Beautiful, big sky Montana
38 steps to my bed, but worth every booted step.
Life hasn’t been all sad, all the time, contrary to what I have written since January.
A few weeks ago, I stayed in a tree house, and it was not sad. My extended family was vacationing at a ranch in Montana — 22 in total, including 8 children ranging in age from 1 to 15 years. I was the only one in our group who had stairs in their accommodations, 38 to be exact, and the only one with compromised mobility (at the time, I was still with the broken ankle, still with the boot). Steps and all, I still think I had the best accommodations. Every single step of the tight spiral staircase, 20 to the main living area with floor-to-ceiling windows, a fireplace, and a bathroom with a soaking tub surrounded by windows that looked out onto trees, and 18 up to my bedroom, was worth it.
Technically, it wasn’t a tree house, as it wasn’t situated in a tree, but was surrounded by trees and built on metal pylons that lifted it at least a story. It had a treehouse feeling inside, with wide-plank wooden floors and floor-to-ceiling walls of glass. In the evenings, while I was at dinner, housekeeping would lower the shades. The first night I came home after dinner and saw the shades lowered, I was annoyed, as it no longer felt like a tree house. I spent the next several minutes raising the shades in the bedroom so I could look out at the trees, as it was still light out, even at almost 10:00 pm. The moon was full, and after lying in bed for a few minutes, I understood why the shades had been lowered. It felt like a light had been left on with the brightness of the moon. And so I began the process of lowering the shades to their previous position. When I woke up, the process was repeated in reverse, one shade at a time.
My boot limited the activities I could do, but I was able to participate in the go-karts as a passenger with my son, Thomas, as the driver. My doctor said no driving (the booted ankle is my right ankle), and I’m sure he would have also said no to go-karts in the same way he told me no to hiking, even after I added I’d only choose easy hikes.
After maneuvering my way into the low cart, Thomas helped me attach my seatbelt, a moment of reverse roles that took me back in time. There have been more of those moments recently, in part because my sons have been taking such care with me in my grief and because I’m a grandma to their children, and with that comes comments like “Here, let me get that, Mom, or Do you think you should be doing that?” It’s sweet, but also difficult because accepting help is not easy for me. I wanted to race around the track as the driver of the go-kart, waving to my sons as I passed them. I’m navigating a lot of new territory these days, and I’m doing it with a broken ankle, so yes, Thomas and Grant, you can carry the suitcase, the bag of groceries, the chair, and you can be the driver. Thank you.
On one of our last days, our gang was shuttled by vans and then by a pontoon boat to a private island on a beautiful lake, where we spent the day. We had access to jet skis, kayaks, and stand-up paddle boards, as well as incredible views, all of which were off-limits to me, except for the views. I enjoyed watching my boys from a front-row seat as they rode the jet skis. I thought back to family reunions on Lake Barkley in Kentucky. Being an observer rather than a participant also brought back memories of my grandparents at the city pool, watching Robin, Susan, and me swim from their spots on the opposite side of the fence, where they wouldn’t have to pay to get in. Their days at the pool with us always seemed to fall on the hottest, most humid day of the year…Kansas in August. Grandma was always in a dress, usually dark, and Papa in a dress shirt and slacks, no tie. They looked hot and miserable but would give us big smiles after watching us go off the diving board or do tricks in the water.
I was Grandma that day at the island, although I was wearing a swimsuit and not a dark, past-the-knee dress with hose rolled up and knotted just below the knee. I waved, commented, took photos, and asked one of the staff who was eager to be busy for an iced tea because I wanted to give them something to do. I told Brooke, my daughter-in-law, who was seated next to me, that as I watched Thomas and Grant, they became the grade school version of themselves on the dock at our family farm, where we’d spend many Sundays. Although as adults they weren’t arching their backs and peeing into the water, with Emery right next to them doing the same thing while peeing down her legs, they were those two boys, and my heart grew two sizes watching them. It also mourned for them that their sister wasn’t standing next to them.
We celebrated the 4th of July with an old-fashioned barbecue, followed by games and fireworks, although none of us saw them because in that part of Montana, it wasn’t dark until after 10:30. We heard them, though. My grandchildren, with the exception of the two youngest, lined up enthusiastically for all activities — sack races, the three-legged races, the mechanical bull, and a pie-eating contest, which for children was fruit and whipped cream in a bowl. It feels clichéd to say, but it was “good, old-fashioned fun,” and as their grandma, my fun was watching them race with their legs tied together or in a sack, or eating “pie” without utensils. I am my grandma, sans the dress and the hose knotted below the knee. I’m also probably ten years older than she was when I was my grandchildren’s age and she sat on the other side of the swimming pool fence, fanning herself and insisting she wasn’t hot.
We missed Emery. She was the thread that ran through so many conversations and thoughts.
We enjoyed a family chuck wagon dinner next to a river one evening, and as Thomas, Grant, and I stood at the river’s edge, Grant said, “Remember that time…” He didn’t have to finish. We all knew what he was going to say. “The time in Colorado when Thomas fell into the Snake River?” Granted, it was shallow, but it was cold and scary for all of us. To that, I added, “And do you remember the pink girl’s bike we saw lying at the river’s edge and the story you both told Emery about the little girl who was riding it and fell off into the river? They did. Brothers being brothers. It’s one of the reasons Emery was so strong and fearless. I loved that the same memory came to all of our minds at the exact same time, and I know Emery would have been right there with us, also thinking about Thomas’s fall into the river. Maybe she was…in the rush of the water, in the trees, in the birds flying overhead, and in her Mom and her two brothers’ recollection of our family vacation in Colorado and that pink bike on the banks with the made-up story that went with it.
On the 4th of July, each home was given a white flag, paints, and brushes for a flag decorating contest that night. All of the grandchildren, except the one-year-old, gathered on the porch and got to work on the blank canvas. It was painted without a plan or design, but with great enthusiasm. Our flag, which involved no parental participation short of the cleanup, flew alongside the others, many of which looked like they had been created by a graphic designer. I told one of my granddaughters we hadn’t heard yet if we won or not, and she said, “Laudie, I’m sure we didn’t because ours was a mess.” But was it fun? I asked. “Yes. It was a fun mess.”
Our family’s flag didn’t win.
We missed her. We missed her with every fiber of our collected being, but we also had fun, laughed, told stories, and ate too many s’mores.
Grief waxes and wanes but never leaves the room. It does, however, slow the pace enough that things that would have gone unnoticed before now catch my attention.
On our last day, Brooke, Katie, Lilah, Muna, and I made individualized body and hand cream at the spa. We were seated outside, with the beautiful backdrop of the Montana sky and mountains surrounding us, and jars with oils and herbs in front of us. The employee who guided us in our creations had laid out four jars of herbs in the center of the table and asked if we knew what each one was by their scent. Muna knew all of them were without hesitation. The employee was surprised by her knowledge. Brooke told her that she was the daughter of an herbalist. Muna sat up a little taller. We all did. As we began the process of adding the herbs, oils, and scents into our individual jars, Brooke pointed out something I hadn’t noticed: a red-tailed hawk had joined us, circling as we incorporated our knowledge of herbs that we got from Emery into the small jars in front of us.
We felt her presence in her absence.