Chaz On Ice
“Dogs and angels are not very far apart.” Charles Bukowski
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Songs :: Are You Going With Me by Pat Metheny Group, Goodbye by Steve Earle, Move On Up by Curtis Mayfield, and Blue Horizon by Graham Parker
© C. Davidson
Solving for X
1 + 1 = 3 :: Image Inspired by Paul Rand
Most of my favorite academic memories from junior high school, high school, college, and grade school, usually involve art, choir, theater, or gym. I wasn’t as interested in science, biology, history, chemistry, or math, so any moments involving those subjects are much hazier. I enjoyed English and Algebra though and especially liked listening to the instructor explain algebraic equations and neatly resolve them on the chalkboard. He cared about precision and the perfect single solution in the end. I didn’t like studying math and struggled when I needed to prove I understood the hardest algebraic problems on a test. I was impatient and scattered and looked forward to the answers, but I enjoyed the process the most.
My dad didn’t appreciate my view of algebra. In addition to being a gifted architect and water colorist, he was an accomplished engineer who could calculate spans and loads in his head. We usually talked about architecture and painting, not engineering, unless he asked me about the deck I was building. When an idiosyncratic form was prominent in one of his buildings, or if it was sited in an unusual way, he framed it first by function and engineering. If we talked long enough though, he’d eventually describe how the light raked across the textured concrete at the airport terminal he designed, or the deep warmth of the reclaimed barnwood he used for various interiors, or how the two-story wall of glass, divided by fifteen square panes in the Scott House brought the outside inside.
Many years later when I was required to take micro and macroeconomics classes in college, I didn’t study hard enough to reiterate perfect answers on the written tests but loved the lectures in Linfield Hall. When I mentioned that I enjoyed economics to my dad while visiting during winter break one year, he was surprised. He was surprised because he knew I hadn’t enjoyed math classes in the past. I explained that these economics courses were more about trends, human behavior and storytelling than math—like psychology and literature.
Long before that when I was in grade school, I had a crush on my third-grade teacher Ms. Thomas. So did my best friend and we looked for opportunities to clean the chalkboards and straighten-up the classroom. One late November afternoon, she asked me to stay after school to help her decorate the large cork pin-up boards with various holiday symbols and silhouettes. They were made from a variety of colored construction paper that she’d already prepared. After we removed everything she had put up for Thanksgiving, I began by pinning up four red 18” x 3” vertical strips to represent candles, with separate yellow almond shapes above them to indicate the flames. After I’d neatly pinned them up and moved on to another part of the board, she walked over and gently mentioned the rule of three, and five, and how asymmetry and odd numbers are often more visually interesting and dynamic than even numbers, so I removed one. I’ve never forgotten it. I imagined sending her a thank you note for teaching me that but never did. I would have added that fifteen years after that afternoon with her, a design professor drew two identical black vertical shapes with an identical white space between them and told us 1 + 1 = 3. They were both right because three is still significantly better.
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“Childhood is an empty space, like the beginning of the world.” Anselm Kiefer
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For the Teachers
Songs :: These Days by Jackson Browne, Everything In Its Right Place by Brad Mehldau Trio, I Was Young When I Left Home and Trust Yourself by Bob Dylan, and Keep On Doin’ It by Tom Scott & The L.A. Express
© C. Davidson
Harder to Build Than to Burn :: [Supplemental]
Landing
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“I want to say to our Republican colleagues: Pay attention. We're here today in the hopes that you will see the light. But if you do not see the light, we will bring the fire. Resist.” REP. AYANNA PRESSLEY
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“I imagine it as a chilling final turn of the plot. His world is coming to an end. he will never have another good day. The loser label will haunt him. The law will pursue him. mental illness will hobble him. His properties will bankrupt him.” Peter Marks
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Songs :: Break the Chain, Ohio, and Revolution Blues by Neil Young & Crazy Horse, Sabotage by Beastie Boys, and It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding) by Bob Dylan
© C. Davidson
Rice Creek
Rice Creek :: Milky Way Image–NASA
The gravel road followed the edge of the woods for a couple of miles. The trees were a mix of white pine, spruce, aspen, and maple, and even at dusk the snowy spaces between them flickered while we drove through. We exited onto a downhill and into a long meandering meadow that Rice Creek ran through. The road eventually flattened out and crossed the creek through a covered wooden bridge then crawled back up the other side. It was picturesque and made me think of the Bridges of Madison County story because covered bridges are uncommon here. It was dark enough that the string lights outlining the large openings on each end, the corners, and the eaves just below the shingles shimmered.
