Last August I had 23 days in France. Three nights and four days in Paris. My favorite pastime in Paris besides eating, walking, eating, walking, drinking, eating, walking and sleeping was time in the Jardin du Luxembourg (Lux Garden to me). What a spot to just flop into and hang. Seems everyone in the nearby "quarters" goes there to meet, have lunch, play with the kids, get googly-eyed over national treasures...you name it. I was one of those who daily (when I was in the Latin Quarter at least) loved being in that place.
So, I'm looking over my notes last night from my trip to France and up pops a poem I wrote while waiting for some quiche or a biere of "grape" juice in Lux Garden. Of course I was not surprised to see it was about a woman. What was I really doing in France anyway? Certainly not looking for my French mother. Well, the truth is I was enamored by the French women. Not my goal, but certainly a by-product of showing up on the scene.
French women, in Paris at least, seem to tend to their eyes, not their boobs (American woman seem to think we're just looking at their boobs. Maybe a little, but you know, "the eyes are the portals to the soul, oui, oui, and all that). They often dressed in slinky-tight dresses that revealed their sexuality (for me) but probably more so their "sensuality" was their goal. French women seem to have their weight under control, yet there are some women over there that should not be dressed in those iron-on dresses and jeans. Oh, yes, handbags and usually matching fancy shoes. Not quite gaudy as in bird plumage, but attractive--a moving side dressing to distract the watchful eye of the most casual observer.
French men on the other hand seemed to be displaying their women as if they were in charge of them. The woman acted though their men were out of touch with everything but themselves. Still, the women seemed to be just fine letting their man feel like he was displaying his "doll". And yet, the men dressed in T-Shirts, jeans, sandals and on top, baseball caps. What contrast. Women taking great pains to be just so, men taking great pains to look like their slobbish drivers. Oh, well, I probably have this all wrong, but no matter. It worked on me; I was totally drawn to French women and the cultural differences between American and French relationship displays. So, here we go...
Woman in the Black Hat
She is like me.
Moves with a searching gait
Her dressed for Paris
Outfit takes her presence
From one concession stand
To the next in Jardin du Luxembourg.
I want to follow her hat,
Black as night under-drapped
With blond hair to mid-back,
An supporting props for her
Impressively tight black dress.
She is looking for hydration.
She too has walked a long way.
I turn to the concession stand
For my glass of wine
When I turn back to watch her;
She is gone.
Forever.
____________________________
I'll keep you posted if she shows up again.
Me and Tess
Monday, December 30, 2013
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Cimetiere du Mont Gargan, Rouen, France
Good Eve of the Eve to all: I finished a second poem of my journey through France. It warms me deeply to share this with any of you who take the time to read it a couple of times. Slowing first, let it find it's way into you as it came from me; slowly over time. Then, try it outloud slower yet. See if you can feel my joy in it. Good luck with the few French phrases I had come from that day in Rouen, France. I'm better at them now than I was that day. And yes, if it seems long at first, realize the time it took for this poem to come to life after leaving France in the belly of my ancestors. They left in boats between 1630-1650 and if they hadn't I wonder where I'd be today. I traveled to France in August 2013 and this poem was delivered on the date below after many attempts of course. Cheers.
___________________________________
___________________________________
Cimetiere du Mont Gargan, Rouen, France
It is late afternoon in Rouen, France,
The day feels right draining toward darkness.
I am resting from a climb.
A rock bench holds me
Tired legs and lungs throb less and less.
This place is silent.
Beyond the mason’s crypt-work
Over the brick and mortared walls
The City of Rouen chugs and rattles and roars
To end another day.
The cemetery is walled in on a Height of Land.
There is higher ground looking east.
The Valley of the Seine;
Deeply carved, sinuous and lethargic.
St. Paul’s Catholic Church
Waits outside the gate I entered below this rest.
Cimetiere du Mont Gargan.
The sun light lengthens across
The face of this time and war-torn river town.
City facades blush in the lengthening rays.
And the traffic below aims for home on Rocade Nord-Est.
Roused from my water-color dusk-time day-dream
The slap, slap, slap of leather soles approaching
On the paved central lane
Connecting the iron gates and archways-
Those bookends to the stories buried in that tended ground.
The gatekeeper, I could tell
Her lithe hands carried wrought keys
Dangling on a solid metallic ring.
Stopping before me,
She asked a foreign question of a weary foreigner.
“Bonjour. Comment ce
va?”
So basic, I could reply.
“I’m fine. How are
you?, Oh, impropriety…
Pardon moi!. Tres
bien. Et vous?”
“Parfait, merci.”
From the cold stone bench
Upon this somber high place
Where chiseled names seemed suddenly aware
We talked in bursts beyond the words
Our minds could barely decipher.
Smiling often and warmly
Knowing we would not fully understand
I sensed a curiosity in her smile.
It warmed me as a surprise, a gift
For our unlikely meeting there.
She sensed I had come from far away
That this burial place held
Some centuries of interest to me.
“Ancestors!”
“Oui?”
Her face realizing we may have commonality.
Our eyes engaged in mystery.
Hers dark as the buried lives
Beneath our babbled conversation.
Mine holding the last blue of day.
Rouen and lips in rouge fitting my delight.
We were hostages of our words,
Hearts of offset rhythms.
Her soul deep eyes drained the light from mine
Until she smiled again and set me free.
Kindness reached out and touched me
I worried only desire waxing from my soul.
She did not retreat from our concord though.
We talked on beyond the labored words
Until she smiled, understanding.
I had come to thank my ancestors
Her smile was confirmation;
She knew my ‘raison d’etre la’
Why I had portaged "a travers la mer":
My “Merci boucoup”
To those who, left Rouen
To build a New France,
Who gave my life a chance.
We fell silent then,
To let the moment be.
My story a mystery no more.
Then coolness interrupted
The momentary din between
A gatekeeper and I,
Children of the 400 years.
One last smile and “Bon soir”,
Keys jangling again by her side
Those black leather shoes carrying her away
Those black leather shoes carrying her away
To tend a distant gate.
“Au revoir” my echo, as I turned the other way.
In dun light, sky a purple haze,
Downhill past the open weathered gate
I shuffled, no more a stranger here.
Behind me now, that sacred place
Harboring the darkened familiar names
Chiseled on silently settling stones.
My ancestors satisfied once more
Within the maiden’s tended gates.
Those honorably spoken stone held names
Familiar to the eyes of two lives today;
Our ancestors wait another forever
To touch the light again.
________________________________________________
Ron Crete
29 December 2013
29 December 2013
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Lolly-Gagging My Way Through the Holidays
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Here comes 2014. Wow. It's been a hell of a year on the Isle of Crete. I'm listening to Tess snore after our morning run along the Bitterroot River, no pheasants today she seems to be dreaming. I'm happy for the year, you must know. Sure, took a major hit in losing Lyn to the strong arms of time, but she's not fighting anymore and for that I'm as happy as can be. Miss her every day though. My mystical, magical earth-goddess mate. Hard to imagine many who get to have one of those enduring and endearing long-term love affairs. I'm good.
Stopped to chat with my local bike guy, Randy. He's going to tune up my Fisher mountain bike and help me find a trailer to hook on so Tess can go riding with me on our bike trail. It's a dandy trail, running from Hamilton, heck maybe even Darby to Lolo following US 93 and the Bitterroot River those 40+ miles. That ought to be enough miles to get my hip back in it's socket, my shoulder to quit whining and whatever else the 'farming life' frustrated. I have multiple reasons for all these minor ailments to be sounding off. After all I really didn't have a routine exercise program on Blue Moon Farm. The menu was mostly, 'put your head down and get'r done'. That often entailed going for walks in the woods as well as eating a garden full every year. So, if you wonder what a guy does all winter in Hamilton, MT besides read and sleep, imagine Tess and I in our I-Haul Bike and Trailer outfit riding to Lolo and back (ha!, good one) for the rest of the winter. It's about 45 degrees here today, sunny and calm. That sounds like biking weather to me. Can't wait to see how Tess likes being screened into one of those kiddy trailer outfits you see mom's hauling their rug-rats in while dad scopes the biker babes.
