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.
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 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.
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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?”

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s/ Ron Crete