Not too long ago, while spending the night at the Byrons’ house, I had an interesting dream.  Dreams tend to be a big deal for me, because I generally don’t remember my dreams when I wake up. I’ll recall whispers from the night before, maybe a quick flash of a setting or a few faces that starred in the previous night’s performance, but it’s extremely rare for me to be able to recall a dream in its entirety. With that being said, several weeks ago I had a dream that God was a contestant on “Who Wants to be A Millionaire?” He was stuck on the question, “If you could eat, what would it be?”

Creepy, synthesizer keyboards pulsed in the background, while a bluish-purple light illuminated the stool where God sat, (on the show, this stool is referred to as “the hot seat”) scrutinizing his question. I couldn’t see God’s shape, or even his form. It was one of those things where, because I was dreaming it, I just recognized the setting, and knew the contestant was in fact, God. God must have used his 50/50 lifeline (for the “WWTBAM” virgins, that means the computer takes away two of the wrong answers, narrowing down the original four multiple choice options to two: one of which is correct, one of which is incorrect), because there were only two choices before him: one was “pizza” and the other was “human”. I know this sounds rather barbaric, but I promise, that’s the way the dream went.

There was nothing but silence as God thought (I assume…), “Pizza, or human; pizza, or human?”… And then, just as God was forming an answer, and I tossed and turned in sleep, restless with excitement, I heard the words, “Katie, time for breakfast.” For a nanosecond or so, my still-sleeping self may have assumed that this was God’s answer to the question, but before I could know for sure, I was stirred roughly awake by Elizabeth Byron.

Now, you could argue that had I not been awoken, I still wouldn’t have finished the dream. Isn’t that how dreams work? They drag on and on and on, blurring seamlessly into other dreams before any concrete conclusion is formed, ad infinitum, until you finally wake. Maybe so, but I was still super-pissed when Elizabeth woke me up just as I was about to determine if God would choose Man Flesh or Papa John’s for dinner. But more importantly, I never learned if God knew the answer to the question: Does God know what God wants for dinner? If so, he is truly unstumpable and omniscient. If not, perhaps He/She is just as subject to following the heart (at least in earthly form while playing on a game show) as you or I. I realize many would argue that by suggesting God is anything less than in full possession of the three Omni’s, I am defying Christian theology and making heretical suggestions worthy of a good thump on the side of the head. To these people I would say: get over it; this was just a dream. I am not claiming that I really understand the mind of God, but it would seem my subconscious thought, I suppose rather presumptuously, to pose the question to myself: If we could truly ask God anything, how would God answer?

You may be wondering if Regis Philbin, the first and former host of “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?”, was the host of the show in my dream. I’m not entirely sure I remember, but I’m going to go with “yes.” This may actually explain why God appeared a little nervous while mulling over his answer (surely if God can be intimidated by anyone while taking human form, it would be “Reege”). Perhaps had I only stayed asleep a few seconds longer, my subconscious could have un-raveled one of the biggest mysteries of humanity: is God truly omniscient, or rather all-loving?; perhaps just omnipotent?, or all-of-the-above-thank-you-very-much.  But perhaps not. Either way, what I really want to know, that I suppose I’ll now never know, is who in the world was writing the show’s questions?

There aren’t very many trees in Montana, especially in Eastern Montana where I’ve lived the past year. In this part of the country, trees have been traded out for sage brush (greenish-gray tumbleweed-looking bushes) and yucca plants (spiky plants that look like a hybrid of Lisa and Bart Simpson’s hair – sawed off and glued to a hilltop). I’ve missed the big, shady trees that line the streets and forests back East- the maples, dogwoods, and especially the oaks. There is, however, one kind of tree here that’s fairly prevalent, called the Cottonwood. Cottonwood trees have big, twisty gray trunks , with awkward branches and velvety, spade-shaped leaves. I love cottonwoods for the same reason I love sage brush: the latter is as familiar as air in the Montana landscape, but it adds a crackly texture to the otherwise smoothness of the hills, creating the illusion of undulating curves- to the point that driving along the interstate is tantamount to floating through an ocean of greenish-gray waves. This hilly, sparsely dotted landscape is not what I’m used to, but I have come to love it just the same.

 If I’ve learned anything at all this past year, (and I’m pretty sure I’ve learned at least a little, seeing as how I finally understand the purpose of, and can properly wield, a pitchfork) it’s that the little phrase, “Bloom where you’re planted” is more than just a quote one comes across when stalking other people’s Facebook pages (although, I admit, Facebook is exactly where I first heard the phrase). The quote’s meaning is simple and straight forward: make the most out of where you are; finding happiness means embracing what you have and learning to love your surroundings, in spite of everything that your surroundings are not. This quote captures what has been the truest part of my experience out West, and the greatest lesson I will take with me as I head off to graduate school. I have learned that seeds can sprout in nearly any kind of soil, under the most surprising conditions. True, tiny seedlings can drown if they get too much water, and an over-abundance of sun isn’t good for every type of new life trying to push its way out of the earth. Every individual type of seed has its ideal growing conditions, but that doesn’t necessarily mean growth is limited to one particular place and time.

I want to be the type of plant that is determined to make it- that finds a way to twist my branches so my leaves face the sun- that soaks up water when I can and learns to live with less when I have to. I want to be the type of seed that can be planted almost anywhere, (perhaps with the exception of, let’s say, Bitter-Cold-Even-Penguins-Wear-Muffs-Here, North Pole), and still find a way to grow. In short, I want to always have the ability to bloom where I’m planted.

 I’m fully aware that the happiness that I have found here in Montana may have been much more dependent on my personality and proclivities than anything else. It is entirely possible that had I spent the past year in Three Clovers, North Dakota, I would punch someone in the face if they came at me with a line like “Bloom where you’re planted.” But based on what I have seen and what I’ve experienced, the phrase just fits. I had to make many adjustments, and sometimes it was really hard to feel settled. One fairly stand-out example is the great blizzard of December 2008, which came howling through the plains, unfortunately, at the precise time I was house-sitting for the Italy-bound Byrons. It only took several attempts at shoveling hay for the horses in the -40 degree gusts of snow and wind for me to know that 1.) I don’t look cute in bib cover-alls, wielding farm tools, and 2.) I am clearly a pampered girl from suburbia. It was the latter realization that made me determined to shovel that damn hay come hurricane-force blizzard, or shine. It also helped to realize that I was needlessly sending hay flying into the wind, because all I had to do was let the horses into the barn to eat, where huge, wonderfully accessible stacks of hay lined the walls like bars of gold in a rich man’s vault.

