Category: Adventures with family

I was going through some old family files and ran across an interesting tidbit.  A little notebook riddled with bits and pieces of writing caught my eye. Two small pages contained a “Statement by Chet Huntley at Montana Centennial Dinner in Washington D. C., April 17, 1964.”

So it was that Chet Huntley, the famed newscaster from Montana, gave the introductory remarks at the Montana Centennial Dinner. After a few opening remarks and one “bunkhouse story,” he continued his speech with picturesque words that proved his familiarity and admiration for the State of his birth and growing up years. It was almost he offered a challenge.

“Have you ever stood on the platform of the depot in Whitehall and watched the North Coast Limitied snake down the eastern abutment of the Continental Divide into Pipestone and on into the Whitehall block with Pete Ross, Ramblin’ Jack Wolverton, or Jim Berry at the Throttle?”

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“Have you ever sung the music of Montana names: Choteau, Cascade, Missoula, Pend O’Reille, Big Horn, Carbon, Sweetgrass, Stillwater, Silver Bow, and Glacier? Roundup, Little Butte, Judith Gap, Harlowton, Armington, Spion Kop, Great Falls? And the ridiculous little name of Two Dot?” 

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“The Belts and Little Belts, Bitterroots and Tobacco Roots, Big Horns and Absarokees, the Crazies and the Little Rockies? Do you know Deer Lodge, Red Lodge, or Lodgegrass, Plentywood, Scobey, Cutbank, Boulder, Ekalaka, Glendive, Kalispell, Big Timber or Niehart?”

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“Have you ever seen dawn at the Gates of the Mountains or listened to the morning call of a meadowlark in a Lewiston wheatfield?” “Have you ever seen the Crazies by moonlight or have you gathered stardust from Hegben or Flathead?”

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“These are some of the experiences, and places and names that bind us together, for we know them intimately and we can feel that they are ours.”

This portion of Huntley’s speech can be heard at:

https://soundcloud.com/montana-historical-society/chet-huntleys-montana

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I did something very brave today – not because I wanted to, but because I knew if I didn’t act quick, I would face a more undesirable situation. It wasn’t something as simple as jumping out of a perfectly good airplane and skydiving through the air. No, it was much worse. I came face to face with a beady eyed snake. Now anyone who knows me, knows I don’t like snakes (or spiders for that matter). I had no other choice. There was no one to come to my rescue. I didn’t even have my phone to call anyone.

As I came in the side door at my dad’s house, I saw the offensive ophidian. (That word even sounds offensive, doesn’t it?) Did you know snakes are prolific at climbing stairs and they don’t even have any legs? Well, that black and gray snake’s head was above the top step and he was about to pull its curved body onto the floor. I said, “Oh no you don’t!” But what was I going to do? I had to act quick. I knew if I went for help, that critter would be hiding under something and scare the bejeebees out of me whenever I got back.

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There was no other option. I ran up the steps and grabbed the first stick-looking contraption I could find, slid it under one of his coils and headed down the steps, and said, “Don’t you dare jump off this stick!” Can you guess what happened? You got it! That critter jumped off the stick and slithered to the edge of the top of the steps that led to the basement. 

I was on the verge of saying a bad word, but I didn’t. Instead, I told that slippery slimy creature, “You’re not getting away”, and then, stick still in hand, I hit it. Now don’t judge me! I didn’t bash its head, I just hit it on the backside and smushed it’s fat body in the crack between the step and the door. Then, I put the stick under the offensive serpent, lifted him carefully, and tossed him into the yard. I said, “You’d better get out of here fast or you are toast!” He looked at me with those beady eyes but didn’t say a word, nor did he even stick his forked tongue out. He slithered away with a kink in his belly, moving very slowly. 

I didn’t wait around. Instead, I made a quick getaway and went to the neighbors’ house and told them my tale. There was grand applause, and I took a bow. Now, I am not a master at snake handling, nor do I want to accomplish that feat. 

They had the nerve to ask, “How big was it?” What kind of question is that? It was huge! If I would have had a talking measuring tape, I’m sure it would have lied and said that six-foot snake was merely two feet long. As soon as I took my husband over to verify that it was not just a tall tale, the limbless slitherer slipped away into the woods. It’s a good thing my husband didn’t see it all stretched out like I did. He might deny my claims, but don’t listen to him. Just take my word for it!

The morning was perfect – a cool breeze tickled the wind chimes, and birds flitted here and there. I opened the windows to let the cool morning air into the house.

