insearchofbud

Please forgive me.

October 12, 2015

Tonight’s first meeting: Rick Murchison is a woodworker, does sales writing, used to be a singer-dancer for 10 years, vaudeville style, I suppose. He brought cookies. Russell gave me a glass of milk. Rick is a baker and handy cook. He wrote and read a tale of one who flies into town, then goes to a cabin and starts a fire for warmth and comfort in the snowy night. He has high charisma.
Vicki Williamson just finished a draft of her novel, is working on a second. She sent her manuscript to eight readers for criticism. Her practice writing was fiction, set on an ocean pier, with her sailor boyfriend leaving forever after a breakup.
Carina Cooper is an artist. She was costume designer for two locally produced films. One of her children is severely autistic and she is writing a novel that is partly autobiographical. She told a tale of an encounter of the heart that was punctuated by a spider.
Peg Hart just retired from more than 30 years with the Job Service. She is fascinated by the Missouri-to-Montana migrations, so she wants to write historical works, perhaps partly or mostly fiction. She told a story set when her children were teenagers.
Don Woerner is a veterinarian from Laurel. (He and I once explored the Crow reservation with Porgy Lande perhaps 20 years ago, over by Pryor. Porgy showed us where the Bozeman trail went. I took pictures and made a cassette tape.) Don wants to write short stories about the changes to the Billings area he’s witnessed since 1968 when he started as a veterinarian. His tale was a glimpse at what a snowy night can be like for a veterinarian who takes care of calving. Don’s little finger was crushed by a bison recently.
Russell Rowland facilitated our group, but remains enigmatic. At least one of us disciples attended his writing group at least twice before. He had us read from Stephen King’s book about writing a memoir.
Rhonda Whiteman wants to write about her Crow-Irish grandmother and another topic as well. She studied filmmaking at New York University for 2 and 1/2 years. She wrote and directed 13 films. She had to quit for health reasons. Now she plans to attend school again, but wants to work on her two writing projects. Her warm-up writing was of wearing a pink rain coat in Sweden, amongst the many who wore black.
Jacque Swiesz plans to write a fictional memoir from a 17-year-old male accident victim’s viewpoint. Her story took us to the night she lost her cocker spaniel, “Blondie.” She remembered how her grandpa gave her the animal years before, and how she named it.

What does Pagan mean?

Next week I am supposed to bring 15 to 20 pages of writing to class to share. Ten copies.

In our free writing exercise, I wrote:

The thing I remember most about that night is the awareness of every crick and pop of the floor. No. The sound of the bed springs as I carefully rolled toward the edge of the bed. Then, like I said, the floor squeezed. Loudly. To my ears, pounding from pulse, couldn’t be helped. Slowly, barefoot, no pants, I pushed the door. Then unlatched it. Across the stair landing. Her parents asleep?
Took me, like, an hour but I made it across the landing. I pushed open her door.
Darkness within and without. Then I realized she had decided after all, to sleep downstairs in her brother’s room. I turned and walked heavily back to my room, to bed.

He is trying to distract me with rock and roll while I struggle to make money writing. Or even sense.

October 11, 2015

When a tooth hurts everything else seems less important. My niece’s son Jackson likes to play guitar. I took a picture of him and me.

I had started writing about my experiences with racism directed against Natives, but then it got boring. I was ready to quit. I decided to dig more deeply, but then, no. Sometimes writing is a huge drag, even when I have this compulsion. Things are mixed up. People are not sufficiently sympathetic when I tell them I worked 40 hours. But, but, I’m retired! I can see their looks. They change the subject. I’ve lost my audience.

No, I’ll think about something else. Got a darkroom to fix up. Framing studs are in place, electrical outlet boxes have been located. Friday I bought 100 feet of number 12, two-conductor, interior, sheathed wire. Perfect for fixing about eight electrical plug-ins, two overhead lights, three light switches. I’m thinking about using an old wooden table I got from the alley for one of the work surfaces, and a piece of kitchen counter for another.

