The last best place

Another day, another pile of cat barf to clean up. Actually, Stella hasn't been ralfing as much lately because we've been giving her fresh cat grass more regularly. She mows that stuff down, I'm tellin' ya. She does have the "scarf 'n barf" syndrome as one vet so eloquently put it. When she gets nervous or excited she heads for the food bowl and gulps down some kibble, barely chewing it, tail twitching, purring...it's a whole thing she does. Anyway.

So I promised some tall tales from Montana, "The Last Best Place" as their tourism department likes to say. Curiously, Alaska is "The Last Frontier," so I seem to end up in these ends-of-the-earth type places chock full of leave-us-alone libertarians. But these regions also attract people who love mountains, alpine forests, native plants and wildflowers, rushing rivers (i.e. not the dammed-up ones seen here in Texas), undisturbed wildlife like moose, bear, and all sorts of birds. They bike, run, ski, and hike as if their lives depend on it, and I believe it does. My mom is one. But I digress.

The occasion for my trip was my grandmother's passing. This is a big deal around these parts, as she had lived in the Missoula/Arlee area for over 70 years and just about everyone knew her. The days leading up to the memorial were kind of a blur, filled with comparison shopping for geraniums and picking my brother up from the airport and eating out and napping. The memorial took place on my grandmother's ranch, with rows of folding chairs set up in front of the pond and the barn, with the house in the background. I'd say about 200 people were there. It was the one beautiful & sunny day complete with puffy white clouds in a string of grey/rainy days, and everyone commented on how meaningful this was, as if Cornelia perhaps had something to do with it. My brother provided some of the music during the program, playing trumpet with a piano accompanist: a tune by Handel, the hymns Rock of Ages & Nearer My God to Thee, and, inexplicably, America the Beautiful. That one seemed more appropriate for a baseball game, but that was what my dad wanted. The trumpet sounded great outside - that instrument can sound so sad!

I got up and spoke at the podium after my dad and aunt, and talked about how Cornelia's independence, activism, and love of animals influenced me as a little girl. She was essentially the only grandparent I had, as my grandfather died before I was born and my mom's side of the family resided (and still does) in South America during my youth. The community had banded together and cooked up a ton of food - assorted casseroles, lasagnas, pasta salads, and an entire table of desserts - quite impressive. I met a zillion people who knew my grandmother better than I ever did, too. The most poignant were the alumni of the bunkhouse, most of whom had traveled to be there (one came from Wisconsin). Two of them got up and spoke about how much Cornelia had meant to them - sometimes they only stayed in the bunkhouse for a few months, but kept visiting and writing over 30 years. She housed artists, musicians, and all sorts of eccentric creative people over the years, rent-free in exchange for chores (there was no running water in the bunkhouse, but no matter).

The occasion was also a family reunion of sorts, which we've never had. My five first cousins were there, and I met second cousins and once-removed cousins (I can never remember the difference). None of us really "knows" one another, since we all grew up far apart plus we're all decades apart in age, which makes for a weird vibe. What the heck do you talk about? After all the guests and extended family left a few of us built a fire in the outdoor fireplace and broke out some beers. Now that was more my speed! My dad, uncle, and dad's old friend Bart decided to use some explosives they had lying around to blow up a stump that was out in the field next to the yard, so that was definitely exciting. I think Cornelia would have loved that, while feigning disapproval.

I did have a small personal triumph: one of my cousins, in his 50s, had bet me 13 years ago that the next time he saw me I would be married. At the time, in 1992, I was a junior in college, and insisted that marriage was just not in the cards for me as I saw no point in it. He gave me that "oh it's just a phase and you'll see, it happens to us all." Heh! The first thing he says when he sees me is "I guess I owe you $5." Damn right! It's funny though, because he doesn't seem to get that there's a middle ground between being "single" and being "married." I got the distinct feeling that he missed the entire point of my rebellion. I'm like, "I'm not anti-relationship, it's just that I have no need to be married." He's like, "yeah I can see the benefits of being single." Huh?? Oh well. I let him keep the $5.