The Holidays. Hope the world got together and had a blast. I lay low for holidays. It's a shopping psychosis I've been going through for some years. So much commercialization, both to get us to buy and fly, that I stay home (wherever that is) now. I've been enjoying being two blocks from downtown Hamilton though. Seems the town gets a good deal of shoppers and the coffee shops seem to be hauling it in. Tough getting a seat in a Joe Shop somedays with everyone being 'merry' and all. I did get some nice holiday cards from pals and family and my Bro set some money in an account for me at my Independent Bookstore (now there's and oxymoron) which I'm using up. Pears from Jess and no dog bites running Tess everyday. So, a good holiday season all in all. OK, so I had a couple shots of Evan Williams Kentucky Bourbon on Christmas Eve. Lyn had Johnny Walker Red scotch.
I've been working on writing some pieces about my trip to France between interviews with folks here for my Norman Maclean project(s). I've got three poems to complete as a result of running into three muses in France. It's 'a-musing' to me as a writer now to see how women I meet in my adventures turn out to motivate my writing. Lyn sure did. Our friend Lauren is a good muse and there are still two fleeting moments in France coming up as poems that need to come out. I've already reported about meeting Marie Helene near the end of my journey to France. The poem I'll post soon is about meeting the gatekeeper in a cemetery in Rouen. Okay, I know, "Cemetery"? Hey, it's a hell of a way to meet beautiful women it turns out, but mostly its a way to do some searching for ancestors left behind by my immigrant French relatives. There is much to genealogy that doesn't meet the eye right off. All that digging in archives and searching for birth and death certificates is awful tedious, but on those rare occasions, while sitting on a stone bench in a cemetery, when a darkeyed maiden comes strolling your way swinging a keychain with medieval keys on it, one perks up and begins to sense that there is life at the end of a 400 year genealogical search. Stay tuned for the rest of that story.
Oolong tea and shortbread cookies. Sounds like a good time to sign off on this post. Don't drink and drive.
Me and Tess and a Frog Names Moo.
Here comes 2014. Wow. It's been a hell of a year on the Isle of Crete. I'm listening to Tess snore after our morning run along the Bitterroot River, no pheasants today she seems to be dreaming. I'm happy for the year, you must know. Sure, took a major hit in losing Lyn to the strong arms of time, but she's not fighting anymore and for that I'm as happy as can be. Miss her every day though. My mystical, magical earth-goddess mate. Hard to imagine many who get to have one of those enduring and endearing long-term love affairs. I'm good.
Stopped to chat with my local bike guy, Randy. He's going to tune up my Fisher mountain bike and help me find a trailer to hook on so Tess can go riding with me on our bike trail. It's a dandy trail, running from Hamilton, heck maybe even Darby to Lolo following US 93 and the Bitterroot River those 40+ miles. That ought to be enough miles to get my hip back in it's socket, my shoulder to quit whining and whatever else the 'farming life' frustrated. I have multiple reasons for all these minor ailments to be sounding off. After all I really didn't have a routine exercise program on Blue Moon Farm. The menu was mostly, 'put your head down and get'r done'. That often entailed going for walks in the woods as well as eating a garden full every year. So, if you wonder what a guy does all winter in Hamilton, MT besides read and sleep, imagine Tess and I in our I-Haul Bike and Trailer outfit riding to Lolo and back (ha!, good one) for the rest of the winter. It's about 45 degrees here today, sunny and calm. That sounds like biking weather to me. Can't wait to see how Tess likes being screened into one of those kiddy trailer outfits you see mom's hauling their rug-rats in while dad scopes the biker babes.
The Holidays. Hope the world got together and had a blast. I lay low for holidays. It's a shopping psychosis I've been going through for some years. So much commercialization, both to get us to buy and fly, that I stay home (wherever that is) now. I've been enjoying being two blocks from downtown Hamilton though. Seems the town gets a good deal of shoppers and the coffee shops seem to be hauling it in. Tough getting a seat in a Joe Shop somedays with everyone being 'merry' and all. I did get some nice holiday cards from pals and family and my Bro set some money in an account for me at my Independent Bookstore (now there's and oxymoron) which I'm using up. Pears from Jess and no dog bites running Tess everyday. So, a good holiday season all in all. OK, so I had a couple shots of Evan Williams Kentucky Bourbon on Christmas Eve. Lyn had Johnny Walker Red scotch.
I've been working on writing some pieces about my trip to France between interviews with folks here for my Norman Maclean project(s). I've got three poems to complete as a result of running into three muses in France. It's 'a-musing' to me as a writer now to see how women I meet in my adventures turn out to motivate my writing. Lyn sure did. Our friend Lauren is a good muse and there are still two fleeting moments in France coming up as poems that need to come out. I've already reported about meeting Marie Helene near the end of my journey to France. The poem I'll post soon is about meeting the gatekeeper in a cemetery in Rouen. Okay, I know, "Cemetery"? Hey, it's a hell of a way to meet beautiful women it turns out, but mostly its a way to do some searching for ancestors left behind by my immigrant French relatives. There is much to genealogy that doesn't meet the eye right off. All that digging in archives and searching for birth and death certificates is awful tedious, but on those rare occasions, while sitting on a stone bench in a cemetery, when a darkeyed maiden comes strolling your way swinging a keychain with medieval keys on it, one perks up and begins to sense that there is life at the end of a 400 year genealogical search. Stay tuned for the rest of that story.
Oolong tea and shortbread cookies. Sounds like a good time to sign off on this post. Don't drink and drive.
Me and Tess and a Frog Names Moo.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
With our without us, the holidays are here to stay. I still like the idea of a Solstice Celebration or like First Night, the celebration of the changing of the guard, from dark to light. It's all good. I think it's the commercialization of this wonderful time of year that gets some of us down. Tess and I just returned from our Sunday morning walk and she suggested I post this "Viewpoint" letter I passed on to the local rag here in Hamilton called the Ravalli Republic. A decent newspaper for a small town and surrounding area of about 15.000 folks. The publisher and crew somehow hold their own with some good coverage of local happenings, some imports from AP and of course a continuous volume of ads to keep us posted on the latest gifts for all the good girls and boys on our list. So, here's sharing with you as the Football Coliseums cheer on their favorite warriors and some of us just stay the course of picking and choosing which of life's stories keep us "hoping and a praying" that someday mankind will pull out of the rat race in time to save the rest of the wonders that seem so much more fascinating than "Groping Thursday, Black Friday, Nutzo Saturday, Football Sunday, Electro Monday, ad nauseam.
_____________________________
Letter to the Editor: (December 21, 2013 -Winter Solstice)
I'm a new resident to the Bitterroot Valley, but not to Montana. I recently sold my farm in Minnesota after completing one last "bucket list" adventure with my wife. We raised our kids in Montana, Helena actually, and always felt our kids received a better leg up on many kids in urban areas around the country for being from The Big Sky State. They are gown now and doing quite well on their own; hard working, determined, always questioning the status quo, kinds of adults. Now, I have rented a place in Hamilton to begin a new chapter in my life and couldn't help but feel, after being a resident three previous times, that Montana would grab hold of me on my imagined way to Oregon. Of course the Bitterroots strike everyone with awe when they first see them. And being a fan of Norman Maclean's writings about Montana since way back when, I was unable to leave Hamilton while passing through this past October.
_________________________________
Today, December 20, 2013, as I was anticipating a walk with my dog Tess, in the first downtown covering of snow of the season, I heard a disturbance in my front yard in the 500 Block of Main Street. My dog Tess heard it too. I walked to the door to see what or who might be causing the racket. I saw two 10 or11 year old boys scuffing around in my front yard, saw their push scooters half buried in the snow and watched them spin around as I opened my door. After meeting these boys I knew I was back in a place every non-Montana adult wishes he could have grown up in. The following is a story I experienced today with two boys who seem to have everything to gain growing up in this great state and no doubt, somewhere deep inside them, are the buds of the kinds of characters that spell well for the future of Montana.