Tomorrow I start another 40-hour week. Tomorrow night, the first meeting of a writing group. Of course, I don’t know what to think. I hope many people will join a writing group and tell me stories, coherent stories, well-told. I want to know what will “get me there.”

Clara, me, Bob and Todd in 1975 in Tustin, California.

The first camping trip I remember the five of us taking was in the Sierra Nevada mountains out of Bakersfield, California. We checked out the camping gear from the Marine Air Station at El Toro. Last time I checked, El Toro had been converted into a museum.

We had a 1966 volkswaggen bug, so we took out the back seat, replaced it with plywood. We also brought along a collection of parts and tools. And the Idiot book. We didn’t go anywhere without the book by John Muir that would help us diagnose and fix any problem with the volks.

I got the camping gear from the base. Special services allowed one to check out such things as Coleman stove, sleeping bags, a tent. I’m pretty sure we had to reserve a campsite by phone, although we would be traveling quite far up into the mountains.

Of course it rained. The children were okay with rain, but they watched me set up the tent and fix some food on the stove. They stayed in the car with their mom. A fire would have cheered them, but no firewood was available. I wandered widely in the camping area and couldn’t find a twig to burn.

We spent just the one cold night in the thin Coleman sleeping bags with blankets on and under us. Fortunately the experience didn’t hurt our future camping. We learned to buy warmer bags, to cope with rain, but best of all, to move back to Montana. Firewood is usually easy to find.

October 3, 2015

I am anxious about my wife. Is she okay? She drove to Thompson Falls, Montana, yesterday while I worked. She stayed the night at a motel there that has no room phones. I tried to phone her but evidently the cell phone has been turned off or there is no service there. The plan was for her to climb perhaps 10 miles up a mountain with a group from the Montana Wilderness Society. We have hiked with members of the group before and enjoyed the experiences. Arduous, but enjoyable. Trouble is the weather is cold and snowy in parts of the state. It is 5:37 pm and I still was not able to phone her. I know anxiety is not good. Not helpful. Still, I worry. I hope she will phone as soon as she returns to civilization. Now I am going to search the internet for weather in the Thompson Falls area. I remember 5 years ago, or so, she and I hiked to Hornet Peak, just west of Glacier, on October 1 and it snowed up high and we were quite cold. I cried, but it did no good.
I checked the weather report, not what I expected. The air quality from smoke is not healthy. People with respiratory or heart disease should avoid strenuous outdoor activity. Healthy people should limit such activity. Now I am concerned. My honey has serious asthma and a 9 or 10-mile hike would certainly be prolonged strenuous outdoor activity. Perhaps she is on her way home? I hope so.
She phoned me! She is fine. She hiked, but took a shortcut back. Her breathing is fine. She will sleep in the motel in Thompson Falls and return to Billings tomorrow. I am so relieved.

October 5, 2015

Yesterday she returned about 4 p.m.! She was in good shape, although she said the Saturday mountain climbing near Thompson Falls with the group was brutal. She became queazy after the group started out at a fast pace. She ended up catching up with them at a mountain lake and they all hustled back down the trail together.
Mondays are usually damned busy at Omnicare pharmacy. I don’t know which shift I am working so I’ll just go in early because I will have to work steadily if I can’t do things that quickly.
I don’t feel like writing in my diary. That’s odd, because I am doing exactly that and nobody asked me to do it. Somewhere something is compelling me. I’ve been glad I wrote other times, especially when I made an observation.
I have a dental appointment tomorrow and my tooth is not hurting at this moment.
Feels great to stretch in the morning.
My muse is absolutely quiet, perhaps asleep? I’d like to wake her but I don’t even know where she is.