As I sat down at the piano, my song was joined by a bird singing harmony. A male house finch with his bright red chest puffed out, sang from the top of his little bird voice box. He flew away whistling his tune. A black crested chickadee added its soft percussion rhythm, along with the humming of doves’ wings as they took to the sky. The wind blew through the trees and shrubs and the roses danced. It seemed as if all creation joined in praise of a glorious day!

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After a few unseasonably warm days, the temperature dropped. The roses that had started to bloom were hit by a hard freeze. Flowers drooped, petals shriveled, and green leaves turned brown. For weeks I wondered if they would pull through.

If you saw my roses now, you would never know the trauma they experienced. They are absolutely gorgeous, the bushes full and the blossoms vibrant. When I look at the roses, I see more than just pretty sweet-smelling flowers. I see seasons of life. 

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Green leaves appear as the first indication of life. Soon, small buds make their entrance. When they begin to open, as if giving birth, life emerges. Each layer of petals folds back into its prime. All too quickly, they succumb to time and the blossoms fade. Rain, age, and wind causes them to release their velvety garments, leaving behind an empty hull as testimony to life that was once there.

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For every flower that falls, it seems a new bud pushes forth from the deep-rooted stems. Even after the season has gone and the roses enter a stage of dormancy, there is hope that life will return. 

Life always finds a way.

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A variety of factors have influenced the way the English language is spoken by many Southerners. In some regions, the accent is so thick you can almost cut it with a knife. Just because the speech is slow, that in no way should be interpreted as a sign of ignorance or of being uneducated, which is the stereotype often pinned.

I know Southerners who have to talk in a slow southern drawl because their words grow longer with all the added syllables. People in other areas of the country have been known to mock the Southern accent while others are mesmerized and say, “Talk some more,” just because they are so entranced with the tranquilizing drawl.

I will admit there is something comforting to hear an older proper Southern lady linger over every elongated vowel and drop her r’s in her slow-as-molasses words. They can get by with saying anything, especially when they add, “Well, bless her heart.” Don’t dismiss the younger gals either. I would guess that many a northern lad has found himself melted and entrapped by the accent of a Southern belle with a slow, sweet, drawn-out drawl. 

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When my son started kindergarten, he was enrolled in a private facility. The teacher was a sweet Southern lady that dripped honey when she talked. One day when my little boy came home from school, I asked him, “Did you have a good day? Did you make new friends?” Yes, he made a new friend. I asked, “What’s his name?” He responded, “His name is Jeremi.” I said, “Oh, you mean Jeremiah.” “No, his name is Jeremi.” “I think it’s really Jeremiah.” He gave an emphatic NO. “No, my teacher said it was Jeremi.” I asked if he knew how to spell it. I spelled the boy’s name and said, “That is Jeremiah.” He argued, “But my teacher said it was Jeremi.” I then explained that his teacher was a sweet little Southern lady with a Southern drawl and that was just the way she talked. At that time, I wondered how I would get my little boy to learn the English language.

Now, some of you might laugh at that, but some of you folks pahk your cah. Some of you can’t say egg, but rather you say ag. Some can’t say agriculture but say eggraculture. Some of you fine folks go to the crik instead of a creek, and get a creek in your neck instead of a crick. Some eat peecan pie. Some live in Ne-Vah-duh instead of Ne-VAD-uh, or in Colo-rad-oh instead of Colo-rod-oh.

Just sayin’….

I remember my first long trip to the Northwest. That was an unforgettable experience for several reasons. For one, the car was jam packed with kids, so I rode in the back window for a good bit of the trip. Of course, I was the one who fit that space best. That was memorable enough, but it also offered a great view of the sky and the landscape. The changing scenery fascinated me. The further west we went, I noticed big black spots that moved over the open countryside. I soon discovered those dark patches were shadows from the clouds.

Somewhere along our westward road, in Missouri, we took a side trip to visit Crystal Cave. We went into the dank, musty, dark cave. I sensed darkness lurking in the far recesses and corners, yet the darkness could not snuff out the lights that illuminated our path. As we went further into the belly of the cavern, it opened up into a big room. It may have been just a little girl’s imaginary recollections, but I remember rickety wooden steps that went down, down, down. Our guide told us stories of the Indians who one time frequented the cave. My imagination took over as I noticed drawings on the cave walls and thought of what it would be like in complete darkness. I was scared! My daddy picked me up and carried me. It did not matter how dark the cave was or how unsteady the path, I felt safe in his arms.

On our journey of life, we often experience dangerous days and stormy dark nights that threaten to expel the light. Those times may cast shadows, but they do not rule over the day. The weight of darkness can be thick, and oppressing. Yet, a ray of light ever so small penetrates the black of night and shatters the obsidian shroud that closes in around us. 

.. and the light shone out of darkness..

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