As I was saying, when I opened my front down, two young rascals were poking around my yard looking like they were hoping for just the likes of me to come out the door. One lad was looking out from under a well-abused knitted ski cap. He was shifting around inside a tattered jacket and he started talking to me with his bare hands. “I’m Jason”, I think he mumbled toward me, “and this is Keith” motioning to his buddy. Not exactly a Jaycee or Rotarian quality introduction yet, but I sensed he was headed in the right direction. His sidekick, Keith, looked toward me draped in some nearly body length and very man-sized orange, dirt-smudged, non-hooded sweatshirt. No gloves over pink hands there either. Given this feeble attempt at winter wear I looked at their shoes and they were shuffling them in the “white Christmas” ground cover as if their feet were already cold from the mission they seemed to be on.
"Hey Mister, we'll shovel your sidewalk and brush off your car for you," Jason said.
"How Much?" I replied.
"Five bucks!" came back at me as fast as Fast Eddie the Shill looking for customers in a 1920's poker parlor.
"What about the back", I said. "Ten bucks", came back instantly.
"Whatever happened to 50 cents?", I shot back.
One puzzled, hat-smothered face looked at the snow flecked hatless head next to it. "What's 50 cents?" they simultaneously echoed back to me.
"Shovel's in the back" I said, and two eleven year olds outraced each other to the back yard for the worn out push-shovel my snowbird landlord hasn't used in five years or so.
Jason was obviously the ringleader and commanded delayed priority for the shovel work. Keith pulled his hands up inside his draping sweatshirt sleeves and looked to me for guidance. "I'll beep the car; window scrapper is behind the front seat and don't worry about getting the top", I ordered Keith.
Nothing but elbows and scrapping and brushing sounds for ten minutes.
"Okay, we got it", Jason yelled through the walls of my rented house.
I poked my head out behind my dog’s curious escape. "Widen my front walk to the car a bit", I suggested as two winter clowns dove for the shovel handle.
Moments later a hurried, "Gottit" bounced around the neighborhood causing the neighbor shoveling across the street to look up and smile.
"Okay guys here's some video game money to keep you knocking on doors", I said as I leaned outside my door.
"Gotta get my mom a Christmas present", Jason reported back.
"Well, a buck or two of that should cover a gift for her", I encouraged him. Then, "Who wants the five?", I asked.
Two soprano voices said, “Me”, immediately.
I looked at Keith, "Should we give the "Ringleader" the five? The ones are easier to spend", I suggested.
"Yah", Keith conceded.
"Thanks", hit me in their usual perfect duet style as I backed toward my front door on my newly shoveled sidewalk.
Then I asked, "Don't suppose I'll ever see you guys again, huh?"
"Next time it snows", I heard gleefully shouted up Main Street as the two entrepreneurs raced their scooters toward downtown and their financially improved futures. The 100-foot tall spruce tree dividing lots between my yard and my neighbors hid their clean escape from view, and certainly any chance that I might change my mind about employing them.
As I closed my front door a shiver of nostalgia ran through me as I remembered the winter of 1958 in Minnesota when 50 cents each was a negotiated settlement with a penny pinching old scrooge my friend Mike and I worked for once back then. But, then too, I remember my mother yelling after me as I headed down the road with Mike, “Put your hat on Ronnie and where are your mittens?”
__________________________________________
s/ Ron Crete
_____________________________
Letter to the Editor: (December 21, 2013 -Winter Solstice)
I'm a new resident to the Bitterroot Valley, but not to Montana. I recently sold my farm in Minnesota after completing one last "bucket list" adventure with my wife. We raised our kids in Montana, Helena actually, and always felt our kids received a better leg up on many kids in urban areas around the country for being from The Big Sky State. They are gown now and doing quite well on their own; hard working, determined, always questioning the status quo, kinds of adults. Now, I have rented a place in Hamilton to begin a new chapter in my life and couldn't help but feel, after being a resident three previous times, that Montana would grab hold of me on my imagined way to Oregon. Of course the Bitterroots strike everyone with awe when they first see them. And being a fan of Norman Maclean's writings about Montana since way back when, I was unable to leave Hamilton while passing through this past October.
_________________________________
Today, December 20, 2013, as I was anticipating a walk with my dog Tess, in the first downtown covering of snow of the season, I heard a disturbance in my front yard in the 500 Block of Main Street. My dog Tess heard it too. I walked to the door to see what or who might be causing the racket. I saw two 10 or11 year old boys scuffing around in my front yard, saw their push scooters half buried in the snow and watched them spin around as I opened my door. After meeting these boys I knew I was back in a place every non-Montana adult wishes he could have grown up in. The following is a story I experienced today with two boys who seem to have everything to gain growing up in this great state and no doubt, somewhere deep inside them, are the buds of the kinds of characters that spell well for the future of Montana.
As I was saying, when I opened my front down, two young rascals were poking around my yard looking like they were hoping for just the likes of me to come out the door. One lad was looking out from under a well-abused knitted ski cap. He was shifting around inside a tattered jacket and he started talking to me with his bare hands. “I’m Jason”, I think he mumbled toward me, “and this is Keith” motioning to his buddy. Not exactly a Jaycee or Rotarian quality introduction yet, but I sensed he was headed in the right direction. His sidekick, Keith, looked toward me draped in some nearly body length and very man-sized orange, dirt-smudged, non-hooded sweatshirt. No gloves over pink hands there either. Given this feeble attempt at winter wear I looked at their shoes and they were shuffling them in the “white Christmas” ground cover as if their feet were already cold from the mission they seemed to be on.
"Hey Mister, we'll shovel your sidewalk and brush off your car for you," Jason said.
"How Much?" I replied.
"Five bucks!" came back at me as fast as Fast Eddie the Shill looking for customers in a 1920's poker parlor.
"What about the back", I said. "Ten bucks", came back instantly.
"Whatever happened to 50 cents?", I shot back.
One puzzled, hat-smothered face looked at the snow flecked hatless head next to it. "What's 50 cents?" they simultaneously echoed back to me.
"Shovel's in the back" I said, and two eleven year olds outraced each other to the back yard for the worn out push-shovel my snowbird landlord hasn't used in five years or so.
Jason was obviously the ringleader and commanded delayed priority for the shovel work. Keith pulled his hands up inside his draping sweatshirt sleeves and looked to me for guidance. "I'll beep the car; window scrapper is behind the front seat and don't worry about getting the top", I ordered Keith.
Nothing but elbows and scrapping and brushing sounds for ten minutes.
"Okay, we got it", Jason yelled through the walls of my rented house.
I poked my head out behind my dog’s curious escape. "Widen my front walk to the car a bit", I suggested as two winter clowns dove for the shovel handle.
Moments later a hurried, "Gottit" bounced around the neighborhood causing the neighbor shoveling across the street to look up and smile.
"Okay guys here's some video game money to keep you knocking on doors", I said as I leaned outside my door.
"Gotta get my mom a Christmas present", Jason reported back.
"Well, a buck or two of that should cover a gift for her", I encouraged him. Then, "Who wants the five?", I asked.
Two soprano voices said, “Me”, immediately.
I looked at Keith, "Should we give the "Ringleader" the five? The ones are easier to spend", I suggested.
"Yah", Keith conceded.
"Thanks", hit me in their usual perfect duet style as I backed toward my front door on my newly shoveled sidewalk.
Then I asked, "Don't suppose I'll ever see you guys again, huh?"
"Next time it snows", I heard gleefully shouted up Main Street as the two entrepreneurs raced their scooters toward downtown and their financially improved futures. The 100-foot tall spruce tree dividing lots between my yard and my neighbors hid their clean escape from view, and certainly any chance that I might change my mind about employing them.
As I closed my front door a shiver of nostalgia ran through me as I remembered the winter of 1958 in Minnesota when 50 cents each was a negotiated settlement with a penny pinching old scrooge my friend Mike and I worked for once back then. But, then too, I remember my mother yelling after me as I headed down the road with Mike, “Put your hat on Ronnie and where are your mittens?”
