7.19.2012… few clouds, no wind

The changes after a week away always surprise me. The grass is much drier, everyone is haying and the birdsong is less outrageous… mating being over for another year. The air is so still, it feels like there has never been wind, but the growth pattern of all the trees and shrubs tells a different story. By afternoon, I too will be buffeted in an easterly direction.

7.7.2012... few clouds, no wind

My time really changes when visitors are here. I am always hurrying my process so I can go to the next event. It is so much fun…. and I long for it to be over. It is not just the open space and vast sky that clears my mind; it is also solitude and simple routines. As Richard said about working at the Glen Ranch that tucks up into the Crazy Mountains…”It kind of settles your soul.” He is absolutely right. I am back to Seattle now for a week or so, but will return alone to find what waits for me.

7.6.2012... cloudless, windless

The schoolhouse is very still this morning before anyone is up. There are birds singing, but the magpies are also not up yet. I’ve always thought magpies chatter like so many school children. Yesterday clouded over and stayed that way all day. There was even some Seattle style rain in the afternoon, though not enough for the ranchers. We hiked to the Daisy Narrows with the family… all lingering from the July 4th holiday.

Fourth of July

July 4th came again - a family holiday for us here in Montana…a summer thanksgiving. It is not the rodeo and parade, that makes it that, although we did go. And it certainly isn’t the fireworks. The drought prevented all of that this year and I didn’t miss it. What really matter is the picnic. Piling into pickups with all the family that can be found, with whatever food has been made, and any available dogs, we caravan to the chosen picnic spot. The kids play in packs by the camp fire or in the water depending on the weather. The adults talk and drink beer, sometimes wandering off for a walk, and then returning for another beer or slice of watermelon. Is it trite to write of such an idyllic situation? It is just a few perfect hours, the absence of agenda, and letting each moment lead to the next. It is not religion…but nearly.

7.3.2012... cloudless, windless

Summer… its soft murmur wrinkles back to every summer : lazy afternoons on the lawn, pancakes cooked under tall trees in the forest, picking through rocks for finds on the beach, transistor radios in the bean fields. And now these Montana summers spent recording skies and birds and empty spaces are punctuated by holiday gatherings with food and drink and dancing in the street and meeting legends, some whose names are steeped in local history and some who like ourselves are gradually being accepted as having a stake in future. All of these things, past and present, layer deep into each single summer moment.

7.2.2012... few clouds, no wind

Yesterday evening we took Jessica to the Vestal Place. It was our first time up there this summer. It is dry…no water in the creek and the grass is not half the height of last year. More of the sheep shed roof has peeled back with the wind and the owls seemed to be gone, though maybe just hunting. Richard’s cows were grazing and even in the increasing wind came to hear John play his accordion or to stare at Jessica. I think she was telling them cow jokes. The place is as lonely and lovely as ever. What is it that creeps into everyone who comes here? Is it the aggregate of time polished and corroded surfaces, the evidence of weather gaining the upper-hand, the randomness of objects distributed by wind each the suggestion of a story, or is it the promise and terror of no outside disruption?

7.1.2012... cloudless, windless

I have been using the word prairie, maybe because of how it expands horizontally in your mouth. It is not a demonstrative word but expansive with its returning “r,” like it could continue on forever. The word is not wrong to describe this place, especially if qualified as “short grass” prairie. The Canadians freely use it to describe the same conditions to the north. But “Great Plains” is more common here, beginning at the eastern edge of the Rockies and extending east through short, mixed, and tall grassland. There is a lot in a word and I recognize that “prairie” and its beautiful long velvet sound attracts a girl whose mind has been long crowded with the angularity of the Cascade Range. In the end there is no word that really describes the feeling of having the Rockies to your back, a long horizon in front of you, every kind of grass at your feet, and more birds than you can identify occupying the air.