Despite a few struggles with the weather, some sick spells, (if you tried calling me in February-March, you probably discovered that I was rendered voiceless due to a ridiculously persistent case of chronic laryngitis) initial homesickness and loneliness, and finding a literate, attractive cowboy, I found that it was entirely possible to make a home here. Am I crazy for casting my gaze out to the entire country and settling on Hardin, Montana as the place to make a new home? Living in a small town definitely isn’t for everybody, and there were times when it definitely wasn’t for me. And yet, this is where I chose to plant myself for the past year, and, with a little help from my friends, I found a way to bloom.

 Some plants seem determined to die, no matter how much love and attention you give them. I’ve heard many people express that view about the Crow tribe: it’s a nation bent on self-destruction- a time-bomb that may go off today or tomorrow or in a century. Some might say the bomb already has gone off, and the result of the explosion is the poverty, crime, disease, and high death rates rampant on the Rez. In stark opposition to the “Bloom where you’re planted” idea is: “Wither while you wait. You’ve been uprooted and transplanted here; now, make it work.”

I see Indian Country a little like how I see the champions of the plant kingdom- those crazy plants that are thriving in sunless forests, or waterless deserts. The formula for growth and new life usually involves good soil, fertilizer, adequate amounts of light and shade, and, unless you happen to be a cactus, plenty of water. And yet, sometimes the ideal formula is missing, and even though the plants have been neglected, they still find a way to survive and evolve so that they make do with what nature can provide. (I won’t go into a spiel about evolution and Natural Selection, because the focus of my discussion isn’t on “those who don’t make it.” It’s on “those who do.” Also, some of my readers don’t like science, and I’d hate for them to start picketing outside my office window) Old Native American legends and stories have persisted, and in many cases, traditions and language have stayed intact as well. For a group of people who have had so much taken away, it’s amazing how much is still alive and thriving. You kind of have to have this attitude when you look at Indian country- focus on the good things that remain, rather than the negative things that have sprung up to combat all that was taken away. Otherwise, all you see is automobile accidents, malnutrition, poverty, and heartache. It’s a lot like middle school science class, when you’re working on your first dissection. The kids who don’t fake “weak stomachs” or “spontaneous vomiting when confronted with the stench of formaldehyde” are seated at a long rectangular table, roughly chest high. Some type of amphibian, possibly a worm, or in my case, a crayfish, is laid out before you (and if you were like me, the very first thing you did was give a name to the departed one lying all-too-alive-looking on the table…and yes, I remember my crayfish’s name. It was Freddy). Then you went to work. You poked it, prodded it, and scooted things around in its insides, until you forgot what you were examining, and were all caught up in tearing it apart. The specimen on the table no longer resembled anything more than a 7th grader’s attempt at pulling apart a body to understand how it works.

For the squeamish among you who opted out of 7th grade biology, here’s another, probably better, metaphor: Looking all at once at the issues facing Indian Country is like staring at the spokes of a moving tire- it spins so fast that the center becomes a blur. This is what it’s like to tackle the cycle of poverty: when you look at the cycle while it’s in motion, it’s hard to see where one issue ends and the next begins. You want to rip into the issues but become overwhelmed trying to understand and examine everything all at once. It’s so easy to over-analyze and dissect the issues until they no longer seem solvable to anyone, but for once, that’s what I’m trying hard not to do.

I get really discouraged sometimes when I look at all the issues facing the Crow Reservation, but I’m proud of what I have accomplished here. I channeled most of my energy into a single issue facing the Crow, unresolved grief, and I found that this one particular issue is interwoven into many others. Every Crow individual is his or her own tree, with roots that run deep into the ground. But those roots merge into a single network underground, a great, twisting nest that keeps people connected even when above-ground they remain free-standing. And so you see, knocking down one tree affects the underground network, even though above-ground all you see is a forest with one less tree. The Crow people are real good at making babies, so new trees are sprouting up all over the place, while at the same time old ones are disappearing. I haven’t had a hand in planting new trees, or keeping the ones that are standing from falling down. My work has been dedicated to finding a way to make the insides of the trees healthy, and even though all I did was make a tiny dent, it was enough to get the ball rolling. I can stand back and look at the beautiful forest of trees that comprises the Crow people and feel like I had a hand in making some of those trees grow. That’s a feeling that trumps two-stepping with a tall, dark cowboy, or wrestling a grizzly bear, ANY day.

I will miss Montana, but I know I’ll be back, whether the Byrons, Grabers, the physician and nursing staff at Crow Hospital, Jules the world’s greatest dog, and all my other new friends, like it or not. And next time I come, along with a renewed enthusiasm for horseback riding, I’ll bring my own pitchfork.

THE FALLING OF THE LEAVES

by: William Butler Yeats

Autumn is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.

The hour of the waning of love has beset us,
And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.

I ventured back to Charleston for the Holidays to find that many things about the place that I call home feel very different. The relationships with old friends feel like they’ve been stretched to cover so much ground, that they resemble a strained rubber band, the end of which has been left in Charleston, while I, the thumb and forefinger pull it across the 2,000+ miles of inconstant American landscape separating us. It’s the tugging and stretching which causes the bond, the link, to forever lose its original shape. And yet, despite knowing that the shape of things has changed, I know that doesn’t mean the old ties are lost.
 
I sometimes think that growing up means embracing the inevitability of change. The Spring of childhood blossoms into a summery adolescence; graudating from college and entering the real world then hits us like an auroral wind that’s determined to shake loose the vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows that fill our branches. So do we hold onto our leaves, gathering them into piles as they fall to the ground, or do we let the wind blow them all away? Isn’t it true that after the baldness and bleakness of winter, new leaves will grow? Is life a series of cyclical changes, on-going seasons, or are we bound upon a linear path that somehow remains one-dimensional in a three-dimensional world?

Autumn is over, as the snow, ice, and chill Montana air constantly remind me. This is the season of sleep, or in my case, the last call for graduate school applications to be sent out. I’ve reached the second half of my stay in Montana, which means it’s time to start making decisions; it’s time to grow up. And what a strange time to be growing up… On the one hand, I’m having adventures out West, adventures which I try not to take for granted. And yet I also can’t forget that I’m meant to plod along after all this journeying, that the prospect of either continuing my education or finding a new job looms ahead. I can’t help feeling like I’m on the brink of a gathering tide, a social and technological movement so intertwined that they are essentially the same thing.

