The Tie That Binds

[I am right in the middle of wrapping up the
END of my semester so instead of trying to
come up with something creative to blog about,
I decided to just share my latest term paper
with you. This kills two birds with one stone
because as I type it out again I can proof read
and also because it gives me something to add to
my blog site since I am having a hell of a
time getting here on a regular basis! Besides
it will give you another peek into my musings.

Thank you for your help with my proof reading
effort.....hope all is well out there with my
blog-buddies! Once finals are over I hope I
will be a better blogger!]

THE TIE THAT BINDS

Having been born and raised in Montana you would think that my finding a topic and writing an essay about it would be fairly easy. Normally, a nice quality story starts out with, "Once upon a time..." and then ends fabulously with, "...they lived happily ever after!" Somewhere tucked nicely between the beginning and the end there are heros in tight pants willing to risk their very lives to save the beautiful princess with white teeth and great hair. Unfortunately I am having a difficult time believing that my life, my big "Montana Experience", is worth the effort of a six to eight page term paper. I am also quite certain that my comings and goings are not so daring enough that they would warrant a fairy tale. Besides, the longer my hair gets the more split ends I have! Don't get me wrong, though. My life has been steeped in tradition, full of myth, and plagued by chaos. It's just that it seems quite boring when compared to the excitement of Meriwether Lewis when he saw the Great Falls for the first time, or the sentiment of George Catlin. When all is said and done I am more the Mary MacLane type in that I tend to see things in a darker light and such tendencies rarely have a "happily ever after" ending.

Technically, my story could start out with, "Once upon a time..." Once upon a time a baby girl was born in ***********, Montana on ********* , 19**. That all seems simple enough. But controversy surrounded my wee bald head the minute I decided to enter this world because my mother was only fifteen when she got pregnant with me and sixteen when she had me. A month before I was born there was a shotgun wedding and by that I mean that my dad married my mother because my grandfather held a heavy and well used shotgun up in the air and hollered, "You'll marry her, goddammit!" It sounds like I caused a big ruckus but I've heard that I really was a good baby! Needless to say I was raised watching MASH on a tiny, thirteen inch black and white television while we ate TV dinners. My young parents drank a lot, smoked a lot and cussed a lot but they also learned a lot. Mostly about each other, as they were practically strangers when they married. I am sure back then they were making plans and dreaming adult dreams. But under the "Big Sky" of Montana anything looks good at first. Those were the good old days. Those were the "once upon a time" days.

Then reality set in. Just like the undaunted explorers and reckless pioneers of way back when, my parents didn't really know anything about ANYTHING. Life started to get hard and the daily grind became almost more than they could bear. But my dad worked hard and my nervous mom had another baby which she was more than willing to hand over to me while she drank chocolate cokes, chain smoked and flipped slowly through Cosmopolitan magazine wishing for another life. I learned quickly that the easiest way to stay out of trouble was to stay out of the way. I spent my time with my younger sister and we grew up exploring the great beyond. I thrived in the thick shadows of Glacier National Park. I participated in summer camps on Flathead Lake. I learned to water ski on Whitefish Lake. We camped on the Hungry Horse Reservoir. We picked huckleberries in the North Fork. I cut wood with my dad in the fall and we went to the forest to chop down our Christmas tree every winter. I poked my finger into the noses and eyes of the deer and elk Dad brought home with pride during hunting season. My entire childhood was spent living the Montana experience but I never looked at it like that. To me, I was just a kid growing up.

Part of growing up however is wanting to spread your wings. I found out at a fairly young age that if you are born in Montana you are expected to live and die in Montana. It's tradition. It's an unspoken rule. Instead of being tagged like a calf is as soon as it's born, somehow the nurses put a huge "Made in Montana" stamp on your forehead when you are born and the minute you even pondered the idea of leaving, the stamp created a burning sensation that put you back in your place. Usually your place was where your parents lived or worked. Under normal circumstances that could mean a fine job at the local aluminum plant or a swell job at the local lumber mill. If you were really lucky you got willed into the family's small business; a restaurant or a souvenir store that catered to the curious masses visiting from somewhere different. Only on special occasions (called full-ride scholarships) were you allowed to attend the state university in Missoula but you had to solemnly swear under punishment of death to bring your degree and your new-found husband or wife back to the Flathead Valley. Tradition was stifling.

