Category: Adventures with family

As I walked up the path, the roar of the river echoed through the canyon. Even from that distance, I could feel the cold spray of water from the falls that plummeted to the riverbed below. It was overwhelming to see the massive power of the torrent from the flood waters that pushed its way through the cliffs, spilled over its banks and spread out in the valley below swallowing up ranches and homes. Just watching the scene demanded respect of the brutal force of nature. It was easy to see how canyons were carved and waterways cut new courses. 

According to the news, a “significant amount of rainfall” caused snowpack in the Beartooth and Absaroka mountains to melt rapidly. The head waters of the Yellowstone River released its deluge as it tumbled down the mountain merging with other swollen streams and rivers to create an unstoppable force of power. 

Just days before, outdoor enthusiasts rafted those same rivers, but as the water rose, it ripped bridges from their pilings, pulled homes from their foundations, uprooted trees, sent debris rushing downstream, stripped people of their livelihood, demolished towns, and left a swath of destruction for hundreds of miles. New records of unprecedented flooding were being set as the old were washed away. 

Time seemed to stand still in the presence of the awesome power of the thundering falls that exploded into the river below. Billowing clouds of water shot upward and spewed spray across the canyon. The devouring river rushed onward through the valley. As I turned to walk away, a soft mist fell lightly on my face. I was still in amazement to have witnessed history being carved in time.

“Belt!” I pointed to the sign then pointed to the left. My husband made no indication that he was going to turn. “Belt”, I said again. He said, “Yes, the Little Belts.” Emphatically I pointed again to the sign and said, “Belt, turn here.” We made a quick left-hand turn and almost immediately the road seemed to disappear beneath Belt Butte.

We descended to the valley on a curvy road. The little town of Belt, Montana was just before us. We slowed as we entered the little town, passing the historic jail that now serves as a museum, and the Belt Valley Grocery with the parking area lined with potted plants for flower beds and gardens.  “There it is! There’s the Harvest Moon Saloon where we are going to have lunch.” We parked in front of the saloon and hopped out of the car. Though the town is not big in size, it is abundant in character. I was fascinated with the old buildings that revealed the architecture of the Finnish and Slavic emigrants who first settled there when the town sprang up. There is a certain air about those small western towns that seems to defy time.

When we entered the saloon, it was just as I imagined. Locals, I guess, sat at the bar spinning their yarns and talking loudly. Upon seeing us, a spry little lady who ran the joint admonished one of the men, “Watch your language! Do you think you’re in a bar or something?” We sat at a table and the lady greeted us with menus and a hello. The whole time we were there, she ran back and forth from the dining area to the grill area to the bar. I took in the whole scene before me – the people, the old relics, the newer technology available, the dim rooms, the neon signs, the old, clouded windows. 

At one time, Belt was a coal mining town, the first in the state of Montana. They supplied fuel to Fort Benton, the smelter at Great Falls, powered locomotives of the Great Northern Railway, and heated homes throughout Central Montana. Just as quickly as the town grew, it came to an abrupt halt when other fuel sources became readily available. Yet, the small town never gave up. The people of Belt, as well as the town itself, have survived the years. From a population of 4000 in the 1890’s during its heyday to a population of 564 in 2020, the town has endured. They found other ways to secure their place in living history. Being in grain country and fed by some of the country’s finest water from the Madison Aquifer, it has become a prime brewing place for makers of craft beers. Belt jail was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1980, and the main section of town was listed in 2004. That continues to draw visitors into the quaint town – including us. 

Belt Butte with its dark “belt” of sandstone around its middle, draws travelers’ attention as they pass that way. Not only is the town of Belt named for the butte, but also Belt Creek, and the Little Belt and Big Belt Mountains. Had we not taken the time to turn off the main road, we would certainly have missed another of Montana’s hidden treasure, the little town of Belt, Montana.

I walked into the room and a little voice said, “Hi, Maga.” She got up from the chair, turned and looked at me. Immediately I noticed a red place on her cheek. “What happened? Did you fall?” She said, “Yes. Mama said you had something here for my face.”

When I questioned her about her little accident, her voice got quieter. She wrung her hands together and was quite distracted with the tv and the others in the room looking her way. Every square inch of her wiggled every which direction just like a can of worms as she tried to tell her story. I took her hand and we walked into another room. As I sat down to be on her level, I pulled her close and finally got the story of her misadventure.

She was trying to jump on a little chair that sits by the piano (which she knows not to do). When she fell, she bumped the arm of the chair with her face and then hit the piano bench just barely missing her eye. I think there will be a bruise left behind to go with the swelling and the squinty eye.