When it got dark the sky was mostly stars. Out there it looked like an image from the James Webb Space Telescope. Everything was in high resolution and the Milky Way felt close and luminescent. If you knew where to look, the disk of Andromeda was probably visible too. This is the biggest reason I imagine living in the country, away from the city haze. It’s easy to get used to the lights and black sky in town, but when I’m out there, I’m reminded that we’re part of something huge and overwhelming. What comforts me is that these stars are the same stars we saw with our daughter night skiing on Burntside Lake near Ely many years earlier, or when I midnight hiked with a friend in the Little Belt Mountains four decades before that.
It was early evening by the time we settled in. We ate our dinner of pulled pork, corn bread, beans and greens under a thick couch quilt and started a long movie. The cabin had electric baseboard heat, but we preferred the wood stove and kept it crackling and snapping all evening. There had only been a handful of times before this that our dog had the opportunity to lay on flagstone in front of a wood burning stove. He was so warm I was surprised his short fawn fur didn’t ignite. He'd already eaten so he only got up to drink a couple of times during the evening and go outside to relive himself twice. Besides that, he only moved so I could load more wood. When we woke in the morning there were still glowing embers and he had since relocated to the couch and the quilt. After our lazy breakfast, lounging, and a lazy lunch, we spent the afternoon walking through the woods and playing fetch on miles of trails that had been cleared by a snowmobile.
Songs :: Always Returning by Brian Eno, Home by Bonnie Raitt, Satellites by Rickie Lee Jones, Buckets of Rain by Bob Dylan, and Sands of Time by Fleetwood Mac
© C. Davidson
2024 Ritual Burn :: [Supplemental]
There is a bird and a stone in your body. Your job is not to kill the bird with the stone. Victoria Chang, From “Love Letters,” The Trees Witness Everything
Songs :: It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding) by Bob Dylan, Don’t Give Up by Peter Gabriel, and Higher Ground by Stevie Wonder
© C. Davidson
Maine
Cadillac Mountain
Northwest Montana has huckleberries and cherries, Florida has oranges and bananas, Hawaii and Oregon seem to have everything, and I discovered Maine is known for blueberries. Recently a friend of my wife gave us peaches she grew locally. I didn’t know peaches could be grown here but they can, and they were exceptional, so I ate two. If a climate has a growing season at all, or a greenhouse, and someone tries hard enough, fruit can be grown almost anywhere.
I’d imagined visiting Maine since I was a kid. I don’t remember why I thought about Maine so much. We didn’t have family there or any ancestral roots as far as I knew, but it always felt like a place I’d like. The geography looked familiar with the perfect merge of sprawling forests and island range mountains like where I grew up, but different because it flanks an ocean. Around this same time, I discovered images of New Zealand and decided that was another place I wanted to visit, or live, because it looked familiar too. The landscape was magical, especially panoramas of Milford Sound. Our daughter lived and worked on a farm in Kati Kati on the north island during her spring break one year, so I learned a little about their culture and daily life through some of her stories.