 
I recently exchanged an email with a friend in which I told her that a musical should be written about growing up and graduating from college in the age of computers and an economic crisis, while the first black man prepares to become president. I also told this friend that if such a musical were to be created, I’d really like to play Michelle Obama (because part of existing in our technologically advanced society means that a white person can play a black person easily enough, so long as his or her face is disguised beneath the CGI version of the character being played). In short, all the children of the Computer Age have watched as private matters become increasingly public (thanks to the rapid dissemination of information via email, cell phone/BlackBerry, instant messenger, Facebook, MySpace, etc.). It’s exciting; it’s weird. It’s progress? I’m not sure, but it is amidst the backdrop of this strange world that I must step out, carve a niche, find a career, figure out what the hell comes next…
 
As for figuring out the “what comes next” thing? Here’s what I’ve got: I am confident that there are at least two things that make me truly happy, that make me feel complete and fulfilled. One is discovering love and sharing love, something that I have recently determined moves me most profoundly through thing #2: story-telling. And not just the types of stories that line our bookshelves and hide out under our beds, or lie strangled under heaps of clothes, relegated to the “Good Will pile.” They’re the stories in the newspaper; whispers from one co-worker to another. They’re the tales that may sound too far-fetched to be real, or too boring to be shared, or too scandalous to be repeated without editing. Some stories are just begging to be told, not because they involve fantastical worlds that transport us to faraway, intangible places, but because they are true, and those to whom the stories belong, long for them to be shared.
 
Characters can be easy to love, or impossible to love, as the people in our lives can be both easy and impossible to love. But, as someone recently reminded me, “Sometimes those who are the hardest to love are the ones who need love the most.” I’m sure I’ve heard those words before, at least some version of them. Perhaps this phrase is a recycled version from a train of predecessors, so tangled into the ethos of our everyday life that we forget to recall it. We forget that the phrase could be a basic truth, because it’s so much easier and more comfortable to dislike and repel the people who are mean to us, who confirm our insecurities, who do strange things that we don’t understand. But I think there may be a way for all those hard-to-love people to be loved and understood just a little bit better: through stories. Maybe I can find a way to combine my two great loves into a profession that both brings me joy and helps people. If not, there are plenty of other options.  There’s this really swanky fastfood franchise out West called Taco John’s. I hear if you work for them, they’ll hook you up with free bean burritos and T-shirts…
 
Hello. My name is Morgan Freeman. Please join me for a wonderful tale about a young woman and her feisty little kitten.
There once was a kitten named Kit, who belonged to a girl named Katie (or “Kat,” for those of you who find the pairing of KitKat too irresistable to go un-noted). Her fur was the color of wet cement, and she was skattered with black lightning bolt patterns on her back and sides, with two perfectly symmetrical inverted V’s between her slate-gray eyes…Whoops. Pardon me for a moment, won’t you? My mistress beckons.
 
“Yes, Lady Freeman,what is it? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of providing my highly sought-out voice-of-gold for a delightful story about a little orphan kitty?
Come again? Tom Cruise called to say what? Oh he did, did he? Denzel called a few days ago to ask me the same thing, but as I told him, ‘Though I appreciate the consideration, I have no desire to be hired as a bedtime story-reader for your children. No matter how exhilirating my telling of  Hop on Pop is.  Tell him, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ It’s a waste of my talents. And anyway, I just agreed to be the new voice for Duracel Batteries, Diet Rite, and Toyota Prius. And let’s not forget my long-standing contractual obligation as the voice of Aladdin in the Disney Channel’s series, The New Adventures of Aladdin. I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment.”
 

Anyway, as I was saying… Poor Kit came frolicking into Katie’s life when she was but a mere 5 1/2 weeks old. The lone survivor of a litter of 4 kittens, orphaned to a mother when they were just a few days old…
 
“Good heavens, woman! What is it now?”  Oh, dear. It seems I have to go. Duty, a.k.a., “Batman’”calls…
Well then, I’ll make this snappy! In summary, Katie has a kitten; the kitten’s name is Kit, and my is she cute! The proof is below. Freeman, out.

1.) I had my first, though surely not my last, snow-filled Montana weekend.   I woke up on a Friday morning in early October, and spied the white-covered world from the window of my basement apartment.  The windows in the basement are exactly at ground level, facing the street, so I was able to look out and up, watching the snow fall all the way to the ground. It continued to snow for all of Friday and most of Saturday, blanketing the ground and frosting the trees. 

 Not to mention completely coating my toyota Camry, which looked cold indeed under a mountain of ice.  Robin, Elizabeth, and I built the bottom third of a Harry Potter snowman, before chickening out and a returning indoors to unthaw our faces, knee caps and hands.  We also spent a few hours on Saturday afternoon decorating the barn for the Byrons’ upcoming Halloween party.  All in all, it was a cozy weekend.  Hot chocolate.  Movies.  A fire.  Me prancing around the house like a giant marshmallow in my multi-layered outfits and fuzzy hats.  Yes indeed, as Robin scratched onto the frosted windshield of my car…”Katie- you’re not in SC anymore.”

2.) It was a Friday night in early September.  The pumpkins were already so swollen they had no chance of making it to Halloween without bursting open all over the garden.  Lori Byron decided to have a small dinner party, in honor of a cousin who was passing through on his way to Oregon.  All through dinner, I grew increasingly restless, partly because I had consumed roughly 4 glasses of wine, but mostly because it was a cold, clear night; the sky was a glittering canopy of stars, and all I wanted was to go outside and lie under them.  I’m still not really sure how it happened, but sometime after dinner, I found myself outside with Lori, Robin, Elizabeth, and their cousin, Daniel, staring at a line of cylindrical hay bales.  One hay bale was positioned so that it faced the row behind it.  By placing our back on the hay bale in front and extending our legs onto the bale behind it, we were able to shimmy up to the top.  We spent some time running along the line of hay bales, before falling onto our backs and gazing up at the stars. 

What better way to honor a beautiful star-filled night than with a song? Robin, Elizabeth, and I have come up with our own rendition of the “Pizza Hut Song.”  The words, which are accompanied with hand motions, go something like this: “A Pizza Hut, a Pizza Hut, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and a Pizza Hut… (repeat. then, take a deep breath and sing:) McDonald’s, McDonald’s…” etc.  We’ve also added a verse about Star Wars, Harry Potter, and Pirates of the Carribbean.  Elizabeth and Robin even made masks, so that when we perform the song, it’s complete with costume changes and props.  We chose this moment, atop hay bales in the middle of the night, and despite the fact that I was red-faced and “tipsy”, to serenade the others with our song.    Moments after completing the last verse, a neighbor’s porch light turned on in the distance.  The silhouette of a man appeared on the porch, with what appeared to be a shot gun clasped in his hands.  Now, granted I had 4 glasses of wine and perhaps my singing wasn’t at its best, but surely it didn’t warrant an untimely death at the hands of an angry farmer?  I suppose his intent was just to get us to shut the hell up. Well, it worked, because after his ghostly appearance, we kept the noise level to a minimum, opting just to lie on our backs and stare at the stars, several of which were “falling.”

