Montana

MONTANA

                                                                                                                                                                                by:  Teresa Thompson 

We pulled out of the driveway as I went over my “To-Do” list in my head, mentally checking off each item as completed.   Plants watered – check.   Pet-sitters lined up – check.   All small appliances turned off – check. Windows and doors closed and locked – check.  Being two months pregnant and driving for 4 1/2 hours from California to Vegas and finally to Montana wasn’t exactly the best of timing.  It was with this pregnancy that I discovered what morning sickness really was, only mine didn’t dissipate as the morning passed.  Mine was more a 24 hours a day sickness.  My head hurt and I constantly felt nauseous.  But this trip was to see my dad, and I’d do just about anything for my dad.

                For as long as I could remember, my dad has been my hero.  He grew up in the hills of the Appalachians where he gathered stories.  Stories of running wild through the hills and stepping on rattlesnakes bigger than him. Stories of “haunts” that would leave even the bravest of kids wide-eyed and unable to sleep.  Stories of loyal dogs with names like “Old Blue” that would take them out into the forest nights chasing down and treeing coons. His father – who was named Theodore Roosevelt Huff, worked for the railroad and would eventually move his family across the country to Laramie, Wyoming.  From there, as soon as he could, my dad joined the Marines.  Then, he was off to the South Pacific for more adventures and more stories.  My favorite was of he and a buddy finding a swimming  hole which gave some relief from the humidity and sweat.  While cooling off they were joined from the trees above by a very large snake of some kind.  And again, as the story goes, it was bigger than him.

                We were leaving early – around 5:00am, so there wasn’t much traffic to deal with.  We planned on arriving In Vegas around 9:00am, where we would meet up with my siblings to caravan to Montana.   

                

I grew up in Vegas.  In a house on Idle Avenue.  Friends and neighbors came and went through the years, but the Huffs, we stayed put.  Much to my chagrin, we stayed put.  I always dreamed of packing up our things in cardboard boxes like I’d seen so many neighbors do, and load them into cavernous moving vans that left the stink of diesel in the air.  We’d travel day and night across the nation, stopping at diners, meeting unusual characters along the way.  We’d finally arrive at our destination, a new house, where we’d all run inside and I’d call dibs on the room that would be mine.  I’d go to a new school and the teacher would introduce me as the new girl.  ALL the kids

would ooh and aah and want to be friends with me…the new kid.  But like I said, we stayed put.  5708 Idle Avenue. That was us.  Always and forever, that was us.  I’d never be the new kid.

                We arrived in Vegas and made our first stop at my brother, Jon’s house.   Jon is seven years younger than me, so as kids we really weren’t that close, but we’ve grown close over the years.  Jon is a younger replica of my dad so I of course, think he is pretty special.  He married well, and I always felt like his wife, Kelley, was more of a sister, than an in-law.  They have one daughter, Cassidy – very shy, but so sweet.   Kelley was sympathetic to my morning sickness, as she was pregnant as well.   We spent some time at Jon’s, resting, stretching our legs, and getting a bite before picking up my sister, Becky.   Becky, a single mom with two little boys, would travel in our vehicle with us.

                The wide open spaces of Wyoming, and the freedoms of running free through the Appalachian Hills became a part of who my dad was.  After coming home from the Marines, he worked as a Wyoming Highway Patrol motorcycle officer.  He loved his job, but was involved in a serious accident when a drunk driver hit him as he was pulling over yet another drunk driver.  I’m not sure what pushed him into taking a job with the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department.  But I do know this.  My dad may have lived in “Sin City”, the city that never sleeps, whatever you want to call it, but he wouldn’t be trapped by the city. 

Every weekend became a marvelous adventure for my big brother, Mike, and me.  Dad would load us into the  Toyota Land Cruiser and drive.  Drive out of the city, through the desert, sometimes towards the mountains, sometimes deeper into the desert.  He would drive until he saw some road winding up the side of a mountain that he hadn’t taken before.  Then we would drive up these long, forgotten roads to see where they took us.  Sometimes they would take us straight up a mountain and Mike and I would cling to the seats and squeal with excitement as we four-wheeled our way up roads that probably weren’t really roads.  