The first time I ever escaped the clutches of tradition and left Montana was when I was a senior in high school. At seventeen I boarded a plane for the first time with my government class and we ventured out to our nation's capital to check in on Max Baucus. Washinton D.C. seemed like heaven to me; the cars, the cabs, the crazy people, the chaos. I loved it. I had found my Eden. The city seduced me and I went back after I graduated from high school to nanny for a year. Yes, I destroyed the Montana mold and I went out East! At seventeen (and a half!), I boarded a plane for the second time and ventured out to our nation's capital but I left Max Baucus to his own devices. I was out for adventure. I managed to secure a fake I.D. which was appropriate under the circumstances because all along I was searching for another identity. In the city I could be anyone I wanted to be but most of all I didn't HAVE to be from Montana. During that year, with the help of my new credentials, I drank a lot, I cussed a lot, (I have never smoked) and I most definitely learned a lot.

Like most teenagers I had no fear so I was able to "suck the marrow out of life" (HD Thoreau). I discovered who I wanted to be. I met people I trusted and people I didn't. I drove too fast and slept too little. I wandered for hours through the museums and walked up and down every marble step in the city. I spoke to Abraham Lincoln and I cried at the Vietnam Memorial. I lived dangerously, but I did live. Of course my parents being the faithful Montanans that they were, were thoroughly convinced that I was addicted to drugs and alcohol. Or, even worse, that I had joined an underground cult or an "inner city gang". Essentially I became a black sheep. I was a nomad in the badlands of the east and loving every minute of it. (Lucky for me I was never approached about joining an underground cult or an "inner city gang"!) After a year the brand on my forehead started itching and I returned home. The pompous mountains parted just long enough to let me back in. I was pensive, reluctant, but very aware. I was aware that there is, indeed, life beyond the borders of the great west; the wild and untamed wilderness. Aware that the tie that binds can sometimes choke the life out of you. Aware that the mountains have the ability to make you feel too small and the "big sky" is just too damn big sometimes. You can lose yourself in it.

It's been ** years since I returned from my adventure out east. I have been married for fifteen years and I have two children of my own now. My husband is a native Montanan and my son and daughter are now living their own "Montana Experience". As a family we still pick huckleberries in the North Fork and we still camp on the reservoir. We've spent many summer days playing in Whitefish Lake and we still go traipsing into the forest to cut down our Christmas tree each year. I guess some things never do change with time. My parents are still married but they have never gotten to know each other. They are each others' bad habit. My dad still works hard and my mom is still a nervous chain smoker, although now she drinks triple lattes and reads gardening magazines. I still enjoy MASH reruns but I watch them on a twenty five inch flat screen while I am flipping back and forth from CNN. I don't think I've eaten a TV dinner since I was ten. I still poke my fingers into the noses and eyes of the deer and elk that the men in my family bring home each fall but I only eat beef. I know that I probably swear too much but I still do not smoke. And good old Max Baucus is still in Washington D.C. doing whatever it is that he does but I have not been back since I left in **. I have very fond memories of that era in my life and its pulse still runs through my blood even after all these years.

I love Montana although it does not define me nor does it confine me. Deep down inside I am still a nomad looking for something. I don't know what the something is yet, but I am patient. These Montana mountains make me feel trapped and insignificant. The Lodgepole Pine trees prick at my nerves. The deer irritate me and the gray winters bore me. I've spent countless hours in my adult years sitting on the beaches of the Pacific Ocean breathing the salty air into my lungs, willing the waves to take me somewhere, anywhere. I paint, I draw pictures, I write stories and poems about the myths and chaos of life-undiscovered; life outside of Montana. I constantly encourage my children to think outside the box because I want them to pull back the tree branches and gaze over the mountains. I want them to know they can leave. I have emotionally and mentally erased any stamp or defining marks that tell them they have to live and die here. I want them to write their own stories; stories that end in a hundred different ways with a thousand different adventures.

In the mean time, life goes on. I am thirty five (and a half!) years old and I feel like I still have not found my true identity. I believe that I am everywhere but here. Yes, I am still a daughter and a sister and now I am also a wife, mother and student. I am happy. But somehow I am still missing. Am I running wild on the east coast weaving in and out of the cherry trees, living in Monet's paintings? Am I blowing softly on the winds in Hawaii? Am I crashing dangerously onto the unforgiving rocks of the Oregon coastline? Am I drifting back and forth between the tides? Ah, but my forehead is burning.

Mountains have the ability to make you feel too small and the "Big Sky" of Montana is just too damn big sometimes. You can lose yourself in it.

But I am patient.