We flew to Maine three summers ago for my wife’s aunt’s birthday and mini family reunion. We spent most of our time in and around Bar Harbor with big ocean views, good food, biking, hikes to Bar Island at low tide and on the grippy granite of Cadillac Mountain. A few from our group even saw Martha Stewart and her entourage walking through the nearby arboretum. I was taking a nap at the hotel that afternoon, so I missed her. Along with blueberries, there’s a lot of talk about lobster in Maine as well. It’s on the menu in most bars and restaurants like The Lobster Pound, or a quieter place like where we were. It’s a frequent ingredient in rolls, salads, and pastas, or the entire thing can be steaming on a plate. Eating them whole is messy and complicated, so it requires plastic bibs, paper towels, and special utensils. During her birthday dinner, no one had the entire thing on their plate. Our long table was covered with a white cloth, entrees, baskets of bread, olives, cheese, cocktails, clusters of flickering candles, blueberries, with overlapping conversations, and my wife’s aunt sitting next to me.
For Hyang Ja
Songs :: Hejira by Joni Mitchell, Embryonic Journey by Jefferson Airplane, Home At Last by Steely Dan, and Big Light by Houses
© C. Davidson
W i n t e r W h e a t :: [Supplemental]
Songs :: Rock My Soul by Elvin Bishop, Copperline by James Taylor, The Wind by Cat Stevens, and I Remember Everything by John Prine
© C. Davidson
A Canopy of Trees
Maui Hideout
After decades of marriage, we finally made time for a honeymoon and found ourselves elevated high above the jungle floor because our rental was built on piers. The ground below us sloped through the trees towards open pasture and volcanic beaches. It felt like an exotic, well-appointed tree house with a view of the ocean and the hazy profile of Moloka’i. I’d never been to Hawaii before. My wife had, friends and relatives had told me about their vacations, adventures on mopeds and even a yearlong residence in Honolulu. After our arrival in Kahului on Maui, we picked up our rental car, some dinner, groceries for our stay, and headed to the Airbnb not far off the Hana Highway. We parked in the designated pullout, grabbed all our stuff, and followed the narrow jungle path across a small red bridge lit with string lights. We dropped everything off and explored the place before discovering a red dirt road that led to a lush green meadow, strong warm winds, and cows that greeted us at the fence line. It was getting dark, and the shore was very rugged, so we stopped where we were and soaked in the view.
The next afternoon we drove to the town of Makawao in Upcountry on the northwest slope of Haleakala and wandered through the small shops, found lunch and a spot to eat that looked towards the ocean. Regardless of how close it was, whether waves lapped at our feet, or we snorkeled in it, or it was just a distant silver band, the ocean always framed everything. I looked inward too—into the dense jungle, the waterfall pools my wife swam in, and the black sand beach that glittered like diamond dust.
After we finished our lunch, we wandered through town a bit more, spent time in a glass gallery and then drove higher up the slope passing through pastures spotted with black volcanic boulders, pineapple fields, tropical flowers, and palm tree groves. The steep road eventually switch-backed through the clouds until we reached the summit. After parking and reading signs about the climate and geology, we hiked a mile into the caldera before turning around because we remembered what the park ranger had said about hiking in this vast landscape at ten thousand feet. The crater is eleven to three miles wide on average and the trail gradually descends two-thousand feet. Sometimes tourists wearing flip flops and board shorts underestimate the distance, altitude, and their fitness and hike five or six miles in, then become stranded and need to be rescued because they can’t make it back out.
Maui is comprised of two shield volcanoes, and we were on top of the biggest one. When we spoke with the ranger about its geology, I asked him if there was a threat they could explode someday like Mount Saint Helens did. He said it’s unlikely they’d ever become active in our lifetime and if they did, they wouldn’t explode, they’d ooze. After a few hours in the caldera and on the summit, we drove back down and stopped at a botanical garden where the smells were thick like pollen. We explored it for a while and ended our day with dinner in Haliimaile and the Country Store—a large one-and-a-half story converted warehouse with wood floors and a large front porch. It came into existence because of the pineapple plantations that surround it and to serve the workers who lived nearby. It was past dusk, and the horizon was electric orange like there were distant fires somewhere. At our table, my wife’s face was lit by a cluster of candles next to a large mason jar full of yellow hibiscus flowers, like the ones we’d been seeing for days.
