Author: Sheri

I sat on a big rock and looked out across the foothills toward the snowcapped mountains that rose from the prairie floor. It looked as if I could reach out and touch the tops of the peaks though they were miles away. I was always in awe of the mountains even on the days they were distant and dared anyone to approach. 

A breeze tugged at my hair and awakened me from my trance as the wind blew across the wide-open countryside, tossing tumbleweeds that jumped over clumps of sagebrush. Just beyond, uprooted grasses and weeds of various kinds clung to the barbs of a fence.  As the tumbleweeds reached the barbed wire, they finally found a resting place. As I took in the whole scene, I felt kind of like one of those tumbleweeds that rolled across the prairie.

During my growing up years, we moved from place to place. Living in parsonages with cast off furnishings of members of the congregation was not really a place to call home. However, there was one constant – the town where my grandmother lived. She spent most of her life in the mountains and even after she moved to town, they remained in view and gently spoke her name. It was there in the mountains where my father was born. When he married the girl from the prairies, she went to live with him in his mountain home and it was there that five of their six children were born. Those were their roots, their place to call home. 

I came along later. Though I was small the first time I saw the mountains, it was as if they whispered my name. After each visit, the silent call became louder. I heard it in the wind that whistled through the trees and in the gusts that blew through the valleys. Others before me heard the call, too, and many answered. My great grandmother found refuge there in the mountains that spoke to her. Native Americans heard the call and climbed the mountain peaks in search of wisdom through visions to lead their people. Even now, many who visit there find solace and can feel the sacred reverence.

When I married, we almost moved to the mountains. Instead, we made a vow that one day we would move to the place where the mountains lifted from the prairie floor, the place held sacred to those who had walked among the valleys and peaks and lived in its shadow. 

Yes, there were many places I called home, where we raised our children and spent time with grandchildren. Yet I still heard the voice calling. After many years, the dream I had as a child was within my grasp and now, I see the mountains every day. When my siblings see pictures of the roads that lead into the mountains, they say it looks like the road home. 

Just as those tumbleweeds that found a place of rest in view of the mountains that speak, it is here we found the place we will call home and rest for a time.

“The mountains are calling, and I must go…”    John Muir

Colorful packages with ribbons and bows are piled under the tree that is decorated with twinkling lights that cast their dancing glow on the ceiling and walls. Shiny Christmas ornaments and balls show the reflection of those gathered around the tree, but the greatest reflection is seen the eyes of a child. It is the magic of Christmas.

The years go by and yet memories of Christmases long ago come to mind. One such time was a Christmas Eve when a newborn baby lay under the decorated tree in Bethlehem. The baby boy, just ten days old, kicked his legs, cooed, and smiled. His gray eyes glistened as they reflected the sparkling lights. He amazed all who saw him because he was so bright and alert. His smiles were contagious, and his coos brought laughter to all those gathered. 

We were given the gift of Christmas in a baby boy that brought such great joy.

A few short years later, on another Christmas Eve in Bethlehem, a three-year-old little boy smiled as he ran around and played, anxious to see what was in the bright packages under the tree. Another child, a baby girl, had joined the family. This little girl did not lay under the tree and smile. No, she cried with colic. Her eyes did not dance with the lights. She brought a different gift.

There was another visitor that year – Mrs. Hunt. One would have thought she was handed the world when she took a fussy little girl into her arms. The two of them, a matronly Southern lady and a colicky three-month-old baby girl rocked in the rocking chair as the runners squeaked and creaked.

There were gifts for all under the tree, but I think Mrs. Hunt got the best present of all – the unconditional love of a newborn baby – the gift that was wrapped in a blanket.

Now that’s a Christmas story!

The events of these two Christmases did indeed take place in Bethlehem – Bethlehem, Georgia. One of the highlights of our time there was the live Nativity complete with sheep, shepherds, Mary & Joseph, the wise men with their gifts, and even an angel who shown brightly atop the wooden stable under the star of wonder. It was a reminder of the gift that was given those many years ago in another Bethlehem, the magic of Christmas, a baby boy wrapped in swaddling clothes. 

I stood on the hill among tombstones that hid in the tall grass and wildflowers of the old Silver City Cemetery. Helena could be seen in the distance just to the Southeast. Though the streets of Helena were busy with the comings and goings of all kinds of folks, the little town of Silver City wasn’t much more than a name. Had events taken a turn years earlier, she would have won the right of being called the capital of Montana. But that wasn’t to be.

The cemetery was quiet except for the sounds of the mower being pushed by the kind gentleman who was trying to clear the weeds from around the gravestones and markers of those who were buried there with their memories. With my boots on, I walked around and snapped a few pictures of forgotten names and stones that had been so worn away no inscription could be read. Sunken places in the earth whispered stories of those whose remains lay all but forgotten.

