What an autumn!
It’s November. Serious frost put an end to the growing season only last week, and our vegie garden is finally abed. The last sweet green peppers—two five-gallon buckets—were shared with neighbors. Well-cured buttercup squashes are in basement storage. The hot-wire, net fencing is wrapped up and stored. As usual, it thwarted raccoons and our trio of big dogs from decimating both sweet corn and tomatoes, but the black birds that flock to our corn were unfazed by it. Gallons of cherry tomatoes have been eaten by the handful, shared with neighbors, and doled out as treats for our canine trio. Green slicers stored in boxes continue to keep us hopping as they ripen into candidates for dehydration, salsa, and sandwiches—club style or open-faced on toast and topped with melted cheddar. Boxes of ginormous zucchini whales have gone to neighbors whose chickens make use of them.
A fabulous four-day watercolor workshop and the opening reception of the juried, nationally respected Watermedia exhibition came and went in early October. Both were rewarding for me. My entry in the show sold on opening night and the workshop —taught by show juror Michael Holter—was energizing and fast paced. I usually paint slowly, but the pace worked for me, and I came home with a satisfying landscape, city-scape, figure study, and portrait. Yes, the latter still needs eyebrows, but I consider “Lily” to be a triumph, considering the time constraints.
Creative painting continued at a slower pace at home, with a new Eagle Tree piece completed just in time for submission to the MTWS online Signature Member show. Shortly after, essential painting took over, and the lambing barn now has a new coat of stain/sealant. As part of that job, we learned that our big Dozer dog has an appetite, not only for all things smelly, dead, and rotten but, also, “toxic, dangerous, and/or fatal if swallowed.” At least those are the words of warning on the label of stain/sealant that I painted on the barn. He managed to drink three laps from my paint roller pan before I could stop him. Thwarted from guzzling, he then proceeded to lick the freshly stained wall of the barn, until I again gave him “the word.” Now, several days later, he seems none the worse for his bizarre craving but . . . Geez!
In between creative and essential, Jim and I took a three-day junket east to Glendive for a first-time visit to Makoshika State Park. Despite being a native Montanan and residing in the state for 73 of my 75 years, I had never been to that park nor east of Lewistown on Hwy 200. What a grand and lonely expanse of state from Grass Range to Winnett, Mosby, Jordan, and Circle, before reaching Glendive for the night. The following day in Makoshika was splendid! The park made me proud that Montana supports such a badlands extravaganza.
It’s November. Serious frost put an end to the growing season only last week, and our vegie garden is finally abed. The last sweet green peppers—two five-gallon buckets—were shared with neighbors. Well-cured buttercup squashes are in basement storage. The hot-wire, net fencing is wrapped up and stored. As usual, it thwarted raccoons and our trio of big dogs from decimating both sweet corn and tomatoes, but the black birds that flock to our corn were unfazed by it. Gallons of cherry tomatoes have been eaten by the handful, shared with neighbors, and doled out as treats for our canine trio. Green slicers stored in boxes continue to keep us hopping as they ripen into candidates for dehydration, salsa, and sandwiches—club style or open-faced on toast and topped with melted cheddar. Boxes of ginormous zucchini whales have gone to neighbors whose chickens make use of them.
A fabulous four-day watercolor workshop and the opening reception of the juried, nationally respected Watermedia exhibition came and went in early October. Both were rewarding for me. My entry in the show sold on opening night and the workshop —taught by show juror Michael Holter—was energizing and fast paced. I usually paint slowly, but the pace worked for me, and I came home with a satisfying landscape, city-scape, figure study, and portrait. Yes, the latter still needs eyebrows, but I consider “Lily” to be a triumph, considering the time constraints.
Creative painting continued at a slower pace at home, with a new Eagle Tree piece completed just in time for submission to the MTWS online Signature Member show. Shortly after, essential painting took over, and the lambing barn now has a new coat of stain/sealant. As part of that job, we learned that our big Dozer dog has an appetite, not only for all things smelly, dead, and rotten but, also, “toxic, dangerous, and/or fatal if swallowed.” At least those are the words of warning on the label of stain/sealant that I painted on the barn. He managed to drink three laps from my paint roller pan before I could stop him. Thwarted from guzzling, he then proceeded to lick the freshly stained wall of the barn, until I again gave him “the word.” Now, several days later, he seems none the worse for his bizarre craving but . . . Geez!