For Lahaina
Songs :: Lahaina by Loggins and Messina, Waterfront by Simple Minds, A Case of You by Joni Mitchell, Hot Sun by Wilco, and Gimme Shelter covered by Patti Smith
© C. Davidson
Expecting Too Much :: [Supplemental]
Songs :: Tangled Up In Blue by Bob Dylan, Thank You for Sending Me an Angel by Blondshell, Let’s Start by Fela Kuti
© C. Davidson
A Small Amount of Free Air
The Ironman Ride in April years ago provided three different overlapping loops—30, 60, or 100 miles. Each route was fully supported with frequent pit stops. Pit stops usually provide port-a-potties, park facility or school bathrooms, snacks, water, Gatorade, simple first aid supplies and sometimes mechanical assistance. It was gray and drizzling most of the day and I hadn’t ridden my bike since the previous Fall. I was out of shape and exhausted and struggled to make it to the 85-mile pit stop before I quit. When that happens, they have buses to transport riders and their bikes to the next pit stop, or back to the starting point.
I felt odd on the bus, during the drive home, and all evening long. I assumed it was dehydration, so I drank a lot of water but the next morning I felt worse. I was lucky to get a clinic appointment for the same day and the resulting blood work showed a high white cell count. There was an infection somewhere, so they prescribed an antibiotic and a muscle relaxer. Around midnight, an excruciating pain began in my rear-end, crawled between my legs, and settled in my abdomen like it was alive. It was overwhelming and after a few minutes stumbled upstairs to tell my wife something was wrong. She followed me back down and called the nurse hotline. While she was on the phone describing my situation, I went into the bathroom and stripped for some reason, then crawled out on my hands and knees and passed out. The nurse and my wife agreed the emergency room was necessary, so she called a neighbor and asked her to stay with our sleeping daughter while we were gone. She arrived within minutes, and we drove to the hospital where I remained for two weeks.
They scanned me and the diagnosis was diverticulitis which can have a range of severity. They also discovered a colon perforation because there were visible bubbles of free air in the MRI. So, they flooded me with intravenous antibiotics, nutrients, and morphine hanging in bags next to me for the first six days. I drifted from one day and night to the next being tended to by countless doctors and nurses only aware of half of them. My wife asked me what I do all day and I said, “I have no idea.” Eventually we decided surgery was the best option which resulted in them removing ten inches of my colon. That was followed by five more days of recovery in the hospital before being released.
Around this time, our daughter took weekly piano lessons. During her lesson, I usually walked to a nearby coffee shop to get coffee for me and something for her. If the weather was nice, I’d relax outside, people watch, and sometimes call my mom for an update. As I leaned against the wall chatting with her, there was a loud explosion on the sidewalk just a few feet in front of me. “What was that?” my mom asked. It took me a few seconds to register what was happening inside the dust cloud and finally noticed a bike locked to a street sign had a flat rear tire. “Someone’s bike tire exploded,” I said. I’d seen it happen before but it’s a rare event because tubes are forgiving. Later that evening, I rode to the studio and after a few hours of working, there was a loud explosion at the other end of the space that made me jump. I had no idea what it was and walked over to see a flat rear tire because my tube blew too. I hadn’t had a flat in a very long time and had never had a tube explode. I attempted to patch it twice but couldn’t fix it. During my 3:00am cab ride home, I realized it was exactly one year to the day that my colon had ruptured.