__________________________________________
s/ Ron Crete
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Doris is a Mountain
Hello from Hamilton, Montana:
Yes, Tess has been loafing. So many canine pals to during our daily runs that she has not committed her writing energy to The Larch Blodgette for a few days. So, while she sleeps, I'll put up a poem. Mount Doris is a "siren" guarding the Flathead Valley to it's west. The Mainstem of the Flathead River and it's three Forks; The North Fork, the Middle Fork and the South Fork lie below her peak. So, imagine a mountain resting at the very north end of the Swan Range in such a position and you have Doris overshadowing the Flathead Valley. Note too, if you have your map in your lap, that the Flathead and it's forks are sources for energy from the mountains of Glacier National Park, and the Great Bear and the Bob Marshall Wildernesses.
For context in the poem to follow, note that the South Fork of the Flathead drains the east-side of Mount Doris. Columbia Falls, MT is in a key location a few miles west of the forks along the mainstem of the Flathead River. The Town of Hungry Horse is hazardously located at the point where the mainstem does indeed fork to flow north along the west boundary Glacier NP, the Middle Fork flows along the southern boundary of Glacier NP and into the Great Bear Wilderness and the South Fork heads south into the Bob Marshall Wilderness. This is powerfully inspiring land for men. Early white men working on the massive dam forming Hungry Horse Reservoir called the mountain that is guardian of it all "Doris" and probably named other mountains after the women of their desires or left in their homelands abandoned for the wealth calling in the Wild, Wild West. What could lead white men working in this powerful place to name a mountain Doris? This is the question imagined by this poem. I wrote this poem for my friends, Roland and Jane Cheek after a visit to their longtime home below Mount Doris. They live in Doris' shadow as the sun rises slowly late each morning and in her reflected sunlight on cloudless afternoons.
Some Call Me Doris
Some call me Doris.
An usual name
For a mountain, to be sure.
When people look up to me from the valley below
Some gazes follow what seems
A "turkey-track" tattoo
From mid-rib to shoulder.
Some define triple avalanche scars
While others cover their eyes, lest imagination
Shows my cleavage too biblically bare.
But, as siren of the Flatheads,
(All the Forks I watch for you,
As would any good mother-goddess)
I'm the gatekeeper of these river's dividends.
Once, in the dark, but recent past
There were working men of immigrant denominations
Filling my eastern valley with concrete and steel.
A dam to rebuke my daughter, South Fork
To drown their fears and power their dreams.
This silent watery grave
Behind some corporate man's greedy wall.
That mystically turbulent watery voice
Now a turbines droning hum,
An omen to caged tribes of wiser Red men.
Those men of steel and mortar
Named mounts for my sisters too.
I see some still and afar:
South to Charlotte and Sarah and Helen
West across my sunset valley
Waits Ashley too.
Who were these women
So loved to become
Mythical mountains
In men's minds and soulful moans?
Yes, how many of my girls
Had their names sung to the heavens
Only to become forgotten
When our canvas-cribbed Hungry Horse houses
Were torn down to protect a false innocence?
What matter to us
(Our weary lonesome lovers are gone now too)
That so few of our names remain
On mapped peaks guiding modern unknowing men;
Ashamed now to call their mountains "teats"
Or scream "mother"
Or some orphaned whore's names to the sky.
Yet deep within, men still cuddle thoughts
To warm their weary souls
When lost in the wild.
The wilderness where all men flee
To a wild darkness sleeping deep within
Fearful hearts worn bare of work,
Blinded nightless city eyes,
Tortured lungs in self-fouled air.
We are all time's travelers
You Men, we femininely hypnotic peaks.
We are all invisible destinies
When time will have it's way with us.
'Til then, as oft' before,
My girls and I will watch
Young boys and old down-trodden men
Looking up; rising… euphoric in their manic dreams
Seeking our comfort
To fight the fire
Consuming their tormented souls.
For Roland and Jane Cheek
Yes, Tess has been loafing. So many canine pals to during our daily runs that she has not committed her writing energy to The Larch Blodgette for a few days. So, while she sleeps, I'll put up a poem. Mount Doris is a "siren" guarding the Flathead Valley to it's west. The Mainstem of the Flathead River and it's three Forks; The North Fork, the Middle Fork and the South Fork lie below her peak. So, imagine a mountain resting at the very north end of the Swan Range in such a position and you have Doris overshadowing the Flathead Valley. Note too, if you have your map in your lap, that the Flathead and it's forks are sources for energy from the mountains of Glacier National Park, and the Great Bear and the Bob Marshall Wildernesses.
For context in the poem to follow, note that the South Fork of the Flathead drains the east-side of Mount Doris. Columbia Falls, MT is in a key location a few miles west of the forks along the mainstem of the Flathead River. The Town of Hungry Horse is hazardously located at the point where the mainstem does indeed fork to flow north along the west boundary Glacier NP, the Middle Fork flows along the southern boundary of Glacier NP and into the Great Bear Wilderness and the South Fork heads south into the Bob Marshall Wilderness. This is powerfully inspiring land for men. Early white men working on the massive dam forming Hungry Horse Reservoir called the mountain that is guardian of it all "Doris" and probably named other mountains after the women of their desires or left in their homelands abandoned for the wealth calling in the Wild, Wild West. What could lead white men working in this powerful place to name a mountain Doris? This is the question imagined by this poem. I wrote this poem for my friends, Roland and Jane Cheek after a visit to their longtime home below Mount Doris. They live in Doris' shadow as the sun rises slowly late each morning and in her reflected sunlight on cloudless afternoons.
Some Call Me Doris
Some call me Doris.
An usual name
For a mountain, to be sure.
When people look up to me from the valley below
Some gazes follow what seems
A "turkey-track" tattoo
From mid-rib to shoulder.
Some define triple avalanche scars
While others cover their eyes, lest imagination
Shows my cleavage too biblically bare.
But, as siren of the Flatheads,
(All the Forks I watch for you,
As would any good mother-goddess)
I'm the gatekeeper of these river's dividends.
Once, in the dark, but recent past
There were working men of immigrant denominations
Filling my eastern valley with concrete and steel.
A dam to rebuke my daughter, South Fork
To drown their fears and power their dreams.
This silent watery grave
Behind some corporate man's greedy wall.
That mystically turbulent watery voice
Now a turbines droning hum,
An omen to caged tribes of wiser Red men.
Those men of steel and mortar
Named mounts for my sisters too.
I see some still and afar:
South to Charlotte and Sarah and Helen
West across my sunset valley
Waits Ashley too.
Who were these women
So loved to become
Mythical mountains
In men's minds and soulful moans?
Yes, how many of my girls
Had their names sung to the heavens
Only to become forgotten
When our canvas-cribbed Hungry Horse houses
Were torn down to protect a false innocence?
What matter to us
(Our weary lonesome lovers are gone now too)
That so few of our names remain
On mapped peaks guiding modern unknowing men;
Ashamed now to call their mountains "teats"
Or scream "mother"
Or some orphaned whore's names to the sky.
Yet deep within, men still cuddle thoughts
To warm their weary souls
When lost in the wild.
The wilderness where all men flee
To a wild darkness sleeping deep within
Fearful hearts worn bare of work,
Blinded nightless city eyes,
Tortured lungs in self-fouled air.
We are all time's travelers
You Men, we femininely hypnotic peaks.
We are all invisible destinies
When time will have it's way with us.
'Til then, as oft' before,
My girls and I will watch
Young boys and old down-trodden men
Looking up; rising… euphoric in their manic dreams
Seeking our comfort
To fight the fire
Consuming their tormented souls.
For Roland and Jane Cheek
Monday, December 9, 2013
Another Grey Day in Hamilton with New Discoveries
Tess here and what a day. December 9th already and Ol' Wannabe Hemingway snoozes away in his chair. Still cold here for humans, but Wannabe is growing some facial hair after I suggested dogs have hair on their faces for a wintery reason. He follows orders pretty well, bless his heart; stingy as it may be.