3.) This past weekend, I completed my first-ever backpacking expedition.  The four Byrons and I strapped ourselves with 50 lb packs and marched straight out the back door towards the ridge beyond their land.  The Byron family dog, Jules, who considers himself to be my boyfriend, (and to be perfectly honest, he’s quite the dashing young  bachelor) also accompanied us, usually galloping ahead, but occasionally falling back to bring me roses and chocolates.  The weather was clear and relatively cool as we stepped outdoors; the sun was shining, and big, puffy clouds danced through the sky.  However,  we had gotten no further than the little foot bridge that crosses  the canal behind the Byrons’ house, when we were met with a minor hindrance.  A giant troll emerged from the canal, dripping wet and munching on the bones of some sort of large, 4-legged mammal. As our only way onward was across this bridge, we had no choice but to deal with the hungry troll.  Surprisingly, the Byrons were less than intimidated by the sudden appearance of this snarling, clearly agitated monster.  Elizabeth whispered to me, “Our Uncle Tollhouse is at least that big, with much worse teeth.” As luck would have it, the troll turned out to be a vegetarian (the “bone” he was munching on was actually a blanched carrot) and was merely interested in depriving us of our trail mix.  After we handed it over (much to the disappointment of Rob, who as an expert at martial arts, had brandished a hiking stick like a sword, ready to fight to the death), the troll slumped back into the canal, tossing unwanted bits of mix over his shoulder, and mumbling what sounded like, “I’ve always hated the red M & M’s.” 

Aside from our initial delay, we were able to enjoy the rest of our trip without further incident.  We hiked somewhere between 6 and 50 miles in a single day, even after we stumbled across a broken down covered wagon (I’m told it was “axle” trouble, due to fording a river while the driver was sick with typhoid), and added their oxen yoke, and a fresh supply of bonnets to our packs.  After hours of non-stop trekking, we reached a plateau at the foot of the ridge.  We ditched our hiking gear at our campsite, and climbed the rest of the way up the ridge, happy to be rid of our heavy packs.    With the help of a pair of grappling hooks made of twigs and vines, we hoisted ourselves to the top of the ridge, pausing only to swat away the rattle snake that nipped at Elizabeth’s ankles. 

View from the top of Pine Ridge

After we returned from our hike to the top of the ridge, we set about to explore the area surrounding our campsite.  These explorations around the plateau revealed a large rock marred by the graffiti of hikers and earlier explorers, one of whom was “Father Fabian,” who may or may not be an actual priest.  The graffiti-splattered rock was special not only because of the mysterious aura surrounding the identities of previous explorers, but also because we used this spot for our out-’o-doors-port-’o-privy, due to the excellent protective wall it provided to shield us from prying eyes.  

There were a few drawbacks to camping where we did.  For example, the ground was a bit hard and a bit uneven.  However, the view was spectacular, and in the end, a good view trumps all.  Sitting on a crumbling stack of limestone slabs that were so thin I could scratch my name into them with a fingernail, Elizabeth, Robin, and I watched the sun set over the endless spread of sage brush and pine trees below.  It’s hard to describe the kind of feeling one gets while sitting outside and watching the sky change, as the Earth shifts imperceptibly around us.  The pink and gold of a sunset momentarily dyes the world in its glow, until the sky grows darker and darker, bleeding into the kind of blackness that can only be observed when you’re miles from the lights of a city.  Then, one by one, stars begin to pop out, until at last, the Milky Way and all those constellations that I tried to learn in Astronomy  become visible… 

We were awakened early in the morning by the sound of rain on our tent, so we packed up quickly, anxious to be done with the muddy and cold journey we knew lay ahead. Despite the slipperiness and muckiness of our trek back home, we managed to make excellent time.  We were home before noon (we were delayed again by the troll, but this time Lori arm-wrestled him into submission.  I don’t think he’ll be bothering us again…), and had a lunch of pancakes, eggs, and hot chocolate.  I was loathe to shed my army pants (God bless the Army’s pants!) and long underwear, (suprisingly comfy, and very durable) but happy to come home to a nice warm shower, indoor plumbing, and my big soft bed. 

Nothing makes me happier than a good story.  It doesn’t matter if the story is real or completely fictional- whether it is something that has happened to me,  something that has been told to me, or something that I have observed or overheard.   It’s through the telling of stories that experiences become immortalized.  And I suppose that I prefer to think of life as a series of unfolding stories, belonging to individual designs, contained within a grand pattern that isn’t always visible at the particular moment you’re living it.   

 And what of the pattern? Is it a vision of an old and omniscient weaver, swaying in a rocker on a creaky porch, purposefully incorporating scrap after scrap of cloth into a quilt whose ultimate design is seen only to him?   All I know is what I see, and what I’ve seen. I see the design of my current surroundings, the setting for a series of stories: the hills of Montana, the friends I’ve made whose ages range from 12 to 80.  I can’t really see past this design, but when I look back at all the other designs that have filled my life, I see that I’ve managed to weave my experiences together into a fairly interesting, if somewhat incoherent tapestry.   I seem to be attracted to out-of-the-ordinary places- random, brightly colored swatches of fabric, and I think that in the end, I’ll have a tapestry of experiences that is filled with incongruencies and assymetric lines and shapes, a design that lacks an obvious pattern.  Because, ultimately, that’s what I want.  I want to know the different kinds of stories that belong to people from varying backgrounds and geographies.  I want to see the world.  I want to know the  world.  I just haven’t figured out how to do that.  But I’m working on it.  In the meantime, I’m enjoying the novelty of my current design, even if I still don’t know where it fits into the overall “pattern” in my life’s work-in-progress tapestry.

Hills covered in Yucca plants, cacti, and sage brush. The neon etch-a-sketch of a sunset pouring around the outlines of clouds. Rows of hay bales in sown fields-interspersed with abandoned tractors the size of dinosaurs.  Hardin is: one grocery store, zero walmarts, a DQ, and 4 full-service gas stations.  The faces belonging to the people walking down the street, or perusing the IGA, are mostly white, with some Indian, and very few black.  I live in a border town, so titled because the city of Hardin lies on the outskirts of the Crow Indian Reservation.