October 6, 2015

I was stunned by how busy we were at work yesterday. We busted some serious licks. Then this morning before work I saw my dentist who referred me for a root canal. My tooth aches, but throughout the day I was able to get by with acetaminophen. (Or paracetamol for you from other lands.) The tooth is an aggravation but not excruciating, yet. I hate to ask for stronger medicine, so I’ll see if I can get by another 8 days until I see the endodontist. I agreed to work two more days this month, bringing it almost to full time all month. I will see how it goes. Next Monday I will go to Russell Rowland’s writing workshop.
Every once in a while I get an inspiration to find out about something I can write about. Right now my tooth aches and my inspiration is gone. Perhaps I’ll read about “Operation Mincemeat,” from World War II.

Tales of the subgenius.

Yesterday morning I dreamed about a person who saw himself in the truest of mirrors, that of others, and he said he loved the homely plainness, some would even say vileness. A kind of beauty, but ugliness too. He advised me to embrace adjectives, for a reason. He just didn’t say.

He said, “Stop. Let me continue. Others would hold their noses and murmur ‘ugly.’ Perhaps you will see yourself here?” he asked.

“I have been a second choice. A fool. You knew it, and so do I. I certainly don’t mind. Would it make any difference if I did? No. My story: A third rate romance, like the song. It’s all the story I have! As I grow older I feel that I can see certain things clearer.”

This guy said he was right between happy and sad and could see truly without passion, without self-trickery.

He went on, “Forty-six years ago when I was in jail in Millington, Tennessee, I had no story to tell anyone. Imagine a great hulking guy like me without a story, but I had visions, hallucinations. Too bad that my voices told me I was brainless and worthless.

“My visions were of a vast clockwork in which I became ever more entrapped. I even wrote to my mother complaining about this. This prompted a Captain from somewhere in the upper echelons of the Marine Corps to visit me in my jail cell and advise me to ‘knock it off.’

“Then they cut me to 1200 calories daily. No smoking, no dairy, no meat. Just vegetables, bread, water, eggs. Therefore, I wrote on my daily request form, to retrieve from my seabag, a book titled, ‘Sam Jones’ Latest Sermons.’

“They did. The book was actually the I Ching with a dust cover from the book about the preacher Jones. I didn’t know any sermons, but I had some knowledge of the Ching. I had taken a course at the University of Montana taught by Professor Henry Bugbee. No, someone else from the philosophy department taught it, and I poached the course, squeezed into the back of the room to listen. I was still a fake hippie then.

“Thanks to the Ching I had a story to tell the other poor bastards in jail. The ones who must have been afraid of me because of the way I watched the clockwork in my imagination.

“How does one tell a story? Quickly, I learned. That is, I learned to tell my story briefly. Took me lots of tries. I soon discovered that it really didn’t matter what story I told, as long as it was short. As long as I let my listener off the hook and found a new listener. Or none at all. One could always just head for the head. That’s what a navy bathroom is called. The head. In jail the head was not a separate room. Toilets, perhaps four of them, were in the center of the room, in a straight line. It was the military, after all.”

Darkroom at our house, being gutted.

My daughter and her husband purchased a house at 620 Ross in Santa Ana, California. A bungalow. Wow. You couldn’t live in it because it had been open to the elements for I don’t know how long. Evidently rain had gotten in and the oak floor warped and peeled. Did I mention the glass was gone from many of the windows? The plaster was cracked, the ceiling popcorn was sketchy. Rats had taken over. Clara found a rat in the stove.

I don’t remember how much the house cost. The figure $270,000 sticks in my head. Maybe it wasn’t that much, but in Southern Cal houses cost a lot. Ordinary houses cost a mil. A measly $270 K gets you a house that is barely standing, not inhabitable. Luckily, they got a bank to loan them the money to, well, not move in, but fix it up.

We had a great time working on the house, banishing the rats, introducing a fine gray cat. I helped them rewire the house. Brian’s dad painted the kitchen cabinets. What a great time it was!

I wandered around downtown Santa Ana and found a junk store with a book about home maintenance. In post war America, houses with GIs had darkrooms! To develop the films, to print them.