In between creative and essential, Jim and I took a three-day junket east to Glendive for a first-time visit to Makoshika State Park. Despite being a native Montanan and residing in the state for 73 of my 75 years, I had never been to that park nor east of Lewistown on Hwy 200. What a grand and lonely expanse of state from Grass Range to Winnett, Mosby, Jordan, and Circle, before reaching Glendive for the night. The following day in Makoshika was splendid! The park made me proud that Montana supports such a badlands extravaganza.
 We popped into every side road, campground, and overlook; we hiked every trail that we were physically capable of traversing. We were among only half a dozen other visitors, so the road, trails, and views were uncluttered. With our dog, Tootie accompanying, we coined a new cocktail—Tootie on the Rocks, Neither Shaken nor Stirred. |    |
Our accommodations at the low-budget Yellowstone River Inn (YRI) were totally satisfactory, and our meals at the in-house restaurant, a favorite of locals, were perfect. On our return trip, we stayed alongside the beautiful Yellowstone River valley to Forsyth, then jogged due west through vast lonely country to Melstone, then along the Musselshell River to Roundup, before turning north through spectacular range country to Grass Range and back to Hwy 200 for the familiar route home west from Lewistown. And, yes, we dropped off our ballots before departing Great Falls, just in case, a perfect segue into the following:
Throughout the season, whether jockeying peppers or a paintbrush, the politics of election 2024 have plagued and distracted me. Podcasts and daily online essays have become an obsession. Among numerous favorite voices, I regularly listen to historian, Heather Cox Richardson, traditional-conservative political analyst, Bill Kristol, and plain-spoken, fearless, patriot, Liz Cheney. I have always been intolerant of liars, whether they be high school students or presidential candidates; and I have always been a stickler for facts – data-based and reliably sourced. Those bottom-lines are basic for me, and they have led me to question the judgement of several neighbors, as well as former colleagues and students. The flagrant lies and dishonesty that clutter the ether render me fearful for America's seniors, young people, middle-class folks, global allies, and those immigrants who bring vision and value to our melting pot traditions. Even as I wonder whether my mother’s birth in Dog Pound, Alberta warrants bonus points in the Canadian immigration system, I’m updating my passport and pondering the possibilities of extended travel abroad. Nova Scotia? Tuscany? Perth? All seem preferable to spending the remainder of my “golden years” furious, but muted, under the reign of a senile and vindictive tyrant or his bizarre and dark understudy. I’d prefer to emerge from next week’s election with our constitution and our democratic ideals intact. I remain hopeful.
Throughout the season, whether jockeying peppers or a paintbrush, the politics of election 2024 have plagued and distracted me. Podcasts and daily online essays have become an obsession. Among numerous favorite voices, I regularly listen to historian, Heather Cox Richardson, traditional-conservative political analyst, Bill Kristol, and plain-spoken, fearless, patriot, Liz Cheney. I have always been intolerant of liars, whether they be high school students or presidential candidates; and I have always been a stickler for facts – data-based and reliably sourced. Those bottom-lines are basic for me, and they have led me to question the judgement of several neighbors, as well as former colleagues and students. The flagrant lies and dishonesty that clutter the ether render me fearful for America's seniors, young people, middle-class folks, global allies, and those immigrants who bring vision and value to our melting pot traditions. Even as I wonder whether my mother’s birth in Dog Pound, Alberta warrants bonus points in the Canadian immigration system, I’m updating my passport and pondering the possibilities of extended travel abroad. Nova Scotia? Tuscany? Perth? All seem preferable to spending the remainder of my “golden years” furious, but muted, under the reign of a senile and vindictive tyrant or his bizarre and dark understudy. I’d prefer to emerge from next week’s election with our constitution and our democratic ideals intact. I remain hopeful.
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