I live in what was once and what still very much is American Indian land.  The Crow are one of the few tribes fortunate enough to have been ”given” by the government the land which they originally occupied.  The 14,500 square miles of the reservation encompasses the Big Horn Mountain Range, the Big Horn River, and the community of Crow Agency (which is technically a CDP, not a town or a city), site of the famous Battle of Little Bighorn.  Crow Agency is also where the hospital is located.  I work at the hospital 2-3 days a week, and my time there working with Crow and N. Cheyenne patients has given me a taste of Crow culture and the Crow way of life.  *Fun side story: One of the nurses I work with belongs to the Blackeagle family, who adopted Barack Obama into the Crow tribe!  See for yourself:  http://blog.washingtonpost.com/the-trail/2008/05/19/obama_adopted_into_crow_nation.html )

 One of the first observations I made about the Crow is the importance of laughter in everyday life.  The Crow, and Indians in general, love to laugh: at themselves, at one another, at life.  I first noticed this at Crow Fair, or the “Tipi gathering of the world,” where thousands of American Indians come from around the country to have an annual week-long, massive family reunion. The Byrons have been adopted into the Pretty-On-Top family, so we were able to pitch a tent at their campsite.   The Pretty-On-Tops (by the way…sweet name, huh?  My favorite last name that I’ve encountered yet is “Gets-Down-Often,” which carries several connotations, but I like to think it means “dances whenever possible.”) spent time together gathered around under the shelter, joking and laughing at one another.   Since I was always out and about, I was teased about having secret rendezvous in the tipi of a mysterious boyfriend, but I assure you this was not the case. Or maybe it was the case…Either way, I must protect the anonymity of my mysterious cowboyfriend (His name is Pete! His name is Pete!).    

Elizabeth and her friend await the start of the parade.

 The Pretty-On-Top camp was less than 100 yards away from the main thoroughfare of Crow Fair.  There were vendors, selling everything from corn dogs to genuine turquoise jewelry, and a small wooden stadium was set up to view the tribal dance competition.  The dancing was amazing: different age groups competed from different tribes and families, and the women wore moccasins and brightly decorated dresses, with music provided by traditional drummers and singers.  Crow Fair is the type of camping I could get used to.  A peek inside one of the tipis is similar to what one would expect when looking into a tent in the world of Harry Potter.  We’re talking beds with mattresses, dressers, and everything but the kitchen sink stacked inside.  And the only reason the kitchen sink is omitted is due to the fact that it would be superfluous since the camp grounds are built around shelters that have rows of benches and tables, and an area for grilling out and cooking. 

There is also a parade in the mornings, where the Crow dress themselves and their horses and cars with feathers, beads, and elk teeth.  One of the best-loved and best-attended events is the rodeo competition, which features bucking broncos, steer roping, and barrel racing.  I managed to catch a little bit of everything, although I was unable to rope myself a cowboy.  I tried my hardest, but apparently  hula hoops linked to dental floss are a poor substitute for a lasso and rope.

I still feel like there’s so much to learn, and so much left to observe.  I made a comment to someone recently that I still don’t feel like I have the proper lens and proper point of view with which to view my surroundings.  On the one hand, the Crow are Americans, and therefore similar to me in that respect.  However, on the other hand, their cultural heritage, and the traditions, language, colloquialisms, and superstitions are unique to them.  It’s been interesting working with Crow patients at the hospital, and I expect as I begin working on planning a bereavement camp that I’ll come even more into contact with new and unfamiliar customs.  However, I came here to learn, and finding happiness means embracing what I have here, even when what I see occurring on the reservation is a little bad and a little ugly.   But then I remember that I can go horseback riding through the hills anytime I want, and I feel much better

 I can say with complete sincerity (a sincerity that should in no way be diminished, despite the certainity that the Byrons will be reading this), that they have been the perfect family for me to “adopt” while I am living here.  The girls, Elizabeth and Robin, are too cool for words (one has a bedroom with a dragon motif and the other can knit scarves and probably theme parks, astronauts, and costumes for the US Olympic gymnastics team, out of the yarn she herself spins from the hair supplied by the family goat).  But not only do I love the Byrons; I love their house.  It’s perfect.  The front of the house faces a gravel road and is mostly shaded by a row of cottonwood trees.

Behind the Byrons' house.

The yard is framed by low, rolling hills on two sides, and the remaining side borders the property of another farm’s fields.  My favorite part of the inside of their house is the library.  In place of papered walls, wood-paneled, floor-to-almost-ceiling shelves occupy the perimeter of the room. Two big windows ensure a constant stream of sunshine and light, so the library is nearly always the warmest room in the house, and nearly always the preferred napping place for Gremlin the cat.  In the center of the room sits a grand piano, which I’ve tested a few times when the house has been deserted (should a Bryon be reading right now, consider this an admission of guilt).  But the coolest part of the library has to be the “secret room” behind one of the columns of books.  In the righthand corner of the room, a book shelf pulls all the way out to reveal a covert niche.    I’ve been inside the ”secret passageway,” and it’s filled with masks, wigs, various costume pieces, some suitcases, extra bags, and assorted odds-and-ends.  Either the Byrons are leading multiple lives as Elvises, bearded wizards, and greek demigods, or I have truly found the coolest family in America (well, at least in Montana).   

After spending three weeks with the Byrons, I jumped ship to another family’s basement, where I’m likely to be for the rest of my time in Montana.  The Grabers are wonderful.  They have three grown children, several grandchildren, and a basement that is much more apartmenty than it is basementy.   Although I love the Byrons’ farm, I feel a bit more independent having the extra space to myself (there’s a spare bedroom and a couch, so plenty of room for visitors!).  Also, I seem to be more productive… I’m just throwing out guesses here, but I suspect my increased producitivity has something to do with the absence of two highly accomplished distractors: Elizabeth and Robin Byron

The three most common questions I’ve been asked since I’ve moved here are questions that I’ve not known how to answer until recently, and I’m still not entirely sure I’ve reached any conclusions.  But here are the questions, and here are the answers, at least the answers I have at the moment.

1.) “What brought you to Montana?”

The possibility of Adventure. A need to push myself.  A desire to test my strengths in an unfamiliar place.  An expectation of single, attractive cowboys in oversized hats, propped up against fence posts at regular intervals.  A bit more sky and wilderness in my daily line of sight: an ideal setting for a year of roaming.  And of course a desire, simply, to “do good,” to do something both selfish and selfless. I don’t want to be a sayer without being a doer, just like I don’t want to be an observer without being an actor.  Until I figure out life a little bit better, this is all I know about how to make a difference.

2.) “How long will you be here?”

Not sure exactly.  I will be here through the Spring, but whether or not that means I’ll be leaving in April, or May, or sooner or later, I am not sure.  I imagine I’ll stay until at least April, but this remains up in the air.