I mentioned the darkroom I had as a 6th grader in my closet, then, in my basement. Then when we moved to another place in Missoula my bedroom became my darkroom. When we moved to Dillon I tried the basement, but getting it dark enough was a problem, so I used my bedroom closet. Throughout life I’ve had darkrooms in garages in California, then a spare bedroom in Missoula, then basement rooms in Billings. That’s where I am now.

Every 20 years, or so, I gut my darkroom and plumb and wire it anew. That’s where I am now. In my Billings basement. I gutted, I reframed, I am now adding wires. I made a 3-way switch so that I can turn off the lights when I’m over by the sink. I think I’ll just use some old tables and counters and shelves for my supplies and working surfaces. I got an old table from a neighbor’s discard in the alley. I got the counter from a thrift store.

First I’ll finish wiring all of the outlets. Then I’ll sheetrock and tape and mud the walls and ceiling. Then I’ll move back in. Perhaps this weekend.

Tom Struckman, about 1964, with nephews Chris and Chuck Angel in Dillon, Montana.

My grandmother’s Argus C-3 viewfinder 35mm camera got lots of use. My goal was to get a picture published in the school newspaper, but the great action shots of high school football games were “not clear” enough, according to editor Tim Pilgrim. I’d try again and again. I even asked a professional photographer for help, or rather, he offered me help. He asked me to bring in my pictures, so I did. Even the crappy blurry ones.

By the time my nephews came to visit from Bozeman I was getting much better. Of course I developed and printed my own. Bridenstein. That’s what the professional’s name was, and he had a darkroom too. He showed me how he developed and printed. He used a Crown Graphic 4×5 inch view camera, often with a tripod. I bought his old Federal brand enlarger when he replaced it with a new Omega.

My darkroom was a closet in my bedroom. Very handy for me, large enough. At one point I developed B&W 8mm movie film and ended up splashing great quantities of chemicals all over the floor.

Tom lived with us because he flunked out at Missoula and had to retake some basic classes at the Western Montana College of Education in Dillon. He had disdain for the professors there. They had an English professor who had never heard of Leslie Fiedler! Tom said Western was a glorified high school. Our mother taught there.

One thing follows another.

October 1, 2015

Things that surprised me today: 1) how tired I was at 6 a.m. 2) that anybody read yesterday’s blog post that I wrote about working in a pharmacy. 3) how tired I was at 9 a.m., at 10 a.m. 4) reading chapter 33 in the Walter McClintock book. 5) reading about time travel. Traveling ahead is more likely to become a reality than traveling into the past. That is unless you subscribe to the theory of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. about the “mountain range of time.” 6) I was able to figure out how to wire a 3-way light switch mentally and it panned out in reality. In my darkroom. 7) How I would gloat over the wiring of the 3-way switch. 8) Seriously, how I was able to figure out the switch in my head! 9) How, when I confessed that I didn’t understand our church minister’s email, that another, even more intelligent person, a woman, said she didn’t quite understand it either. 10) I think I’m beginning to understand the email from our church’s senior minister.

History and geography.

I read a satisfying chapter about the Old North Trail this morning, supplied by an old friend. I admired the author’s formal writing style as well as his friends’ description of western geography:

From The Old North Trail, by Walter McClintock (1870-1949), Chapter 33. An excerpt:

There is a well known trail we call the Old North Trail. It runs north and south along the Rocky Mountains. No one knows how long it has been used by the Indians. My father told me it originated in the migration of a great tribe of Indians from the distant north to the south, and all the tribes have, ever since, continued to follow in their tracks. The Old North Trail is now becoming overgrown with moss and grass but it was worn so deeply, by many generations of travelers, that the travois tracks and horse trail are still plainly visible.