                

Anyone who knew my dad, knew that he believed you MUST carry water with you on every adventure.  This meant not only canteens of water on your person, but also bottles of water in your vehicle for emergencies.  He taught us how to find water out in the desert, in cactus, or even using divining rods to find water below the hot sand.  Now, I would venture to guess that at least once every couple of adventures we found others who needed our help.  Maybe it was the fact that our truck was a green Land Cruiser that looked like a ranger’s vehicle or maybe just the fact that my dad was always willing to stop and help someone in need.  Mike and I weren’t so willing.  It wasn’t always fun to find people in the middle of the desert who were hot and stinky and sweaty, needing our help.  We wanted to get where we were going.  This interfered with our adventures.  Also, they would usually be thirsty and we’d have to share our water with them.  It was an inconvenience then, but looking back, I imagine the sight of our green Land Cruiser coming from nowhere and being willing to stop, was the answer to many a prayer.          

                Our next stop was to pick up my sister, Becky, and her two sons, Max & Chaz.  We would all load into our minivan as we began our caravan.  At some point we also met up with my sister, Misty and her two boys.  Turns out, Misty was pregnant too.  Misery loves company, so we all “enjoyed” our morning sickness together.

                So, three vehicles started off on the next leg of our journey.  We would drive to Utah and stay with Kelley’s mom overnight.  We arrived pretty much worn out, but it was great to spend time with my family that I didn’t see near enough.  I loved watching my brother, Jon, interact with his daughter, Cassidy.  It reminded me of my dad and the time we spent together when I was young.

                My dad nicknamed me “Pooh” because of an obsession I had with Winnie the Pooh.  I doubt anyone else could have gotten away with calling me that, but my dad was my hero, so he could call me whatever he wanted.  One of my earliest memories I have of my dad is of me pretending to fall asleep on the couch while watching TV.  I knew that he would carry me to my bed if he thought I was asleep.  Somehow he knew I was pretending. 

                “Oh, look at that…Pooh has fallen asleep!   I don’t know though…she might just be playing possum!” 

    

                I thought the gig was up and was about to open my eyes and ask what it meant to “play possum”.  Then, I felt his giant hands picking me up and carrying me to my room.  I felt weightless, like if he let go of me, I might just float off into the night sky.

                My dad loved to sing, and, in his younger years, had quite a likeness to Elvis – so we grew up on Elvis.  Whenever we drove to visit family in Wyoming we would listen to the radio, waiting to hear Elvis or Marty Robbins.  Often, my dad would reach over and click the radio dial to off, then belt out his own version of the song.  I LOVED to hear my dad sing.  I was like his little groupie yelling out song requests from the back seat. 

                “Sing Hound Dog!   Sing Honey!   Sing Red River Valley!”  and although I was shy and can’t really carry a tune, I’d join in. 

                We woke up early, now refreshed and ready to finish our long drive to Montana.  My dad has been trying to get us all to Montana for years.  In actuality, if you asked my dad, he would tell you he’d like all his kids to move to Montana and have all of us build homes on his property.  That would have given him the perfect life.  Sadly, the long drive, careers that didn’t really allow vacation time, and little ones made it almost impossible.  All of us had young children which made the thought of a two day drive unbearable and turned it into something we’d do “when the kids were a little older.”  For most of us, that time had come and we would finally make that long-awaited trek. 

                The scenery was gorgeous at times, and excruciatingly boring at others.  I imagined the excitement my dad must have felt as he made this drive when he retired and left Las Vegas for the last time.  He had talked of moving to Montana for years.  I think the thought of finally retiring, buying a big patch of land, and spreading out in “big sky country” made the last few years in Vegas bearable.  Sometimes having a dream gives us that extra push.

                As we drove deeper into Montana I could see what my dad saw and why he loved it so much.  The air felt crisp and clear – fresh.  It did wonders for my 24-hour morning sickness.  I could picture my dad fishing in the deep, blue rushing rivers we passed and every time I pictured him, he had a giant smile – like a kid in a candy shop.  I imagined in a place like this he could easily walk for hours by this river and not see another soul.  The only thing that would make it better would be fishing with his kids.