3.) “What  will you be doing?”

Right now I am working 2 days a week at the Indian Health Services hospital on the reservation.  This hospital serves Crow and Northern Cheyenne patients.  I’m involved with a research study on HPV among Crow women.  There are many different forms of HPV, some of which are “low risk” and some of which are “high risk.”  The high risk types can lead to cervical cancer, and this study is trying to pinpoint which types are the most prevalent among Crow women so appropriate measures can be taken to address the specific needs in this particular population.  My duties involve screening patients to determine who’s eligible for the study, and explaining the procedures to the women.  My involvement with this project is temporary- I’ll probably only be doing it through November.  It’s a wonderful opportunity for me to work in a hospital setting and to get a behind-the-scenes feel for the various inner-workings of American Indian health/healthcare. 

Dr. Byron and several other doctors and social workers started a child advocacy center at the hospital.  Starting in a few weeks, I’m going to be working at the advocacy center one day a week to help interview the abused children.  Also, I’m going to try to seek out grants for the CAC and find a way to make it an established non-profit, although I am unexperienced in this field… Hopefully I won’t press a wrong button and send funds flying through underground tubes into John Mccain’s campaign funds.

There are other volunteer opportunities for me to be involved with at the hospital, including participating in Reach Out and Read, a non-profit that Dr. Byron and a few others started (see the link on my blog, if you’re interested).  I’m looking forward to spending time reading with children while they’re in the waiting room, and hopefully I can make Dr. Seuss converts out of a couple of ‘em.

Finally… further down the road I would still really like to do some sort of bereavement “camp.”  I’ve still got a ways to go before that becomes a reality, so I’ll leave that idea stewing for now…

So… Now you know why I came, and what I’ll be doing.  But let’s be honest: being a concerned, philanthropic citizen is great and everything, but you’re slightly less intrigued with all this do-gooder nonsense than with whether I’ve lassoed any stray wolves, participated in any unique Crow rituals, or stumbled across any sexy cowboys in the sprawling Montana hills.  Alas, I’ve run out of steam, so we’ll save that for my next blog.

While making their way towards Glacier in the northwest corner of the state, Katie and Laurie realized that Montana possesses many unique qualities.  One such quality is Montana locals’ love of scaring the wits out of tourists.  This is easily accomplished, as the two girls  discovered while making a pit stop at a gas station. 

Direct quote from Montanan:  “Did you hear about that guy who was sleeping in his tent, and a grizzly just broke right in and started biting him?  Isn’t that a hoot! I’m pretty sure he was okay; he just lost an arm, a foot, and a kidney.”

Another direct quote, called out as Laurie and I were leaving the store: “Make lots of noise so the bears don’t getcha.”

Several hours later, we entered Glacier and were handed a pile of maps and brochures with park information and instructions for camping.  The majority of the information was dedicated to instructing park-goers on 1.) Leaving the bears alone, 2.) How to avoid bears, and 3.) What to do in the almost inevitable case that you came in contact with a bear.

1. Lock all food in your car.
2. Remove any clothing that contains food debris or the odor of food.
3. Wash hands and face vigorously before entering your tent, so as to remove any lingering food odors.
4. Do not bring any toilitries into your campsite, as their odor may attract bears.
5. Go for walks in groups, and make plenty of noise so bears can hear you.
6. Be careful early in the morning, around dinnertime, and after dark, as this is  when bears are most active.

"Hey Stephen- Campsite #20: I smell Herbal Essences!!!"

 You see where I’m going with this… Basically, anything with an odor attracts hungry bears, yet the same substances one would use to remove the odor of food from one’s clothing also attact bears… So, Laurie and I pulled up to our campsite after being locked in our car for 8 hours with an as-yet-to-have-escaped aroma of trail mix, peanut butter sandwiches, and bean burritos, only to find that our choices were to wash ourselves and risk attracting bears with the smell of toilitries, or to not wash ourselves, and risk attracting bears with our food-drenched clothes…  Something doesn’t seem right here…Nevertheless, Laurie and I pitched our tent in the dark,  and managed to have a peaceful night’s sleep…er, except not quite. 

After hours of tossing and turning, Laurie turned to Katie in the middle of the night and whispered, “I think I just heard something brush up against our tent.  It sounded big.” The two sisters together averaged two hours of sleep, but they were extremely grateful to wake up with all of their limbs still attached to their bodies.

Kalispell, Montana

Aside from our initial preoccupation with Montana’s state animal, I have to say, Glacier National Park is absolutely stunning. The two days we spent there weren’t nearly enough to soak in and fully appreciate the countless peaks and valleys, waterfalls, forests, and paths abounding in the park.  ::Sigh:: One day I will go back.  I’ve already made a promise to myself…

Glacier National Park

On the last leg of our road trip, Laurie and I drove from the tippy-top of Montana to Yellowstone, which is in Wyoming, just over the Montana/Wyoming border.  Yellowstone is famous for its many hotsprings, geysers, towering peaks, and, of course, its wildlife.  Laurie and I discovered very quickly that tourists visiting Yellowstone and Grand Teton are completely obsessed with spotting animals, especially bears.  It is not unusual to find 50 cars pulled over to the side of the road in one spot, stopping traffic and clogging highways, while over-eager tourists trample each other in the hope of seeing a bear.  Laurie and I, who were running low on food at this point, even considered staging a  “Look, it’s a bear!” diversion, so we could rifle through people’s cars for some snacks.  

Old Faithful

In the 3.5 days w had to explore Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks, Laurie and I managed to see: Old Faithful, Mammoth Hot Springs, Petrified Tree, Jackson Lake, the famous Artist’s Point (a beautiful view of Yellowstone River and Upper Falls), and many other geysers, waterfalls, and geographic anomalies.  And since no trip to Yellowstone is complete without causing automobile accidents over spotted wildlife, we made sure we saw the animals that make Yellowstone famous.  When it was all said and done, we saw: coyotes, buffalo, elk, prairie dogs, an ermine/mink, mule deer, ground squirrels, mountain goats, chipmunks, a bald eagle, badgers, skunks, porcupines, and 2 grizzly bears (although one was so far away it could have been a person in a bear suit and none of the 100 tourists gathered around would have known the difference…including the canadian couple next to us with the fancy super-zoom binnoculars…)

 The West isn’t exactly like the West in the movies, but almost.  The thunderstorms, the whipped-cream clouds, the Rockies stretched out like the prickly spine of an ancient behemoth’s corpse, in the final stages of decomposition– these are things you may have seen in the movies, but in order to fully appreciate the beauty in our country, you simply have to see it for yourself.    There’s just so much to explore in the West, from the national parks to the bizarre, off-the-beaten-track sculpture parks.  Laurie and I, two little mice in an American Tale, carved out our own adventure, with the help of Morgan Freeman, The Boss, and a camera.  Symbolically, it marked the end of my life in Charleston, and the beginning of my journey out West.  Charleston will always be home, but the more miles I put between myself and SC, the more I felt my soul lighten and my wings un-cramp.  In a way, I came to Montana to deliberately get lost (Not that I didn’t accidentally get lost about 65 times in the process…It’s amazing how easy it is to forget to look at maps, even when the car is literally painted with them). For now, I’ve found the perfect place in which to be lost, and then I’ll have the rest of my life to get lost over and over again in a myriad of new places. 