Songs :: Everything In It’s Right Place by Radiohead, The Shape I’m In by The Band, Beng Beng Beng by Femi Kuti, Pump It Up by Elvis Costello, and Over (feat. Yebba) by Robert Glasper
© C. Davidson
Bighorn Flashback :: [Supplemental]
Into the Bighorn :: 2018
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"I’m very solitary, that’s all . . . I can’t dismiss it. Inside, I’m very much in communication with a lot of people and things who absolutely don’t know I’m in communication with them." Jean-Luc Godard
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Songs :: Rocky Mountain Way by Joe Walsh, Voices Inside My Head by The Police, Travelin’ Light by J.J. Cale, High and Dry by Radiohead, and These Shadows by Wooden Shjips
© C. Davidson
Lake Missoula
Glacial Calving :: Image – Video Still from Montana Natural Center
Potomac :: Image – Google Earth
The older I get the more nostalgic and emotional I’ve become. I think that’s common for a lot of people. My father and mother did and I’ve spoken with friends who are older too, and they’ve said the same thing. One has a daughter who left for her first year of college and for weeks afterwards he’d spend time in her old room every day because he missed her so much. I was surprised he told me about such intimate moments and relieved he did because I experienced that too. For months after our daughter left for her gap year to the other side of the world, I took much longer naps, welled with tears, told stories about her to anyone who’d listen, and made certain the plants she left behind were well tended.
As much as I’m nostalgic about people and animals, I’m just as nostalgic about places—places I’ve lived, read about, and some just briefly passed through. Places like Jordon, Montana where I refueled once, parts of Ohio, white sand beaches in Florida, and the drive into the Potomac east of Missoula with a sister and brother-in-law five decades ago. I hopped into the bed of the pick-up truck once we exited the highway and headed south deeper into the valley. The smell of pine and sweetgrass was fresh and the Doobie Brothers were loud enough for me to hear them playing in the cab. It was a perfect day and our trail of road dust through the lush green pastures revealed our path that led straight into the mountains and cooler air.
I spent a lot of time in Missoula during my youth, sometimes visiting for weeks. I heard the new Fleetwood Mac album in 1975 for the first time sitting on a couch at the Pine Palace house one summer. Fleetwood Mac was playing at the university field house the following night and everyone I knew in town was going. Halfway through the concert, I found myself on someone’s shoulders not far from the front of the stage and almost eye level with Stevie Nicks and Lindsay Buckingham. She wore a flowing white skirt, white top, tall boots, sleeves that looked like scarves, and a tambourine in one hand.
The railroad bridge we jumped off the next afternoon smelled of creosote and spanned the Clark Fork River. It was fast with rapids, ragged boulders, rocky beaches, and cottonwood trees along the shore. There was a deep green pool directly below the bridge and we were there to jump into it. We accessed the road level tracks high above the river and from there, shimmied up a diagonal timber truss to the top where we balanced ourselves. I squatted nervously there for at least ten minutes before gathering the courage to jump. Eventually I did and entered the water yelling feet first, then surfaced and dog paddled quickly to shore to avoid being swept downstream because I wasn’t a strong swimmer.
I didn’t know then that this valley I spent so much time in had contained a giant two-thousand-foot-deep lake once and Mount Sentinel and Mount Jumbo were underwater. I didn’t realize that the horizontal lines etched on many of the foothills in the area were where Lake Missoula had once lapped against their shores as the water drained, and refilled dozens of times over thousands of years. It’s hard to comprehend the scope of those massive geological changes, but that history pales compared to my memories of the sweet aroma of herbs and teas my sister-in-law and brother filled their houses with during the nineteen-seventies.
For Carol, Ray, Marilyn, Russ, Scott, Sharon, Tim, Vicki, Buck, Lindy, and various friends, friends of friends, and anonymous citizens of Missoula during the nineteen-seventies.