Great walk along the river today. I met some new dogs and Wannabe was yack-yack-yackin' like a maniac with new folks. First, though some new winter birds for us new guys here in Hamilton. Remember, we're pretty much froze up here now, the river is I mean. As I ran along it Wannabe was yelling something about a "killdeer" flying along with us. Do I know what a "killdeer" is? I thought I wasn't supposed to do that after that mishap in Wisconsin back in 2006 where I met my first fawn and had a time with it. So, Wannabe says, killdeers are not supposed to be here this time of year. OK, fine. Then, off we, I mean I, ran to the Doggie Park about a mile downriver. Yup, new guys there too, Don and his dog. Weirdest dog, looked like me, but had long hair like one of those English "bench" mutts, Mike Alwin likes. "Hey, Wannabe! What kind of dog did Alwin's have again?" Hell with him he's out. Anyway this new guy, yup a male, is somekind of German thing like me with long soft hair. Pet-able kind of hair, but oooweee, I'll be the burrs get locked into that stuff pretty good. Owners name was Don I heard him say to Wannabe. Don and Ron, yup, what a combo at the Doggy Park today. Me and "what's his face?" the other dog romped around and played grab ass for a while and then me and Wannabe headed back up river. Sure enough along the way another winter first for Hamilton. A snipe. I ain't kidding either. I tried to tell Wannabe I had something real pinned down along the drainage ditch that still has running water in it, but NOooo, he does believe me. Then all of a sudden, like lightning slapped him around he was pointing and hollering at me about the snipe HE just saw. Good grief.
Back at the car we encountered three other new pals for me and their owners, Amy and Steve. Nice dogs 'cept that one brown one who thought it's teeth were longer and whiter than mine or something since she kept showing them to me like a brat. Wannabe got talking as usual and got himself invited to another meeting this coming week. The Ravalli County Backcountry Horsemen I think I heard. What do I care about horses? and Old Wannabe don't give dogshit about them, so what's up with that? Turns out he does care about horses as long as it's related to this story depiction he's doing using Norman Maclean's "1919 USFW:The Ranger, the Cook and A Hole in the Sky. Something about meeting some of the old time horse packers in this area like Bill Bell was in Norman Maclean's story has Wannabe all fired up. I guess they have the best "potluck" dinner in the county though, and that might make it worth the trip to Corvallis and my cold sleep in the kennel in the car during the ordeal. Can't wait to see what Wannabe scrounges for my "treat".
What do you suppose these birds are doing here this time of year anyway? I suspect they thought it was going to be a 'nice' winter again this year. So far, though, it's been prett-ttt darn cold if you ask me. And there in the river today goofing off like we were those two firsts; the killdeer and the snipe. Thing is the killdeer was ranging above the now snow covered rocky shoreline of the river and the snipe was probing around in the edge sludge of the side channel-irrigation ditch that leads past the Hamilton Sewage Treatment plant we have to smell each time we walk the riverbank going to the Doggy Park. So, maybe they figured they were in the right place at the wrong time and were dealing with it. Great attitude if you ask me. I wish some people would deal with such happenstances in such a manner. Not likely given all the need for instant gratification and selfishness the humans are showing off these days.
Let's see if I have a new picture for you. Turn up the volume on your computer, OK?
Oh, yeah, this is a good one. Wannabe suggested we listen to the sound the river speaks as it's starting to freeze. He said the river doesn't "babble and burbble' like in the summertime, but says, "Shhhshshshshshhhh". OK, whatever, but it is pretty cool even if I'd prefer to smell it. I'll listen just this once to appease Old Wannabe.
Off to get some supper. Anybody want to go sit in a cold car tonight with me after while? Wannabe is going to another lecture. Something about why Federal lands being managed by the Feds is way better than having the county commissioners manage them. Should be great fun. Hope it warms up for the Thursday night lecture and dinner at the Cross-Country Ski Club meeting. Wannabe is meeting folks hand over fist these evenings while I sleep in the car and freeze my petunia off.
Tess of the d'Urbervilles de Hamilton Montana
Great walk along the river today. I met some new dogs and Wannabe was yack-yack-yackin' like a maniac with new folks. First, though some new winter birds for us new guys here in Hamilton. Remember, we're pretty much froze up here now, the river is I mean. As I ran along it Wannabe was yelling something about a "killdeer" flying along with us. Do I know what a "killdeer" is? I thought I wasn't supposed to do that after that mishap in Wisconsin back in 2006 where I met my first fawn and had a time with it. So, Wannabe says, killdeers are not supposed to be here this time of year. OK, fine. Then, off we, I mean I, ran to the Doggie Park about a mile downriver. Yup, new guys there too, Don and his dog. Weirdest dog, looked like me, but had long hair like one of those English "bench" mutts, Mike Alwin likes. "Hey, Wannabe! What kind of dog did Alwin's have again?" Hell with him he's out. Anyway this new guy, yup a male, is somekind of German thing like me with long soft hair. Pet-able kind of hair, but oooweee, I'll be the burrs get locked into that stuff pretty good. Owners name was Don I heard him say to Wannabe. Don and Ron, yup, what a combo at the Doggy Park today. Me and "what's his face?" the other dog romped around and played grab ass for a while and then me and Wannabe headed back up river. Sure enough along the way another winter first for Hamilton. A snipe. I ain't kidding either. I tried to tell Wannabe I had something real pinned down along the drainage ditch that still has running water in it, but NOooo, he does believe me. Then all of a sudden, like lightning slapped him around he was pointing and hollering at me about the snipe HE just saw. Good grief.
Back at the car we encountered three other new pals for me and their owners, Amy and Steve. Nice dogs 'cept that one brown one who thought it's teeth were longer and whiter than mine or something since she kept showing them to me like a brat. Wannabe got talking as usual and got himself invited to another meeting this coming week. The Ravalli County Backcountry Horsemen I think I heard. What do I care about horses? and Old Wannabe don't give dogshit about them, so what's up with that? Turns out he does care about horses as long as it's related to this story depiction he's doing using Norman Maclean's "1919 USFW:The Ranger, the Cook and A Hole in the Sky. Something about meeting some of the old time horse packers in this area like Bill Bell was in Norman Maclean's story has Wannabe all fired up. I guess they have the best "potluck" dinner in the county though, and that might make it worth the trip to Corvallis and my cold sleep in the kennel in the car during the ordeal. Can't wait to see what Wannabe scrounges for my "treat".
What do you suppose these birds are doing here this time of year anyway? I suspect they thought it was going to be a 'nice' winter again this year. So far, though, it's been prett-ttt darn cold if you ask me. And there in the river today goofing off like we were those two firsts; the killdeer and the snipe. Thing is the killdeer was ranging above the now snow covered rocky shoreline of the river and the snipe was probing around in the edge sludge of the side channel-irrigation ditch that leads past the Hamilton Sewage Treatment plant we have to smell each time we walk the riverbank going to the Doggy Park. So, maybe they figured they were in the right place at the wrong time and were dealing with it. Great attitude if you ask me. I wish some people would deal with such happenstances in such a manner. Not likely given all the need for instant gratification and selfishness the humans are showing off these days.
Let's see if I have a new picture for you. Turn up the volume on your computer, OK?
Oh, yeah, this is a good one. Wannabe suggested we listen to the sound the river speaks as it's starting to freeze. He said the river doesn't "babble and burbble' like in the summertime, but says, "Shhhshshshshshhhh". OK, whatever, but it is pretty cool even if I'd prefer to smell it. I'll listen just this once to appease Old Wannabe.
Off to get some supper. Anybody want to go sit in a cold car tonight with me after while? Wannabe is going to another lecture. Something about why Federal lands being managed by the Feds is way better than having the county commissioners manage them. Should be great fun. Hope it warms up for the Thursday night lecture and dinner at the Cross-Country Ski Club meeting. Wannabe is meeting folks hand over fist these evenings while I sleep in the car and freeze my petunia off.
Tess of the d'Urbervilles de Hamilton Montana
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Good Morning from grey skies Hamilton, MT:
Yes, it's me, Tess again. My master (aka) Ron Crete, whom I refer to honorably as Wannabe Hemingway, has once again amazed me with his computer wizardry. He has been working like a fiend for the past day and a half to figure out how to get back to this page. You know the page where I can write to you and preview my work and then publish it to 'the circle'. Great that he figured out that 'signing in' is the key to this kingdom. So, on we go....