Morgan Freeman has kindly offered to provide the closing dialogue to this roadtripper’s tale. 

And as she hugged her sister goodbye at the Billings airport, Katie knew that exciting things were about to happen.  That didn’t mean she wasn’t scared, and it didn’t mean she didn’t instantly want to yell for her sister to come back and stay.  A lyric from the song, “Closing Time” popped into her head.  Being somewhat prone to bookmarking moments to accompany her life’s soundtrack, and recognizing a perfect occassion to resurrect a cheesy song from her adolescence, Katie sang to herself, “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

I’m Morgan Freeman, and I’m completely aware that I’m awesome.  If you haven’t seen me in my new movie, Dark Knight, you should.  It’s pretty good.  I, however, am spectacular. 

I have a tendency to narrate my own life as I’m moving through it.  I speak of myself and my actions in 3rd person, and sometimes, if I’m feeling particularly melodramatic, I hum a sweeping score, to match the movements of my swinging arms and dancing feet.  I often have trouble figuring out and zooming in on my life’s main plot line, but I am excellent at creating subplots at any given time.  When it comes to my life’s sub-plots, in addition to my own narrations, I often borrow the narrating talents of others. For the purpose of the rest of this story, I’ve asked an old friend to be narrator.  He kindly agreed.  Who is this mysterious narrator?  Why he’s one of the most familiar faces and voices of my generation: Mr. Morgan Freeman. He asked me to use italics to differentiate his speaking parts from mine. Therefore, for the remainder of my road trip-relaying, all sentences in italics shall denote, “As told by Morgan Freeman.” I think you’ll find it makes even the most mundane tidbits of my story just the slightest bit more compelling…

While driving through Wisconsin, Minnesota, and the first half of South Dakota, Katie and Laurie arrived at the conclusion: The Midwest looks a lot like…itself. 

The Midwest template: barn, field, silo, and blue sky

 The landscape of the Midwest is perfectly lovely, if unvaried. It follows a  general template, which is then copied and pasted continuously, until the geography switches from grasslands to buttes and lumpy hills.    However, when the farm template is your view for 8 or so hours,         it starts to get monotonous.  Despite our initial lack of enthusiasm with the Midwest, and several hours of feeling like we were being forced to stare at the same photograph, Laurie and I managed to have some interesting adventures once we got to South Dakota. 

The first mini-adventure, sub-plot, if you will, included a visit to a sculpture park.  We spied the park while  driving down I-90, and we turned onto a little dirt road that branched off the interstate.  The park was completely abandoned that day, but Laurie and I delighted in our discovery, even if the sculptures were 100% creepy. 

There may have been a good reason why the park was abandoned and completely free of charge...

Demented down-hill sledder

  The next “adventure” involved my very first roadkill experience.  It was a weasel.  Poor little guy.  After she hit him, Katie tried to push his body off the interstate with her road atlas, but a semi got to him first. 

After a long day in the car, Laurie and I pulled off the interstate in Kadoka, South Dakota, at the suggestion of a Taco John’s cashier (TJ’s= best fast food chain in the West, if you’re a vegetarian and on a major budget).  Kadoka is relatively close to Badlands National Park and Mt. Rushmore, our destinations for the next day.  With a name like “Kadoka,” we weren’t exactly expecting a bubbling metropolis, but we did think the name held the promise of a cute western town, filled with cowboys, old timey bars, and street brawls.  Alas, what we found was a series of Bates Motels. We chose the least sketchy for our night’s lodging.  For those of you who haven’t seen the movie Psycho, the Bates Motel is a rundown motel located in the middle of Nowhere.  It is operated by the psychotic Norman Bates, who likes to peep on his room-renters through  little holes drilled behind paintings.  Laurie and I checked the room thoroughly for peep holes and determined that we’d probably be okay for the night.  Also, a family with a handful of small children checked in right after us, so we knew we weren’t the only boarders. 

Laurie and Katie survived their night in Bates Motel, South Dakota, and as far as they could tell, no one was murdered, dumped in a lake, or spied upon while they were staying there.   Two stopping points were left on their list for South Dakota: Mt. Rushmore and Badlands National Park. 

 Our visit to Mt. Rushmore was pretty cool, but no more or no less that what you’d imagine it to be. After all, we knew what to expect- four presidents’ heads carved into the side of a mountain.  Since we were unable to crawl around and search for hidden tunnels behind the presidents’ faces, we settled for a 5 minute tour of Mt. Rushmore that involved pulling off the side of the road and having our pictures taken with Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Roosevelt in the background.  

I know what you're thinking, but no- there is no hidden tunnel behind Washington's left eye.

 The sisters found Badlands National Park to be much more exciting than Mt. Rushmore. The badlands are  multicolored rock formations, consisting of canyons and ravines, lots of ragged edges, and all manner of unique geologic creations.  Due to constant erosion, the badlands are ever-changing in appearance.   It’s as if a band of giants began heaping together mounds of dough, then abandoned their efforts, leaving the dough to toughen and roughen in the sun.  Badlands National Park is also the home of a beautiful prairie, where buffalo, prairie dogs, and big-horn sheep can be spotted. 

Laurie and I prepared for our dramatic entrance into Badlands National Park by queuing up Springsteen’s “Badlands.” We recorded ourselves driving through the entrance while the song played, though it took us 3 tries and several illegal U-turns to get the music properly matched up to our entrance. It was worth it, though.  The three hours we took to drive through the badlands were among the most memorable of the entire road trip.  If I were to make “Katie’s Top 5″ list of my favorite places visited on our road trip, Badlands N.P. would definitely make the cut.  If you haven’t been there, you should try to make it out there someday.  I think you’ll find that you’ve never seen anything like it.