“On Crow Lodge River, just across from our present camp, a lone pine tree once stood. It was a landmark for people traveling north and south along the Old North Trail, because it stood upon the plain and could be seen from a long distance. Finally the Lone Tree fell, but two children took its place. They have grown large and now they mark the former course of the North Trail. The Indians still speak of the spot as the Lone Tree. In many places the white man’s roads and towns have obliterated the Old Trail. It forked where the city of Calgary now stands. The right fork ran north into the Barren Lands as far as people live. The main trail ran south along the eastern side of the Rockies, at a uniform distance from the mountains, keeping clear of the forest, and outside of the foothills. It ran close to where the city of Helena now stands, and extended south into the country, inhabited by a people with dark skins, and long hair falling over their faces (Mexico).

In former times, when the Indian tribes were at war, there was constant fighting along the North Trail. In those days, Indians, who wanted to travel in peace, avoided it and took to the forest. My father once told me of an expedition from the Blackfeet, that went south by the Old Trail, to visit the people with dark skins. Elk Tongue and his wife, Natoya, were of this expedition, also Arrow Top and Pemmican, who was a boy of twelve at that time. He died only a few years ago at the age of 95. They were absent four years. It took them twelve moons of steady traveling to reach the country of the dark skinned people, and eighteen moons to come north again. They returned by a longer route through the ‘ High Trees ‘ or Bitter Root country, where they could travel without danger of being seen. They feared going along the North Trail because it was frequented by their enemies, the Crows, Sioux, and Cheyennes.

Elk Tongue brought back the Dancing Pipe. He bought it nearly one hundred years ago and it was then very old. The South Man, who gave it to him, warned him to use it only upon important occasions, for the fulfillment of a vow, or the recovery of the sick. Whenever anyone was starting on a war, or hunting expedition, a safe return could be secured by vowing to give a feast to the Dancing Pipe. In the Medicine Bundle that went with it, were the skins of animals and birds. The otter and lynx were the largest, the otter belonging to the head man and the lynx to the woman. The South Man also told Elk Tongue that, it had been their custom, in giving the Pipe ceremonial, to cut open a badger, and to place inside a preparation mixed with paint. Everyone who attended the ceremonial looked into the badger, trying to see themselves. If their reflection looked black, or wrinkled, it was a sign of death, but, if they looked gray haired, they would live to be old. The South Man advised discontinuing this part of the ceremonial, saying it was not well to try to read the future, because people were made unhappy by it.

When the Pipe was unrolled, it was shaken, and, if any of the skins, or feathers fell, misfortune would be sure to overtake the man who made the vow.

” I have followed the Old North Trail so often, that I know every mountain stream and river far to the south, as well as towards the distant north. We call the Three Tetons in the the south (Wyoming), Teat Buttes, because of their shape. North of the Mud Head Creek is a stream along whose banks many berries grow, so we named it Sweet Creek. North of it is another stream we call the Ghost Piskun 1 Creek. On its shore is a miniature cliff about three feet high. At the base of the cliff are small circles of stones, similar to those made by the Indians for their lodge fires. It looks to us as if, at one time, there must have been a miniature Indian camp there. If you visit the place early in the morning you will see many mice. We believe these mice are the ghosts of buffalo, which take the forms of mice, whenever people look at them. North of the Ghost Piskun Creek is a place called ‘ Where-war-parties-meet.’ Many years ago, a Blackfoot war party was traveling north by the Old Trail. The chiefs name was Koko-nut-stoke (Owl), so called because of his large eyes. One day, when Owl was in advance of the others, he discovered a war party of Crow Indians coming south by the same trail. Owl ambushed himself in a thicket. The Crow war party had secured plunder and the chief was in advance, carrying in his arms the sacrifices he was about to make to the Sun.