As I stood there pondering the tales that would never be told, wondering about the lives of those who had come to this harsh and beautiful land, a van turned up the trail. It slowly made its way to the top hill. A young lady got out of the driver’s seat, walked around to the other side of the van, and opened the door. Out stepped an elderly slightly stooped gentleman with a cap on his head. 

He was gently led by the young lady who held his elbow in her palm, her other hand on his arm. He spoke to the man who had turned off the mower, “I just came to put a flower on her grave.” In the elderly man’s hand, he held a purple flower on a single stem.

The lady guided him through the newly chopped clumps of grass and into the weeds yet to be trimmed. “Watch out for rattlesnakes, Grandpa!” They made their way to the grave of his beloved wife. He bent down, pulled a few weeds from the front of the tombstone to reveal her name, then stooped lower to place the purple flower on her headstone. 

A warm gentle breeze blew as the yellow wildflowers danced in the magic of the moment. I brushed away a lone tear that slid down my cheek as I turned and slowly walked away.

Note: The Silver City Cemetery is now maintained and has gained a place in the National Register of Historic Places in Montana. One of my great aunts is buried there as well as Old Moss – but that’s another story. You can read some of the history of the cemetery at these web links:

https://mhs.mt.gov/shpo/docs/NRnoms/SilverCityCemetery.pdf

https://historicmt.org/items/show/3221

The road to the old home place was not much more than a beaten path riddled with rocks and potholes that led into the mountains, and we managed to find every one of them. We jiggled back and forth when we forded the creek, the sound of stones crunching under the tires. 

History lived there in the trees and behind rock piles along the trail. We heard it whisper old tales as we passed by. Laughter sang through the boughs of firs and pines as images of children played outside the old schoolhouse that once stood in the woods. If one knew where to look, there might even be faint visions of children pulling on the reins of the horses that stomped their hooves and swatted flies with their tails. Kids hid behind sagebrush while one rode an imaginary horse that looked like a dried-up stump. In the distance was the sound of the shrill whine of a sawmill. Smoke rose from the chimney as a greeting to any that made it that far into the heart of the mountains.  

Though no one had lived at the place at the end of the road for some time, memories still lingered. As we pulled into the yard, we were greeted by Quaking Aspens waving their shimmering leaves in the summer light as if anxiously awaiting our arrival.

An old fence that at one time surrounded and protected the log cabin was all but gone except for a few worn pieces of wooden rails scattered on the ground. A weathered gate cheated time and stood defiantly in its place. Its rusty hinges gripped tightly to the posts that held the gate. Patches of faded green paint clung stubbornly to the brittle slats. A round piece of old machinery chained to the gate hung heavily to keep it closed and to signal the comings and goings of family and friends. Though I could have easily walked right past the gate, I opened it anyway and was not disappointed to hear the clang clang as it slammed behind me. 

I stepped onto the walkway that led to the sagging door of the cabin. As I entered the doorway, a light breeze stirred remembrances along with the dust and dirt that danced across the floor with a breath of the wind. Memories came to life. 

Thoughts and images flashed before me and soon the chill in the air dissipated. I looked around and was amazed at what I saw in my mind’s eyes. The wood cookstove was fired up and the cabin filled with warmth. On the kitchen floor was a washtub filled with hot water where a teenaged girl had just soothed her aching muscles after her trek in the mountains. At the sound of the clank and clang of the gate, weary backpackers trudged down the walkway into the house to be relieved of their burdens and greeted with the aroma of meat and potatoes cooking on the old stove. After dropping their packs and other gear, some plunked down on the long wooden bench and rubbed their aching feet. Some backed up to the crackling fire under the watchful eyes of the old deer mount that surveyed the scene with the shifting eyes of a sentry. At another glance, I saw little girls sipping hot tea out of fancy teacups with their grandmother. The slam of the gate caught my attention again as kids ran in and out of it as they played. 

I think those who went through the gate just liked to hear that resonating tone, for you see, it signified something greater than just a clanging clanking noise. It symbolized hospitality, an ever-encouraging word, family, friends, love, laughter, and tales of life in the mountains. It meant safety, and protection from the rest of the world.

All too soon, it was time to go. The gate clapped one last time as it closed behind us. With one look back at the place in the mountains that had once teemed with life, I knew that on another day, we would make that journey again.

Though the green wooden gate no longer stands in the mountains, it remains a portal to a place of serenity, a place to recharge, and a place to visit in my memories when all else in the world seems wrong.