When she finished her story, I hugged her tight and said, “What did your mom say I had for your eye?” She couldn’t remember what her mom said, so I said, “Go ask her.” The little girl ran off and was soon back. “Well, what was it?”  “Mama said you would have some sympathy for my eye.” 

Well, her mom was right. I had no trouble giving her some sympathy for her eye even before I knew I had such a magic potion. A dose of sympathy sure goes a long way! 

After another big hug and a mug of hot chocolate with two big marshmallows, she was off again. 

My little granddaughter is full of life. She has her own back yard adventures. Not long ago, she learned to ride a bike, and she has mastered it. There are stickers all over the bike and clips of some sort on the wheels. The basket on the front of the Pepto Bismol pink bike holds treasures. Along with dolls and other trinkets, she has a new addition – a Motown magic karaoke microphone. If you see a flash of pink wearing boots, and hear the classic Motown tunes in the wind, it might just be my two-wheeling, hair-bobbing, Motown singing granddaughter. I imagine to this little girl (as well as her grandmother), she sounds like the real thing.

If dancers or gymnasts are performing on TV, it’s not long before a little girl is twirling and sliding across the floor, doing cartwheels, or attempting flips in front of us as she imagines herself gracefully performing on the grandest stage of the world. I feel a twinge inside of me wanting to join in her dance with no cares or inhibitions.

Just the other day I watched in awe as skaters at the Skating National Championships glided gracefully over the ice. They twirled and did flips, loops, and other jumps as they were judged on their skills and artistic interpretations. As I watched the skaters, I almost imagined myself moving effortlessly across the ice, every motion fluid and elegant. Little girls are not the only ones with dreams.

As I watch my granddaughter I wonder, does she see herself as the most graceful dancer, a mirror image of what she has seen performed? Does she hear herself as the best singer as she belts out the sounds of Diana Ross, The Temptations or Smokey Robinson? Does she feel the cool air from the surface of the ice rink as she glides on her skates like Michelle Kwan? Maybe so, and I hope she never stops dreaming.

I tell you, My Girl has Really Got a Hold on Me!

I have seen worn out blankets, teddy bears without eyes, bald headed dolls, limbless stuffed animals, and other items that are loved beyond belief. Those treasures held by others are of little significance to anyone else. In fact, if I feel sick or tossed by waves of nostalgia or sentimentality, I still cover up with my quilt made by my grandmother and my old, patched teddy bear with a floppy neck made by my mother. Somehow, those riches bring me comfort. 

It was common to find miniature pillowcases or tricot scraps laying around our house. All the kids in the extended family received the coveted pillowcases made by their grandmother. For my kids, it was more than a cover for a miniature pillow, it was a security blanket. The cases were rarely on a pillow at all. Rather, they were usually crumpled up in a little fist and dragged through the house or across the dirt in the yard. 

One day, there was an emergency – not the kind when you call 9-1-1. It was more serious than that. All the pillowcases and remnants of tricot were dirty. I washed them and hung them on the line to dry. My little boy was a bit agitated and almost in a state of withdrawals. I tried to divert his attention by sending him outside to play. Every few minutes I peeked out the window to check on him. When he disappeared from view, I went out and looked for him. At the side of the house, there under the clothesline, was a little boy. His hand was lifted up holding on to a corner of a long narrow strip of unsewn tricot, thumb in mouth. He gripped the wadded up cloth tightly as if holding on for dear life. Had I not known better, I would have thought I stepped into a Charlie Brown comic strip with Linus clinging to his security blanket. 

It wasn’t just my son who was attached to his tattered worn pillowcases. My daughter suffered from the same addiction, and yes, it also served as a pacifier. One day the kids and I went shopping with a friend and her little boy. I pushed the stroller with an irritable little girl in it as we went from store to store. Her whine turned into a cry. There was one way to put a stop to that.

I unsnapped the diaper bag and reached in to get her pillowcase. Uh-oh! It wasn’t there. That was trouble! A crying child can disturb the whole community with their wailing. I happened to be wearing a skirt that day, so I stepped behind a rack of clothing, jerked off my half-slip, and handed it to the crying toddler. Immediately her little hand clutched a corner of the case, and in a matter of seconds, she was content and sucking her thumb. We averted disaster that day!

The grown-ups of the family were about as testy as the kids about a missing pillowcase, full size, of course. Some of my siblings, myself included, still use those wondrous, cool, soft pillowcases made from tricot. Recently while rummaging through some of my mother’s fabric scraps, I found some of the coveted fabric, several pieces bigger than scraps. Those remnants were divided amongst us in hopes of having pillowcases for many years to come. 

Now I wouldn’t say I might get a bit testy, but I will say, “Don’t touch my pillowcase!”

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