He happened to enter the same thicket and was preparing to fasten his gifts in a tree when Owl killed him and took his scalp. Ever since that time we have called that spot, and the stream near by, ‘ Where-war- parties-meet.’ Farther south is Mosquito Creek. Anyone who is foolish enough to camp there, will be almost eaten up by mosquitoes. Just beyond is low ground which we have named ‘ Big Timber,’ because trees grow very large there. Birch Creek was named because of the groves of birches along its shores; Badger Creek, on account of the many large badgers seen along its banks; Black Tail, because of the quantity of black tail deer in the thickets near that stream. Mud Head River was named, because of the piskun we had there. When we ran a herd of buffalo over the cliff they fell into the mud which was so soft it covered their heads. Two Medicine River was named, because we once had a double piskun there. We drove the buffalo over one, or the other, as we chose. Lee’s Creek is called ‘ Banks-roped-together ‘ by our people. An Indian when on a hunt killed a buffalo there, marking the spot by cutting the raw hide into strips and making them into a rope, which he fastened to stakes on both sides of the stream. When the Indians, saw the rope they named the place ‘ Where-the- banks-are-roped-together.’ The stream finally became known by that name. ” In the mountains, at the head of the Green Banks (St. Mary’s), are two lakes. We call them the In Lakes, because they run so far into the mountains. At the head of Swift Current River, is another lake, surrounded by thick forests and high peaks, and with falls at the outlet. We have named it Moose Lake. When some of our people were once hunting there, a moose dived into the lake and escaped. “At the place, where the Kootenai River flows out of the mountains, there is an old trail leading past some large rocks, which we have named the Rockies. It leads up to a pass over the Big Mountains (Rock^ Mountains), which a large war party named Bad Luck Fat Pass. When they were crossing the summit, they were caught in a storm so severe, that they were forced to camp there. The snow was very deep and they spent their time hunting. They killed so many elk and moose, that it was very difficult to pack out the fat meat and hides, so they called the pass, ‘ Bad Luck Fat.’

“There is a high peak in the Rockies, where this river rises, which we call Crow Lodge Mountain, because it is the home for enormous flocks of crows. They gather every evening, and roost in the trees on the mountain side during the night, but they always leave in the morning. An Indian secured there the dream for the Crow Lodge, and we have given the river the same name, because he made the lodge in a ravine, not far from this camp. A short distance up the river, is a high cliff, called the Women’s Piskun. It is the place where a large band of women once camped.
They supported themselves by running buffalo and antelope over their piskun. We have a tradition, that men and women have not always lived separated into families, but ran in bands like the animals. Napi (Old Man) is said to have started our living together in families.”

Don’t become a writing junkie. Just declare yourself to say “no.”

September 29, 2015

I feel this sense of foreboding. I agreed to work at the demanding job two days this week, then every day for the two weeks following! How will I cope with acting like a normal human person again? I work at a pharmacy that sends medicines out to nursing homes and assisted living places.
My typical day at the pharmacy goes something like this. I park whatever I’m driving. Tiny truck, real car. Whatever. Then I remove the old-lady sunglasses from my face, grope for my lunch, probably in an old yogurt container, and swing my tired legs out of the vehicle. Blinded by the relentless sun, I squint. I stiffly walk to the side door and use my name badge to unlock the door, which I kick. I notice the many kick marks and dents.
Inside, I want to holler, “Honey, I’m home!”
But no. I refrain. Nobody notices my entry. I pass from the warehouse into the hall, noticing that the other pharmacist has not arrived to unlock the pharmacy great room. I do so, punching in a simple code to disable the alarm. Hah! I think. As if they really needed me to do this. Then I unlock the door to the inner sanctum. I have to give the door a good hard yank. I turn on the lights. I walk over to the secretest inner sanctum of all, the “cage of drugs.” It has the controlled substances. I open the gate with my magic badge. Again, I think, Hah!
Now I go to the staff room where several lovely technicians sit around a table. They all start to speak at once. I hold up my hand. “Please!” I say.
I punch in my code into the time clock. The loveliest tech, Val, announces that she has started the coffee.
Now I pass Sharon’s old office. Sharon got fired for being habitually late. Damn! She was a truly great tech, I think. Sitting across from her old desk is Julia. “Hullo!” I said. “Haven’t they fired you yet?”
Then I enter the boss’s sanctum. Is she speaking on the phone? No?
“Honey! I’m home!” I said.