                When I was a kid, we didn’t go to Disneyland, or SeaWorld, or the beach for our family vacations.  Our vacations involved loading the family into the car and driving to Wyoming to visit our grandparents, aunts & uncles, and cousins.  There were consistencies with every trip.  We always left early – real early – 3 am early.  This, for me was amazing.  To be awake in the middle of the night, when other children are all sound asleep and dreaming, was a great start for an adventure.  My brother, Mike, took advantage of the darkness in the car, and whispered scary stories in the back seat.  The one I remember most is a story of gargoyles who would see a car and run after it.  The scary part was that gargoyles can actually run faster than a car – a little known fact.  Mike told me that if I didn’t believe him, I could look behind our car and see if I didn’t see the glowing, red eyes of a gargoyle as it chased us.   Darned if I didn’t always see the glowing, red eyes every time.  The sun rising, all orange and yellow, like a popsicle, was the only thing that could save us from the gargoyles.  They always vanished with the daylight, probably slinking back off to desert caves where their eyes could keep glowing red.

                With the daylight, we could now see the Joshua Tree cactus and the green of chaparral plants.  My grandpa Huff had raised his family on old home remedies that would “cure whatever ails you.”  One of these remedies was “chaparral tea”.  My dad would pull off to the side of the road, hand each of us a brown, paper grocery bag, and we would harvest the chaparral.  Grasping a branch, you would then pull toward you, ending up with a handful of the tiny chaparral leaves.  You would drop it into your bag and do it again, and again, and again.  It had a very distinct smell, not a bad smell, to me it almost smelled like the desert after it rained.  That smell would stay on your hands and permeate the car for weeks.  The chaparral also left your hands an interesting greenish, yellowish color.  When we got to Wyoming, my dad would boil the chaparral leaves in my grandparent’s small kitchen, until it became an unappetizingly brownish liquid.  He would strain the leaves and hand the first steaming cups to my grandma and grandpa.  It was only a matter of time before their indigestion vanished and their aching, arthritic joints felt some relief. 

                I tried chaparral tea once…and only once.  It definitely didn’t taste like the fresh smell of rain.  I figured once I got old enough to need it, I’d give it another try.  We were also raised on Sayman’s Salve.  Nothing unusual about that except that my dad knew how to make it more “effective.”  He would add pine sap, and other ancient family secret ingredients.  Anytime we had a cut or scrape, it was slathered with this sticky, gooey, brown salve.  If the chaparral tea or the enriched Sayman’s Salve didn’t help, there was always the soothing qualities of cayenne pepper.   My dad, convinced that it would prolong your life, would put a heaping tablespoon or two of cayenne pepper into a glass of tomato juice and drink the concoction daily.  I tried that once (and only once) also.

                After picking bags and bags of chaparral tea, we would load back into the car and continue on our journey.  We didn’t eat out very often, so being able to buy food on the road was a great adventure.  Usually our adventure involved a giant, family-sized bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.  Mike and I, like ravenous little wolves, would devour huge amounts of the greasy, fried chicken.  Almost like clockwork, by the time we arrived in Wyoming, I had a raging case of car sick.  My grandma thought I was a sickly little thing, and would make a giant meal (even though it was usually about 9:00pm) of sausage, bacon, country gravy and hash brown potatoes.  She was convinced I was so sick because I wouldn’t eat. 

I usually felt better the next morning and we would spend the day, resting and visiting with family we hadn’t seen for a year.  After that, we would load up cars and trucks and head out for the Snowy Range, where we would hike to pristine fishing holes, pulling rainbow or brook trout out as easy as pie.

Our little caravan finally reached our destination.  We pulled into a parking space and took a deep breath.  We walked into the church building, shook hands and introduced ourselves to the various people who were there to greet us.  One of these people took us to see my dad.  My dad had tried for so long to get his kids to Montana, now we were finally here.  My dad was a giant of a man in so many ways.  He was tall and strong, with giant hands that engulfed mine when I was little.  But he was a giant in so many other ways as well.  He was full of love for his kids, and would have walked to the ends of the earth for them.  He had a forgiving heart and never held a grudge.  I could call my dad with a problem, so angry with someone, and by the time I hung up, I was happy, positive, and able to move past any problem.

