attention.
My first day of morning pages I bitched about my job. It had been a tough day the day before. My job has been good to me over the years, but it has never BEEN who I am. It definitely didn’t define me. When I meet someone new and they ask me what I do (as everyone does so they can define you). I would reply; I mountain bike, backpack, cross country ski, snow board, read, write, cook, hike, white water raft…..that’s what I do….. No; they say….. What do you do? Oh…. you mean for money?
The second day of morning pages started out as bitching about my job. And then it evolved into a plan. A plan to leave earlier than my planned retirement. I have enough sick/vacation hours to cash out to get me from the end of my current contract of June 30 to my retirement date. We’re just talking about a few months. But it felt good to come up with a plan. I would share this plan with my team next week and get their feed back.
Nope. That’s not how it happened. The afternoon of my day two of morning pages we had an impromptu meeting to discuss budgets and shuffling personnel. As we talked I realized my plan I’d hatched just hours before was coming to fruition right before my very eyes. The universe was unfolding everything in my favor. I was speechless as I listened to my co-workers talk.
Wait, I said. Here’s the deal. I told them about morning pages. I told them my plan. In the personnel shuffle, we would hire a person to come and train with me for the rest of my time. I was floored. I was smiling. I was standing taller.
My job is constantly evolving. It is bigger than me. It has become more than I can or want to handle. I’m burnt out. I’m over it. There is so much red tape, so much bullshit. I’m no help. I’m bad energy for the rest of the team. It is time to move on. This has been a hard job. I’ve always felt as if there is a title wave building building building building and would crash on me. Why did I stay? Why did I do it? I didn’t want to wake up one day and be 60 years old and have a dead end job. I stayed. I went to trainings. I trained four virgin superintendents in their positions. I learned and then legislature would change the laws. I learned and the politics changed. Why is a state school superintendent a partisan position? Our state voted for the party not the qualified person. All the good people left at the state level. Jumped the sinking ship. Where did those people go? The super majority has implemented laws that require me to hire more administrative people instead of more teachers. I thought that particular group was into less government. No one is going to school to be a teacher. It’s not an easy career to get started in. I have teachers who live in campers. One lived in his car last year. They live with their parents. They can’t afford to rent.
I started Darby school as a volunteer in 1993. I was the swish and spit mom. Yep. I delivered poison to elementary children to keep their teeth healthy. We don’t have fluoride in our water. Yoko and I would bring our three year olds with us and pour fluoride into tiny cups. We would pass out fluoride to the students to swish in their mouths and spit back out. Here come the swish and spit moms; a second grade teacher announced. The next year I signed up to be a substitute teacher. Oh boy. The next year I applied for a part time position to help the business manager and to take the lunch money. Now I was known as “a lunch lady”.
Several years later I was interviewed on the playground and became the high school secretary. This job was usually fun and I enjoyed being everyone’s assistant mom. They must have enjoyed me as well. I was asked to be the speaker at the graduation of the class of 2008, my daughter’s class. Still makes my skin tingle to think about it.
I left when my youngest graduated. Had three years of career adventures. Nine glorious days at Halo Heaven, a year building recumbent bikes, and a few stints of collecting unemployment. I even tried substitute teaching again. Oh boy.
Then in 2011, I came back to the school. The current business manager/district clerk was creating her retirement plan and needed to train someone to fill her spot of wearing many, many hats. I was told by other school BM’s that it took five years to feel comfortable in the position. They were correct. It took five years until the crying stopped. But I had a career; a salary; benefits; and for the first time ever, prescription migraine medicine.
It has been a journey. I’ve quit many times in my head. I’ve gone through four superintends, a few payroll clerks, many high school secretaries, had three different offices, and have gone through a LOT of school board members. There was copious amounts of laughter, slapped the ass of one superintendent, lost a leg wresting match with Tom, the UPS guy, played office pickleball where there are no rules, you can play off the file cabinets, walls and conference table and you’ll know when you scored a point.
When I took on this position I quickly realized I was not one of the fun kids anymore. I was placed on another level where people whispered if I was in the room. I had to stop going to co-worker social gatherings. I was putting a damper on the fun. I was balancing the job of being know by the staff as “the receipt nazi” and reporting to the board when the annual audit “ding” was from insufficient back up for the bills (also known as receipts). Yeah. Not me.
As I enter 2024, I’m ready for a new life. A life with more fun, more adventures, more freedom, more serendipitous moments. I’m not at work today and decided to spent that time here in my home office, listening to Caamp on Pandora, Ruth my cat rubbing up against my arm, writing and creating and I realize, this is who I am. This is who I’m meant to be.
The book recommendation is “The Artist’s Way; A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity” by Julia Cameron
Other great book recommendations and life adventures can be found at Wild About Books.
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