This morning we watched, "Meet the Press" on NBC. Mostly because it's Sunday and Ol' Wannabe is slow out of the chute on Sundays. I, of course want to go for our usual walk along the Bitterroot River, a mere 3/4 mile from our rented abode on Main Street. So, while he's over there working out today's, Ravalli Republic Crossword Puzzle (NEA puzzle, pretty easy it looks to me, yet Wannabe struggles as usual with matching tricky clues to the 13 words he has stored in his head. Another Post for another time) while I reconsider everything a second or third time.
There is much about Nelson Mandela on the TV these days. I guess he was a great guy, some kind of kind hero from what I hear. I also hear Wannabe mumbling about his years following Mandela's plight back in the late 60's and when Wannabe was a confused and afraid and well meaning reactionary youngster marching in the streets of St. Cloud, MN against the Viet Nam War. Boy, those must have been the days. Seems he also remembers when Mandela was let out of prison after so many years of pounding rocks off the coast of South Africa. This business of Apartheid and the Civil Rights Movement and Ghandi's non-violence freedom campaign were all a part of Wannabe's timeline and I suspect shaped many of his liberal political views. First he reminded me that Mandela was the only one of the three not to get assassinated. Then, he says the Cold War prevented conservatives from seeing the bigotry from their own fear of communism and taking immediate action, but eventually joining the bandwagon. Maybe he said "Republicans" had this issue, but then he remembered there were liberal, or Democrats who were bogged down too. I think Wannabe is a "conservative" when it comes to rationing my food. If he was a real liberal he'd just open the bag of dog food and let me decide how much is enough. Nope! Three little tiny scoops and a gob of plain non-fat Greek yogurt. What causes this dichotomous political mindset to completely confuse me?
So, later, as he continued watching NBC's program (it's sleepy-by time for me when that stuff is on) he gets all riled up when Dr. Angelou comes on and responds to her interviewer on Mandela: "Thank you for coming, thank you for teaching us, thank you for loving us" and old Wannabe just about comes out of his recliner. "Woof!" I chime in thinking someone is at the door. He goes on babbling about her speech-poem at President Clinton's inaugural event on the D.C. Mall and I keep trying to tell him, "Woof, woof, woof, woo, woo --I wasn't there, remember?", but he keeps on babbling and I go back to sleep.
So, Wannabe the Poet, Wannabe the Writer, whatever, is pretty lit up today. Guess he's trying to tell me everyone should be lit up today and as we go into the future because Mandela spent his life showing us "change". Change in the active sense of it and especially how he, Mandela, changed himself to meet the crisis of his people in South Africa and show the world how to get along in the stagnation of cultural disorder. I wonder if he thinks Washington DC politics is going to change just because Mandela got it right. Maybe, if the price is right.
Now Wannabe is off on a tangent about Ronald Reagan and Dick Chaney holding back on the Apartheid issue back then. I try again to tell him I wasn't there. He reacts like he heard me (doubtful) and starts in again saying; "The damned Cold War had everyone so anti-communist they couldn't see the forest for the trees." Well, "Daaa!", Wannabe I woof back, "we had only just built up our paranoia about communism since the Big One (you know WWII) cuz Russia was breathing down our necks with nukes and...." Well, my run along the river is not happening, I can see that now. I'm just trying not to be a pest by wandering around scratching myself in the usual places and shaking my hair-sheds all over this place. He'll be OK, don't worry about him. I'm just happy he was really moved by something this morning. Maybe he'll be more conciliatory toward me and others after this reminder that Mandela knew how to forgive his captors and how to get his country on the right path in spite of all those years of the Whites in South Africa keeping the Blacks in bigotry hell.
Let me drop a couple of pictures on your screen.
Yes, it's me, Tess again. My master (aka) Ron Crete, whom I refer to honorably as Wannabe Hemingway, has once again amazed me with his computer wizardry. He has been working like a fiend for the past day and a half to figure out how to get back to this page. You know the page where I can write to you and preview my work and then publish it to 'the circle'. Great that he figured out that 'signing in' is the key to this kingdom. So, on we go....
This morning we watched, "Meet the Press" on NBC. Mostly because it's Sunday and Ol' Wannabe is slow out of the chute on Sundays. I, of course want to go for our usual walk along the Bitterroot River, a mere 3/4 mile from our rented abode on Main Street. So, while he's over there working out today's, Ravalli Republic Crossword Puzzle (NEA puzzle, pretty easy it looks to me, yet Wannabe struggles as usual with matching tricky clues to the 13 words he has stored in his head. Another Post for another time) while I reconsider everything a second or third time.
There is much about Nelson Mandela on the TV these days. I guess he was a great guy, some kind of kind hero from what I hear. I also hear Wannabe mumbling about his years following Mandela's plight back in the late 60's and when Wannabe was a confused and afraid and well meaning reactionary youngster marching in the streets of St. Cloud, MN against the Viet Nam War. Boy, those must have been the days. Seems he also remembers when Mandela was let out of prison after so many years of pounding rocks off the coast of South Africa. This business of Apartheid and the Civil Rights Movement and Ghandi's non-violence freedom campaign were all a part of Wannabe's timeline and I suspect shaped many of his liberal political views. First he reminded me that Mandela was the only one of the three not to get assassinated. Then, he says the Cold War prevented conservatives from seeing the bigotry from their own fear of communism and taking immediate action, but eventually joining the bandwagon. Maybe he said "Republicans" had this issue, but then he remembered there were liberal, or Democrats who were bogged down too. I think Wannabe is a "conservative" when it comes to rationing my food. If he was a real liberal he'd just open the bag of dog food and let me decide how much is enough. Nope! Three little tiny scoops and a gob of plain non-fat Greek yogurt. What causes this dichotomous political mindset to completely confuse me?
So, later, as he continued watching NBC's program (it's sleepy-by time for me when that stuff is on) he gets all riled up when Dr. Angelou comes on and responds to her interviewer on Mandela: "Thank you for coming, thank you for teaching us, thank you for loving us" and old Wannabe just about comes out of his recliner. "Woof!" I chime in thinking someone is at the door. He goes on babbling about her speech-poem at President Clinton's inaugural event on the D.C. Mall and I keep trying to tell him, "Woof, woof, woof, woo, woo --I wasn't there, remember?", but he keeps on babbling and I go back to sleep.
So, Wannabe the Poet, Wannabe the Writer, whatever, is pretty lit up today. Guess he's trying to tell me everyone should be lit up today and as we go into the future because Mandela spent his life showing us "change". Change in the active sense of it and especially how he, Mandela, changed himself to meet the crisis of his people in South Africa and show the world how to get along in the stagnation of cultural disorder. I wonder if he thinks Washington DC politics is going to change just because Mandela got it right. Maybe, if the price is right.
Now Wannabe is off on a tangent about Ronald Reagan and Dick Chaney holding back on the Apartheid issue back then. I try again to tell him I wasn't there. He reacts like he heard me (doubtful) and starts in again saying; "The damned Cold War had everyone so anti-communist they couldn't see the forest for the trees." Well, "Daaa!", Wannabe I woof back, "we had only just built up our paranoia about communism since the Big One (you know WWII) cuz Russia was breathing down our necks with nukes and...." Well, my run along the river is not happening, I can see that now. I'm just trying not to be a pest by wandering around scratching myself in the usual places and shaking my hair-sheds all over this place. He'll be OK, don't worry about him. I'm just happy he was really moved by something this morning. Maybe he'll be more conciliatory toward me and others after this reminder that Mandela knew how to forgive his captors and how to get his country on the right path in spite of all those years of the Whites in South Africa keeping the Blacks in bigotry hell.
Let me drop a couple of pictures on your screen.