We had all finally made it to Montana.  I knew somewhere my dad was smiling to have all his children there with him again.  I also knew there was now a void in this world, and most people didn’t even realize that there was something missing.  A big, gaping hole my dad left when he moved on.

I realized as it was my turn to visit my dad’s casket, and say my final goodbyes, that this gentle giant I loved so much was gone in body only.  His spirit had moved on to a place more suited for him.  But the love, the memories, the things that he taught me throughout my life would always remain with me. 

Vegas Fireworks

The nights in Vegas don’t cool down.  The air is still hot.  You know how it feels to open an oven to check on cookies?  Your face sizzles a little and it takes your breath away?  THAT kind of hot.  I always worried a little that the air was so hot that maybe the box of fireworks we’d purchase every year would just spontaneously combust.  (They never did.) 

It would warm a kid’s heart when the old, wooden firework stands would start popping up on empty lots around town. The day would come to purchase our fireworks and Dad seemed to know the best fireworks to choose.  We didn’t usually buy the pre-packaged sets. 

“Don’t forget sparklers, Dad!  Oh…and don’t forget snakes!”   These items were appetizers for the bigger cones and rockets that would create the “grand finale.”

One year, Dad bought a spinning contraption called “The Catherine Wheel” that required nailing it to a fence or tree (or something stable.)  My dad didn’t want to destroy our tree, so he nailed it in just a little bit.  Once lit, it began to spin, shooting out sparks and colored flames as it spun around and around, faster and faster.  It was magical and mesmerizing. It was like watching a spinning hypnosis wheel. We all watched in awe and then in shock, as it had enough of that tree and flew off with a life of its own.  The spinning momentum carried it across the yard, straight for my little sister, Becky.  She screamed and ran as this flaming, spinning creature seemed to chase her around the yard. I think the Catherine Wheel we purchased that year was possessed or had a mind of its own. It seemed to “chase” Becky no matter where she ran.  She zigged and zagged and serpentined, but to no avail. Finally, the Catherine Wheel sputtered and stopped and dramatically fell over. Leaving little Becky shaking and sobbing, but still alive.

The bottle rockets and cones were carefully positioned in the middle of the asphalt street. The asphalt was still hot from the triple digit weather.  The driveway was just right, so we’d sit on the driveway as bugs circled the streetlight above, chased by small, black bats. My dad would light the dangerous fireworks (allowing the bigger kids to light them if they so desired.)  I liked sitting on the warm driveway, lighting the little black tabs that grew to be 4^th of July snakes or writing my name in cursive in the air with multi-colored sparklers. It would really get exciting when a big firework appeared to be a “dud.”  My dad and the braver siblings would stand around trying everything they could to get the uncooperative firework to do it’s thing. The worrier in me showed up even then.

“No Dad…just leave it…it’s okay.  We don’t need it to work.”  but he never seemed to hear my pleas.

They would stand around holding a match right up to the cone, trying to revive it, like fireworks CPR.

I imagined it going off, burning faces, blowing off fingers, all of the horror stories you hear every year around the 4^th…   But, luckily, that never happened.  It would sputter and spark and my dad would yell, “Out of the way…it’s working!”  and it would sputter and cough and spit out some sparks.  Sometimes, it stayed quiet and we would sadly lament the loss of a cone so full of hope and potential. 

As I grew up and moved away from Vegas, we would attend fireworks shows.  Beautiful displays that would fill the sky accompanied by big, loud booms that you could feel in your chest. Some are even set to music that coincides with the bursting flowers of fire in the night sky.  I love the major firework shows, but there is something about the excitement of buying your own fireworks and the anticipation of the grand display you’ll put on in the middle of the street. Next year I might buy some snakes and sparklers. I’ll write my name in cursive and remember those hot, summer nights of fireworks, family, and yes, even the occasional dud.