MONTANA 004

My first job ever was in management. At age 14, with no portfolio whatsoever I became day manager of a Dairy Queen, which provides a clue as to how desperate were the two brothers-in-law, belatedly realizing just 3 months after their impulsive purchase that this was not the path to untold riches foretold in the franchising brochure.

My second foray into the business world was the less inspiring delivery of telephone books. I was recruited off the playground in the closing days of fifth grade to work with Ray, a gaunt, seedy and very creepy type with pencil mustache, who projected an air that kept me sitting with legs tightly clamped together in the front seat of his 49 Chevy.

And so another circle has rounded the third quadrant and is heading for home as I, a half century later, again found myself delivering “the book”, not the Yellow Book, the Other Book. As I have grown a bit, so has the book (proportionally much greater), and there are now a plethora (consistently pointed out by recipients, “My God, not another one?”)

And while I won’t suggest the modest compensation was unappreciated, other factors, those obvious and others to become so, factored into my decision.

After paying some dues slogging through snowy trailer parks and dank college-student apartment buildings, I was treated to long drives through some of the planet’s most dazzling geography. I made it half way to Canada, crossing again and again the Yellowstone river, ending in White Sulphur Springs. Then south to the Wyoming border and Yellowstone, crossing again and again the magnificent Madison, where solitary anglers caught early spring rays looking to entice winter-starved fish. Spectacular snow-capped mountain ranges everywhere.

And along the way some delightful Americana:

The (apparently) one-room Pine Creek school, where the teacher, cute as a button (odd phrase, that) and looking all of 15-years old, replied to my question “is this really a one-room school?” with “Oh no, Sir we have two rooms and a Biology lab in the basement.” She looked as proud as the headmaster of any Charter School, and likely more accomplished at imparting basic education to her charges.

Rural libraries, sans computers and A/V rooms, where youngsters sat enthralled by the pictures in 20th century artifacts called “books.”

Small towns with one gas station, a small grocery, and 3 bars, by late afternoon packed with locals who likely sat astride the same stool since FDR’s CCC was paving their main street, and still discussing whether that bit of “progress” was, indeed so.

The all-in-one: gas station, grocery, liquor store, feed warehouse, and U. S. Post Office; although most villages now sport shiny new Postal emporiums that vastly outclass all other local real estate and are as out of place as would be a Starbucks.

The sad elderly, who, the minute I would (attempt to silently) place the book-enclosed plastic bag on the door knob, thrust open the door, act as though this “gift” was the year’s most exciting, and implore (beg) me to alight for tea. Post boxes are now at street level, avoiding unnecessary walks for Postal employees, and time-wasting encounters with our forgotten citizens. (I know a retired “letter carrier” (as they were known in pre-PC days) who was consistently admonished for being late on his route, as he insisted on stopping to exchange pleasantries with the aged, infirmed, and housebound).

…and various wonderful locals with comments like: “I don’t have a phone, but these burn well in winter”…”when my husband died they took our name of the of the book, so I won’t have one in my home any more”…”why are some pages yellow? Can’t you make them green for the environment?”…and my favorite, “my dog loves your book. He won’t go on anything else.”

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Amidst this excitement I threw on a tie, hopped aboard a Horizon Air prop plane painted yellow and orange by in celebration of not having flown recently into a mountain, and departed for Seattle, where I addressed the State Emergency Operations Center as an SME (subject matter expert) on a Subject whose Matter I was somewhat familiar with but not necessarily Expert. Anyway, I was asked back, the consultant’s equivalent of a standing ovation.

I reflect that such peripatetic hopping about is a recurring theme of my life, having once transmogrified in short order from the Director of U. S. Government Pavilions at international trade shows to a humble itinerant wandering aimlessly through Europe in a VW camper, taking up embroidery to fill long days. Variety for me may be the spice(s) of life, with short wiffs of curry, cumin, cinnamon, and rosemary in quick succession. Makes for interesting fare.

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I’m not a smoker, had my last on March 13, 1977, and I do enjoy the improved air quality in bars and restaurants from Dublin to Paris, London to Rome, and now increasingly here at home. But I wonder if we are not forgetting the lessons of Prohibition, where far more chaos was wrecked in the forbiddance than the permissiveness.

Governing bodies have struggled for centuries with bans of various stripe, and typically are no more successful here than in other areas of social conformance. There are places in America where the cultivation of a few marijuana plants can yield a stiffer sentence than for murder, especially if the violent criminal has had a difficult childhood and finds a good lawyer.

The issue is more complex than many would care to admit. Why should I care if some biker wears a helmet? Well, every time I get a hospital bill that charges me $15 for a 25-cent disposable thermometer, I care, understanding that the price is inflated by the care provided to uninsured bikers.

But soon, one way or the other, we will have universal health care, where no one need worry about such trivial issues as cost. Issues of quality may replace those concerns, but then we must pay a price for progress. I have walked the dark, dingy, halls of British hospitals, and was fed aspirin for a week by a French dentist who did not possess the skill to diagnose that I had a tooth cracked to the root, so I know something of which I speak.

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And more metaphors taken from actual high school student essays:


He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.


Even in his last years Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut

Next time I will be somewhere else...the adventure continues...