Songs :: Indian Summer by Joe Walsh, Show Me Some Affection by Dave Mason, South City Midnight Lady and Without You by The Doobie Brothers, Wooden Ships by Jefferson Airplane, See The Changes by Crosby, Stills & Nash, and the entire Fleetwood Mac album from 1975
© C. Davidson
Wisconsin :: [Supplemental]
Songs :: Everyday Life by Coldplay, Wagon Wheel by Old Crow Medicine Show, Meadows by Joe Walsh, and Transcendental Blues by Steve Earle
For Todd and Paula
© C. Davidson
T u l s a
Sometimes road trips are mostly functional, like distant errands, a rural work meeting, or to visit friends in Wisconsin. Other times they’re much longer like during vacations. All of them lift my mood and change my perspective, but the long ones can transform me. I’ve never finished a long road trip and felt it wasn’t a good thing to have done. There might have been times it felt hot and endless, sketchy, even risky, but I’ve always felt better afterwards because traveling through time and space always feels good. Carl Sagan, Stephen Hawking, Andrea Ghez, and other notable astrophysicists have spent their careers researching and informing us about spacetime, even floating weightless to show us how things change out there. Driving a car at interstate speeds won’t allow us to escape earth’s gravity, or slow the aging process, but it’s still time travel.
We were surprised to discover that Tulsa is almost due south from the Twin Cities, along with Des Moines and Kansas City. It’s a north-south corridor of the country that we hadn’t visited before. We arrived in West Des Moines at dinner time and ate Mediterranean food near the shore of a small city lake. Then drove to Kearney, Missouri north of Kansas City and spent the night. The next morning my wife woke early, had the continental breakfast, and walked the neighborhood while I slept in. We grabbed coffee and food at a Filipino kitchen located in a mall parking lot, drove into Kansas City, and ate on the enormous green lawn at the Nelson–Atkins Museum. She suggested we stop there when planning our trip and showed me their website. It’s a classic Beaux-Arts building from 1933 and looks like many other museums from that period. Then we noticed there was a modern addition to the museum as well, and it was designed by Steven Holl Architects, one of my favorite studios. After we finished lunch, we walked through a variety of gorgeous contemporary exhibitions inside the partially subterranean Bloch addition and then explored the grounds. Before leaving town, we drove by the nearby Kansas City Art Institute where professors I used to know had attended, then refueled, and gathered snacks before driving further south.
Visiting Tulsa has been on our road trip list for years. We have friends who moved there decades ago, and we’ve always wanted to visit them. We finally did and were able to spend part of an afternoon and evening touring the city, reminiscing, sharing stories about their dog Bailey, and eating Italian food for dinner. My wife became a virtual member of a church located there too and is more involved since the pandemic. She was overdue to visit her newest friends and colleagues in person, so it was the perfect trip to accomplish both. The night we arrived we drank wine with a new friend in their screened porch lined with party lights and candles, next to softly lit shrubs and trees that glimmered in the still blue pool. The community affirmed their affection for my wife and demonstrated that her place in Tulsa isn’t only virtual, it’s local too. She read a poem during services, we walked through the lush Gathering Place near the Arkansas River, visited the Greenwood District, followed multiple tornadoes north through Iowa on our return, and finally arrived home where time felt different and noticeably compressed.
Songs :: Hello In There by John Prine, Like a Ship by Pastor T.L. Barrett & The Youth for Christ Choir, (Cross the) Heartland by Pat Metheny Group, Everyday People by Sly & The Family Stone, and Chinese Cafe/Unchained Melody by Joni Mitchell
© C. Davidson
Temptation :: [Supplemental]
Temptation
Songs :: I Didn’t Mean to Turn You On by Robert Palmer, Lowdown by Boz Scaggs, Hunger Strike by Temple of the Dog, Why Can’t I Touch It? by Buzzcocks, and Early Days by Paul McCartney
© C. Davidson
Places
She called me from the cabin and I could hear her friends’ voices in the background. I pictured them gathered in the kitchen laughing and talking over each other, some scattered, or sitting around the heavy coffee table near the stone fireplace working on a large puzzle.