Those pictures were taken on the same day, this past Friday. I want to write about them in my, well Wannabe's, next post. As you can see the Bitterroot River is almost completely frozen on that day and yet that little bird in the lower shot, a "dipper" is out making lunch out of something in an old irrigation side channel. It's probably eating "midges" Wannabe reports that he and I can't even see from our perch above the ditch. I thought I was being helpful by chasing that little devil off so we could continue our walk. Geez, Wannabe must have watched that little turd about 10 minutes. See those rocks in the water? They are about the size of a...a potato (ooh, I like potatoes and never get them, Sam I Am). So that "dipper" is about the size of a half-a-potato. Wannabe said they are about chickadee sized, whatever that means. I wanted to know if we could hunt them. He doesn't even look at me when I do a mind veld with him and ask him such things. "Hello, is anybody home?"
OK, as Dr. Angelou would say, "Thanks for coming...". I'm getting to like her. When you come, let's go hunting.
Tess.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Views from Canis lupus famillaris Tessii
Tess here:
Yes. Old "Wannabe Hemingway" is asleep at the switch as far as I'm concerned so I've taken this thing over. A "Blog" he calls it. I prefer to think of this as writing a letter and hoping someone reads it. Wannabe, on the other hand had this notion (what the heck is a notion? Some kind of makeup or body oil treatment?) yes, OK, a notion that he was going to use this stuff as a way to improve his writing skills. NOT! This is letter writing and take it from me, Tess, a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do. Hey! Why would he have used my near famous hunting picture as a cameo for this blog if I wasn't supposed to write it? Yes, you get it. Well Ol' Wannabe is over there in that rented recliner he won't let me sit in, reading some garble about "How to Write a Play" or some such nonsense. He must think that being a writer in your head is good enough. Not me. I want to figure out how to get this to my comrades, other hunting dogs, so we can commiserate on the reason apes did all that genetic research way back when to come up with this hybrid humans are so proud of "evolving" into. That is hilarious. Even after humans began thinking that they were creating their own perfect companion, dogs, we dogs were doing our own selective breeding to insure that there were enough kinds of us dogs to take over the psyches of every kind of human on the planet. Well, if I'm reaching my fellow dogs here you all know we have done it. We have now taken over human behavior by making them serve our every need and, while allowing them free time to create new technology to save their butts from their own stupidity, we dogs are having a hell of a good time.
Let me catch you up on what's going on at my place here in Hamilton. Sure, Wannabe, thinks it's his place, but let me set the record straight. Take a look at that "blog" heading picture inside Wannabe's profile that I conceded to for this blog. That is a shot of Blodgett Canon (see where the second word of this blog's title comes from?) just about 10 minutes drive from the house I made Wannabe rent for me on Main Street in downtown Hamilton. We had a great shot of me in the foreground of Blodgett Canyon, but Nooooo1..., Wannabe wanted this boring shot of the canyon posted instead. He'll come around. Further evidence is in the main profile picture of me he used due to his camera shyness. Now that is a nose profile worth posting.
Yes, we live on Main Street. Not sure if Wannabe thought that would give him a leg up (what do you guys do with only two legs, anyway?) on writing this play he has in his head to write. I want to tell him it's already been used as a title to a play, but I'll let him read until he realizes we could have lived on any street in Hamilton. Good grief, if I may steal a dog gasp from Charlie Brown's Cartoon, what makes him think about such things when in a wee 10 minute drive he could be sending me off on a "hunt" command into the wilds of Blodgett Canyon. So it goes with the perpetually busy minds of humans. If they lived through their noses they wouldn't be "thinking" all the time, they would out "sniffing" like us dogs (who, or is it whom?, bye the bye convinced apes to do the genetics for Homo sapiens latrinus).
Now, I'm hearing the gameplan today is driving to Missoula to get the Subaru lubed. What does that mean, "lubed". I don't even like the sounds of that. Sounds a little like camo-talk to get me to the Vet, but we'll see. Zach is back from California Security Guard Extraordinaire work and I'm anxious to see him and hear some tails. (Speaking of "tails").
There are other agenda items too. I suspect Ol' Wannabe is "thinking" about writing a blog post today. Forget it. He'll never get around to it. If thinking were a battleship his brain would fill up Montana with rusted out hulks of battleships in about eight minutes. Geezuz, mankind, it's enough to make a nose like mine want to plug itself with that Kleenex from that waste paper basket across the room and play dead to get attention. I think he's planning to go to lunch today at the "Filling Station Grille" here in Hamilton before we head out to Missoula. Wannabee thinks they have great soup. I think he likes the waitresses. Who wouldn't. They bring on the food right? You got it. Waitresses rule. If I could go in there, I'd break the chain of command immediately and ask the waitresses what they want in stead of always having them ask me what I want. See dog's like the Alpha role even if they know they are about to get their jugular veins ripped out of their necks.
I know Wannabee wants to have dinner or maybe lunch with Zach, but do I care? As long as he picks both dining out options I'm fine. You see, he's conditioned through guilt (another stupid human trait we gladly bred into them) to bring me a "bite" when we stop at a cafe while I freeze my butt off in the car. Just another trick us dogs pulled on H. s. latrinus to get them to feed us junk food. Again, I repeat; "noses" or "brains", which makes any survival sense to you guys? OK, I'll help just this once. Ever seen a brain find food? OK, you get my drift now don't you?
So, what kinds of stories do you want to hear from Hamilton, MT? Drop me a note and I'll conjure up something along the lines of your interests. Otherwise, you're going to be stuck with my point of view (I am a "pointer" dog you realize). As far as I'm concerned I could stick to the topic of 'huntin'' stories, but I suspect that gets a little boring for you "lap yaps" out there. So, I'll try to get some variation on that hunting theme, like barking at everything that walks by your house or car when you're stuck inside with your human sitting on the couch watching TV or reading or God help us, thinking or maybe if you're lucky waiting for your human to come back from a little lunch at the Filling Station Grille in downtown Hamilton, MT.
Woof, woof, from Montana,
Tess
Yes. Old "Wannabe Hemingway" is asleep at the switch as far as I'm concerned so I've taken this thing over. A "Blog" he calls it. I prefer to think of this as writing a letter and hoping someone reads it. Wannabe, on the other hand had this notion (what the heck is a notion? Some kind of makeup or body oil treatment?) yes, OK, a notion that he was going to use this stuff as a way to improve his writing skills. NOT! This is letter writing and take it from me, Tess, a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do. Hey! Why would he have used my near famous hunting picture as a cameo for this blog if I wasn't supposed to write it? Yes, you get it. Well Ol' Wannabe is over there in that rented recliner he won't let me sit in, reading some garble about "How to Write a Play" or some such nonsense. He must think that being a writer in your head is good enough. Not me. I want to figure out how to get this to my comrades, other hunting dogs, so we can commiserate on the reason apes did all that genetic research way back when to come up with this hybrid humans are so proud of "evolving" into. That is hilarious. Even after humans began thinking that they were creating their own perfect companion, dogs, we dogs were doing our own selective breeding to insure that there were enough kinds of us dogs to take over the psyches of every kind of human on the planet. Well, if I'm reaching my fellow dogs here you all know we have done it. We have now taken over human behavior by making them serve our every need and, while allowing them free time to create new technology to save their butts from their own stupidity, we dogs are having a hell of a good time.
Let me catch you up on what's going on at my place here in Hamilton. Sure, Wannabe, thinks it's his place, but let me set the record straight. Take a look at that "blog" heading picture inside Wannabe's profile that I conceded to for this blog. That is a shot of Blodgett Canon (see where the second word of this blog's title comes from?) just about 10 minutes drive from the house I made Wannabe rent for me on Main Street in downtown Hamilton. We had a great shot of me in the foreground of Blodgett Canyon, but Nooooo1..., Wannabe wanted this boring shot of the canyon posted instead. He'll come around. Further evidence is in the main profile picture of me he used due to his camera shyness. Now that is a nose profile worth posting.
Yes, we live on Main Street. Not sure if Wannabe thought that would give him a leg up (what do you guys do with only two legs, anyway?) on writing this play he has in his head to write. I want to tell him it's already been used as a title to a play, but I'll let him read until he realizes we could have lived on any street in Hamilton. Good grief, if I may steal a dog gasp from Charlie Brown's Cartoon, what makes him think about such things when in a wee 10 minute drive he could be sending me off on a "hunt" command into the wilds of Blodgett Canyon. So it goes with the perpetually busy minds of humans. If they lived through their noses they wouldn't be "thinking" all the time, they would out "sniffing" like us dogs (who, or is it whom?, bye the bye convinced apes to do the genetics for Homo sapiens latrinus).