The Badlands of South Dakota

Roadtrip check-list:

1. A starting point = Charleston, SC
2. One willing sister (aka “Sucker”)
3. The perfect playlist for 50+ hours of driving
4. A satisfactory farewell to loved ones.
5. A camera, to photographically chronicle all roadtrip minutiae that only you and your fellow roadtripping sister will find entertaining.
6. A healthy supply of stolen leftover Easter/Halloween candy.
7. Maps usually help.
8. Some measure of optimism and a spirit of adventure greatly enhance the experience, unless you want to murder your willing “sucker” of a sister…
9. An ending point = Hardin, MT

My adventure westward begins with a series of “good-byes.”  On Tuesday, July 15th, I bid farewell to my Charleston friends.  The best way to bid farewell on the eve of the eve of one’s departure is to cram the people you love into one location, shove several baskets of doritos and baked goods onto a counter, and offer tasty alcoholic party drinks, like beer and ”iced tea” vodka.  Even though my party offered the most exquisite assortment of refreshments one could possibly ask for, my friends didn’t come for the food, and they certainly didn’t come for the iced-tea vodka.  My friends came to bid me farewell, and I’m grateful for the chance to have said good-bye to (nearly) everyone all at once.  It means more to me than I can say to have had so many people show up to cheer me on and send me off. 

Saying good-bye to friends= hard. 

Saying good-bye to Mom? = damn-near impossible. 

 The best way to say good-bye to Mom is to let her cry, while you cry. Then, say the stupidest and/or most random and ridiculous thing you can think of to make her laugh, or at least temporarily cease crying long enough to offer you medicine for you newly acquired case of Tourette Syndrome.  Now, with the awkward/funny comment hanging in the air, quickly embrace her, then jump into your car and take off as fast as you can, in a neighborhood teeming with kids on bikes and a 25-mph speed limit.  It’s always best to leave while the mood is light and the bad joke/strange and/or funny comment is still being dissected. (*Note: be careful not to make the joke too bad…that tends to make the crying significantly worse).

In the hour or so prior to our departure, Laurie and I stuffed last-minute necessities onto her I-pod.  These neccessities consisted of a 265 song playlist, created by my brother especially for our roadtrip, and four hurriedly dowloaded songs (thank you, I-tunes).  These four songs will forever remain a mystery, as I wish to preserve my musical integrity… except it will greatly enhance the story if I go ahead and tell you that two of these four songs definitely came from the Disney movie Camp Rock.  I will further risk damaging my musical credibility to tell you that our roadtrip would have been only half as awesome without the sweet tunes of the Jonas Brothers and Demi Lovato. Also, Laurie does a spot-on Joe Jonas impression.  Ask her sometime.  It’ll change your life.

Anyway, The Jonas Brothers guided us to Lexington, KY, where we spent the first night of our roadtrip with my friend Jessie.  There are several things you should know about Jessie, the most important and relevant being:  she still has Easter candy and Halloween candy  in her bedroom (minus 5 reese’s peanut butter eggs and several handfulls of jelly beans…), and she shares her living quarters with a very fat, very needy cat named Caramel (though, I realize I’m not in any sort of position to judge others for their over-weight, attention-seeking pets ).  The final thing you should know about Jessie is that she’s a gracious host, and thanks to her and her boyfriend John, Laurie and I were successfully ushered to various spots around Lexington and Louisville, including a yardsale, U of L School of Social Work, and Bardsville Rd., a funky, artsy area in downtown L-ville. 

*Some important facts about Lousiville:

•  It is my city of birth, and my home until I was 2 – 5.5 months old (depending on who you ask…I have heard conflicting stories about how old I was when I moved to Charleston, which is a little suspicious, if you ask me….) 
• Headquarters for KFC, and the location of Colonel Harlem Sanders’ grave and memorial site. 
• My dad went to medical school and seminary here.
• Lawn ornaments are quite popular, especially those featuring mythical beasts and The Flinstones.

A slithering serpent barrs the entry to the front door of this Louisville home, and finds its rightful place in a neighbhorhood full of lawn gnomes, Flinstones characters, and stone parakeets...

Laurie and I spent our second night in Kentucky in the basement of Jessie’s boyfriend’s brother’s house.  We woke up at 6 am the next morning to head straight to Chicago for the Pitchfork Music Festival.   The trip to Chicago was fairly uneventful, considering we were driving through Indiana (no offense to Indiana natives or Indiana enthusiasts…). 

For those of you unfamiliar with Pitchfork, it’s a 3-day music festival held every summer in Chicago, featuring an ecclectic mixture of independent artists.  My brother has been going up to Chicago with a group of friends since 2006, Pitchfork’s first year.  This year’s artists included: Spoon, the Hold Steady, Fleet Foxes, Vampire Weekend, the Dodos, Ghost Face Killah’, Caribou, etc.  Laurie and I met my brother, and 6 others in Chicago on Saturday afternoon. I’m not going to give a review of every performance, nor will I go into great detail about our 2 days in Chicago, but I will say that Spoon and the Hold Steady were my favorite performances.  It should probably also be noted that I met and had my picture taken with Brian Bell of the band Weezer.  My friends Ethan and Myles spotted him out a crowd of people and were bold enough to approach him.  I ran up to them several minutes later and had my picture taken.  Just so you know, I’m probably not the person you want around should you stumble across a celebrity, even a relatively minor one like Brian Bell.  Apparently I have a tendency to smile a lot, while altogether losing my ability to speak or convey social expression of any sort.  It’s a good thing he was a rather unpleasant person, otherwise I might have been  embarassed

Thousands and thousands of  people were at Pitchfork.  On Sunday night, after Spoon capped off the festival, the group of us grabbed hands and literally fled Union Park, racing a flock of stampeding people to the L-train.  The group managed to smush ourselves into the first batch of people cramming onto the train, and we breathed a sigh of relief to not be stuck in the ridiculously long line that we knew had already formed outside the train station.  The 9 of us were headed to 2 different locations: Laurie and I had to walk back to our hotel’s parking garage to retrieve our car, and the 7 others were going back to their rented apartment.  We all unloaded from the train and stood on the platform, while pitchforkers spilled out and around the periphery of our little group.  An overly dramatic Casablanca-style good-bye ensued on the platform of the train station, as I tearfully hugged my brother, Joy, and the remainder of my Pitchfork pals. 

It was nearly 10:00 p.m. when Laurie and I managed to leave Chicago. We drove through Illinois and the majority of Wisconsin, before stopping at a cheap hotel near the Wisconsin/Minnesota border.  It was on this stretch of the journey, from Chicago to ___, Wisconsin, that our roadtrip truly began.  We resumed playing my brother’s mix, and geared up for what had really begun to feel like an unraveling journey to, and through, the West.