I sipped afternoon coffee on our deck a thousand miles away behind the Goldenrod and Black-Eyed Susan’s growing next to me. The sun moved behind our broad green umbrella, while she told me about the events from her day and revelations about our relatives and their unlikely connection to her newest friends. Clouds passed in front of the sun, my coffee cooled, and I remembered when she was four and we talked through cans connected by a string while nesting in her fort built of sheets, blankets, and chairs. I’d always planned to re-imagine how we supported the fort. It could have been with thin nylon cords stretched tight from strategic locations in the room. It would expand the footprint and allow any breeze upstairs to move more easily through it. We lit the fort with two flashlights and one small battery lantern that cast shadows and shapes that moved and changed.
After we shut down her fort for the night, we usually read two books, both would have been from our usual rotation of dozens. One was often a longer Dr. Seuss book, or the one about the people who made doughnuts because the illustrations made us crave doughnuts, and sometimes we read Old Hasdrubal and the Pirates. I usually hid the later book at the bottom of her large piles of books after she fell asleep because I didn’t like to read it. I couldn’t pronounce the protagonist’s name easily, and I was uncomfortable with the story for some reason. I thought maybe she’d forget about it, but it always reappeared the next night, or nights later because she’d found it. She never asked me where it was and I didn’t admit to hiding it. Then we’d transition to her bed where she’d get settled in and I’d sit next to it while she reflected on her day. Sometimes we told each other the stories we’d invented.
One involved an enormous village of mice that lived in our detached garage. They were quiet by day and active at night. Our visits were random, but they’d always be there and seemed to expect us. We didn’t interact with them much. We’d sit for a long time though just watching and clapping while they performed with miniature acrobatic equipment, circus animals, and special lighting effects.
Our other story involved a small family of deer that lived next to the lake near the family cabin. Sometimes we’d see them when we canoed close by. There were large areas of lily pads and shallow grasses near the shore that brushed against the bottom of the canoe, so they always heard us before we saw them. Just beyond the beach was a doe, a buck, and a fawn staring back at us. They seemed to expect us just like the mice did and always invited us to join them. I beached the canoe and helped my daughter out. We walked to a small clearing not far from shore, protected by pine trees, huckleberry bushes, with two logs for seating. The buck stood at the opposite end of their cozy clearing watching us, and the doe and fawn laid down in in the soft, thick grass in front of him near their well-tended fire. The doe asked us questions about our cabin, others in our family, and how long our visit was this year. We asked them questions about their daily routines, if they’d visited Morrell Falls or the giant Larch tree recently, and if anyone else knew they lived here. They said no one else knew and if other people did pass by, they’d become invisible. We never asked how they could magically vanish and speak like us because we didn’t think it was unusual.
Songs :: Plains (Eastern Montana Blues) by George Winston, Side Tracked by Dave Mason, Here We Go by Joe Walsh, June Hymn by The Decemberists, and Cool Water by Joni Mitchell
© C. Davidson
August Wednesday:: [Supplemental]
August
Songs :: Wharf Rat by Grateful Dead, Fight for Your Right by Beastie Boys, Venture by Lanterna, Talkin’ Bout A Revolution by Tracy Chapman, and Powderfinger by Neil Young and Crazy Horse
© C. Davidson
Missing
Looking East
Looking West
A few months ago, I had a routine check-up with my dentist who’s a dental student at the University of Minnesota. He was born and raised in Hamilton, Montana located in the Bitterroot Valley and is an accomplished collegiate golfer. The student working in the cubicle next to us was also from Montana and a collegiate golfer. It’s less and less unusual to encounter someone from there but meeting two dental students working next to each other on a floor of fifty other dental students, both collegiate golfers, on the same day is extremely rare. He said he and his wife who’s a law student and from Hamilton too, plan to move back there after they graduate because they miss it. If not back to their hometown, he imagines living in a town small enough that it only needs one dentist and one lawyer.