Now, I'm hearing the gameplan today is driving to Missoula to get the Subaru lubed. What does that mean, "lubed". I don't even like the sounds of that. Sounds a little like camo-talk to get me to the Vet, but we'll see. Zach is back from California Security Guard Extraordinaire work and I'm anxious to see him and hear some tails. (Speaking of "tails").
There are other agenda items too. I suspect Ol' Wannabe is "thinking" about writing a blog post today. Forget it. He'll never get around to it. If thinking were a battleship his brain would fill up Montana with rusted out hulks of battleships in about eight minutes. Geezuz, mankind, it's enough to make a nose like mine want to plug itself with that Kleenex from that waste paper basket across the room and play dead to get attention. I think he's planning to go to lunch today at the "Filling Station Grille" here in Hamilton before we head out to Missoula. Wannabee thinks they have great soup. I think he likes the waitresses. Who wouldn't. They bring on the food right? You got it. Waitresses rule. If I could go in there, I'd break the chain of command immediately and ask the waitresses what they want in stead of always having them ask me what I want. See dog's like the Alpha role even if they know they are about to get their jugular veins ripped out of their necks.
I know Wannabee wants to have dinner or maybe lunch with Zach, but do I care? As long as he picks both dining out options I'm fine. You see, he's conditioned through guilt (another stupid human trait we gladly bred into them) to bring me a "bite" when we stop at a cafe while I freeze my butt off in the car. Just another trick us dogs pulled on H. s. latrinus to get them to feed us junk food. Again, I repeat; "noses" or "brains", which makes any survival sense to you guys? OK, I'll help just this once. Ever seen a brain find food? OK, you get my drift now don't you?
So, what kinds of stories do you want to hear from Hamilton, MT? Drop me a note and I'll conjure up something along the lines of your interests. Otherwise, you're going to be stuck with my point of view (I am a "pointer" dog you realize). As far as I'm concerned I could stick to the topic of 'huntin'' stories, but I suspect that gets a little boring for you "lap yaps" out there. So, I'll try to get some variation on that hunting theme, like barking at everything that walks by your house or car when you're stuck inside with your human sitting on the couch watching TV or reading or God help us, thinking or maybe if you're lucky waiting for your human to come back from a little lunch at the Filling Station Grille in downtown Hamilton, MT.
Woof, woof, from Montana,
Tess
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
New Beginnings from Hamilton, Montana
Montana, Again?:
Yes, it's true. I've landed in Montana seeking my 4th residency since 1971. I've pretty much abandoned my Tamarack Blog worked on from the Farm in Minnesota. The old posts are still there under my name, but I'm writing from a new view of things and thought I should give my blogged-writing a new look and name. Obviously I didn't let go of "Tamarack" very much given the title of this blog, but since I have a view of larch and Blodgett Canyon in the Bitterroot Mountains from my new perch in Hamilton I figured, "What the hell?" try a new twist on the same ol' same ol'.
I'll be focusing my writing on happenings in my life in Montana again and look too, for some stories about my experiences in France last August. My research and word warbling about my dad and mom will likely get aired out here as well. After all I must continue to explore their life and times, especially my sense of dad's life, (aka: "Uncle Sonny") started at Blue Moon Farm in Minnesota. [DAD, it's not my fault. Mom is making me do it and yes, she is editing everything I write about you. She calls it, 'getting even'. What does she mean by that dad?]
The tone of this blog will probably change as I certainly have. I've decided that the rest of my life is my shot at practicing the 'writer's life' dreamed about and farted around with for most of my--"Hey, I think I see light in there"--years. [Who just said that? Come out, come out wherever you are!] Don't get your expectations up too high as I need some followers to keep me honest. By that I mean don't drop me just yet. Well, at least don't go fB-ing everyone why you dumped me (again). Think of me as a 65 year old 'wanna be' with nothing better to do with his residual energy than write and reveal my hopelessly romantic interior, helplessly disorganized writing style (i.e., lack of understanding of the English language), and my senseless hope for our deteriorating habitat on this blue-green-mostly brown planet.
Yes, I have to write about Mother Earth. Maybe not the "News" of it, but certainly I can cast an observation or two out there given I've been marching to the drumming of ruffed grouse, the "garooo-ing" of sandhill cranes, the green eye-shine of black-footed ferrets and of late, the adventures of my mostly aquatic son Zach's meanderings in the flowing waters of the Bitterroot Watershed (especially the Lolo Fork of the Bitterroot River).
Thus, and thank God it's lastly, this particular boggy blog is a pilot to see if the new set up works. If you plan to tag along maybe I can buy you a stiff drink sometime for your time and pending confusion. I believe Thomas Merton wrote a book once, "No Man Is An Island". But, "AhhHaa", I have now traveled "over the pond". And according to the Air France magazine map I found and browsed for 9,486 hours going over and back, there is an Island named Crete. Thus,
NoManIsAnIslandButCreteIs,
(I know, I know. The isolation will be good for me. Nonetheless, send a CARE package now and then, please.)
Eternally grateful and humbly submitted;
Ron Crete
www.bluemoofarm.blogspot.com/
Yes, it's true. I've landed in Montana seeking my 4th residency since 1971. I've pretty much abandoned my Tamarack Blog worked on from the Farm in Minnesota. The old posts are still there under my name, but I'm writing from a new view of things and thought I should give my blogged-writing a new look and name. Obviously I didn't let go of "Tamarack" very much given the title of this blog, but since I have a view of larch and Blodgett Canyon in the Bitterroot Mountains from my new perch in Hamilton I figured, "What the hell?" try a new twist on the same ol' same ol'.
I'll be focusing my writing on happenings in my life in Montana again and look too, for some stories about my experiences in France last August. My research and word warbling about my dad and mom will likely get aired out here as well. After all I must continue to explore their life and times, especially my sense of dad's life, (aka: "Uncle Sonny") started at Blue Moon Farm in Minnesota. [DAD, it's not my fault. Mom is making me do it and yes, she is editing everything I write about you. She calls it, 'getting even'. What does she mean by that dad?]
The tone of this blog will probably change as I certainly have. I've decided that the rest of my life is my shot at practicing the 'writer's life' dreamed about and farted around with for most of my--"Hey, I think I see light in there"--years. [Who just said that? Come out, come out wherever you are!] Don't get your expectations up too high as I need some followers to keep me honest. By that I mean don't drop me just yet. Well, at least don't go fB-ing everyone why you dumped me (again). Think of me as a 65 year old 'wanna be' with nothing better to do with his residual energy than write and reveal my hopelessly romantic interior, helplessly disorganized writing style (i.e., lack of understanding of the English language), and my senseless hope for our deteriorating habitat on this blue-green-mostly brown planet.
Yes, I have to write about Mother Earth. Maybe not the "News" of it, but certainly I can cast an observation or two out there given I've been marching to the drumming of ruffed grouse, the "garooo-ing" of sandhill cranes, the green eye-shine of black-footed ferrets and of late, the adventures of my mostly aquatic son Zach's meanderings in the flowing waters of the Bitterroot Watershed (especially the Lolo Fork of the Bitterroot River).
Thus, and thank God it's lastly, this particular boggy blog is a pilot to see if the new set up works. If you plan to tag along maybe I can buy you a stiff drink sometime for your time and pending confusion. I believe Thomas Merton wrote a book once, "No Man Is An Island". But, "AhhHaa", I have now traveled "over the pond". And according to the Air France magazine map I found and browsed for 9,486 hours going over and back, there is an Island named Crete. Thus,
NoManIsAnIslandButCreteIs,
(I know, I know. The isolation will be good for me. Nonetheless, send a CARE package now and then, please.)
Eternally grateful and humbly submitted;
Ron Crete
www.bluemoofarm.blogspot.com/
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