That led us to reminisce about other towns we remember, love, and could barely afford to live in today. We talked about how other cities, small towns and the countryside have changed over the years. He doesn’t recognize Bozeman anymore and said sometimes it’s called the ‘New Aspen’, but a close friend who’s lived there multiple times over many decades disagrees. She’s heard that nickname too but thinks the other nickname ‘BozeAngeles’ is a more accurate description for a variety of reasons.
Our conversation caught me off guard. With the exam light inches from my face and multiple devices wedged in my frozen mouth I started to daydream. Sometimes I drive by specific places when I’m there, places I’ve lived, places friends have lived, main street, campus, the Pickle Barrel for a sandwich, the Western Cafe, and to see if the Far-Out House is still intact. I even stopped by the art building the last time I drove through. I parked, stood on the front lawn, and called a friend who I went to school with. We reminisced and I described how the arts and architecture complex looked the same. “Did you go inside?” he asked. “No, but I did fifteen years ago when I attended some meetings. Inside it’s the same too, but I didn’t recognize it and felt out of place.” Our conversation shifted to 1980 when Mount St. Helens exploded. The cloud moved east, and three days later ash fell and collected like snow right where I stood.
After my dental appointment, I walked to a distant parking ramp because the closest one is always full and street parking is never available. I hadn’t been on this part of campus for a while but I noticed the corner deli where I’d received a call from my wife many years ago. I was getting coffee, and she was filling me in because I’d just missed the visit by her doctor and his team. They discovered what was wrong, its critical state, and how they planned to proceed the following morning. The fear and guilt washed over me again. Then I drifted to a landscape in Central Montana which always settles me down, thought about my dentists hope for his family’s future, and the familiar views he’d enjoy when he returned to the Bitterroot.
He asked me if I missed Montana. “I do—a little all the time.”
Songs :: The Boy In the Bubble by Paul Simon, Clay Pigeons by John Prine, Small Town by Aaron Espe, Goin’ Back by Neil Young, and Rocky Mountain High by John Denver
© C. Davidson
Hiawatha :: [Supplemental]
Hiawatha :: 4 July – 10:25:50 pm
Songs :: People Have the Power by Patti Smith, and Shaking the Tree by Peter Gabriel
© C. Davidson
Glen
44°54'46.8"N 93°12'25.6"W
This glen isn’t in Scotland, but when I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, I imagined it could be. I don’t know if it would feel more like the Highlands, the Lowlands, or maybe it’s like the in-between. I’ve never visited, but our family has roots in that part of the world, so it’s a place I think about occasionally. The earthy smell reminded me of Florida after an afternoon storm too, and even an early scene from the film Spirited Away because it felt just as mysterious. The path was only visible because of the way different plants reflected the light before it continued into the dark.
I was told a story when I was in middle school about a hook man in Wadsworth Park located on the edge of my hometown. He targeted lovers who were alone in their car at night. He almost succeeded once but as he approached the couple’s car, the driver noticed him at the last second and quickly rolled up his window trapping the hook man’s arm. As they sped away, only the hook was left dangling from the car window. I never knew if it was true, but because of that story and the fear of the hookless hook man, I never ventured into the overgrown park. It was a place people were discouraged from exploring but I always stared hard into it when I drove by, looking for the slightest movement.
Here though, I follow the barely defined path into the deep shade that’s ideal for ticks. They aren’t deer ticks, the scary ones, so I wasn’t too worried because those begin to appear in Wisconsin. After pushing aside low hanging tree branches and walking through shrubs, plants, and shade, it slowly got brighter and transitioned into tall grass, the sound of moving water, and louder birds. The change from light, to dark, to light again, felt like a living garden gate to a green room on the opposite side. All those other places, those other memories didn’t go away as I stood in the small meadow, but they receded. Now it was more about the owl I hadn’t seen until it turned towards me with blue above the trees.
Songs :: The Boy In the Bubble by Paul Simon, On The Road To Find Out by Cat Stevens, and For What It’s Worth by Buffalo Springfield
© C. Davidson