In 2010, my one-act play Coming Back to Bozeman was included in the Equinox Theatre One-Act Play Festival. I thoroughly enjoyed watching two actresses and one director bring my play to life, and I was pleased to see that it was very well-received by the audience. (Video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bwJmW17twE)
***Part One, Coming Back
From 30,000 feet, the first glimpse
of Montana makes me smile. Seemingly endless prairies make way for seemingly
endless mountains. Our plane zooms along and the Crazy Mountains appear before
making way for my beloved Bridger range. The M on Mount Baldy comes into view
and sweet Bozeman lies below.
Bozeman was my home for 12 years
and shaped my life as nothing else has. My education, my husband, the start of
my career in the arts, and my love of the outdoors all can be traced back to this
place. Bozeman was a dream for a young couple
during college and the years that followed. Andrew and I spent a few years
working crappy service jobs while we spent as much time as possible testing our
limits in the outdoors. But as fun as that lifestyle was, we both had drive and
Bozeman was a great place to dip one’s toe into the waters of adulthood.
Andrew and I used to think Bozeman
would be our home forever. We loved it here, our house, the mountains, the
quality of life. We couldn’t think of living anywhere else but life puts
opportunities in from of you. I always pause when I get to this point in the
story. While life in New York City has rewarding in ways I never expected, I
can’t help but think what if? What it we stayed in Bozeman?
Our annual visits back to Bozeman turned
to every other year visits and eventually became even more sporadic. This time
it’s been almost a decade since we’ve visited, and we’re ready to make Bozeman
part of our life again. We’re going to buy property here. Something small and simple
to maintain; a cabin outside town, a small place in the city limits, a
condominium, whatever. A pied a terre
we’ll visit a few times a year. Andrew and I have downsized from our Park Slope
brownstone to a much smaller place, a contemporary loft in SoHo, so a second place
won’t be too much to manage.
Folks warn me, “Watch out for what
you wish for Jennifer. Bozeman has changed. So many people have moved in. It’s
not the same.”
And from there the debate rages on.
Some delight at the abundance of restaurants and cultural opportunities while
others claim Bozeman is ruined; too big, too crowded, too expensive, no longer
the small town. But I see Bozeman as a tough gal with a strong personality that
will prevail. Besides, one thing that will never change is her proximity to the
mountains. Piles of new people may have descended upon Bozeman, but the great
outdoors are still there, a bit more crowded for sure, but it’s impossible for
the mountains to go anywhere and it certainly beats the long drive to Vermont
we’ve made for so many years.
Andrew and I are meeting friends
for our 50th college reunion, and we’ve built in a few extra days to
hang out, enjoy the outdoors and shop for real estate. We have lots planned,
but I parceled out the first morning just for me. To reminisce, daydream, to
take it all in. I’ll wonder the neighborhoods and see if a property speaks to
me. I’ll walk by our little house on Rouse Avenue and if I work up the nerve,
I’ll knock on the door and ask if I can have a look around.
Our flight gets in just before
midnight and we head to our lodging. A new boutique hotel in the center of
downtown, a refurbished motor lodge, is all the rage. You can’t deny its
artistic polish and stylish architectural design, but a motor lodge? At another
point in time, motor lodges were out, stepping out of the room and into the
parking lot did not sit well with us but now, at age 72, we’ve softened. Plus,
this is Bozeman not New York City, so safety is little concern.
The next morning, we head out to
meet friends for coffee and a quick breakfast. Afterwards, Andrew and friends
head to the Gallatin River to fish while I head down Main Street.
***Part Two, Taking It All In
I wander down Main Street and turn
left on Rouse. Yes, things have changed as I had expected, but what strikes me
is the electric train, the Gallatin Express. A sign at the depot announces
trains to Bridger Bowl, Big Sky, West Yellowstone and Three Forks. Folks board
it, some decked out in hiking gear, others sport mountain bikes.
I walk a few shot blocks and there
is it, 327 North Rouse Avenue, my first house. While it doesn’t surprise me that
it’s been remodeled, the transformation is more than I had expected. The
original 800 square foot box of a house is still there, but the place has grown
exponentially. A wing extends on the ground level and a second story has been
added. Freshly painted and I’m happy to see still blue, the house is now is
quite the contrast to the home I lived in. Aluminum accents, an angular
roofline and a huge vaulted ceiling give the house a contemporary flair while the
immaculately maintained front lawn sports a thick grassy surface reminding me
of the Scottish countryside. The contrast between contemporary and country is captivating.
Now I’m dying to see what has been down with the place, and my shyness over
knocking on a stranger’s door has dissipated.
I walk up the elegant stone walk
and knock on the front door with a stately brass knocker. A perky 30-something woman
answers. She has an air of confidence that cannot be mistaken. Her sleek
brunette hair is cut in a blunt bob, not a strand of her pin-straight locks is out
of place. Purple blocky glasses sit perched on her slightly upturned nose. She’s
wearing an outfit that is impeccably put together and has a look of polish and perfection
that I remember few women in Bozeman bothering with. And the eye cannot fail to
be drawn to an enormous sparkling ring. This woman would be right at home in a
posh townhouse in Park Slope yet she’s here living in my house.
“Hi. I’m sorry to drop in on you
like this. My name is Jennifer Stern. My husband and I owned this house a long
time ago. It was our first home and I was hoping I could have a quick look
around.”
At first, she seems quite shocked. With
a stranger appearing at her door mid-day, who can blame her? But she quickly
warms up to me, welcomes me in and offers to show me around.
“I’m Jennifer, too,” she says. “Jennifer.
Now that’s a name that went out with Subarus and river sandals. So 1970s. What
was wrong with naming me Madison or Hyalite or even Absorkee? Anyhow, sorry to
ramble on like that. What brings you back to Bozeman?”
“My husband Andrew and I are in town for the MSU homecoming. It’s our 50th reunion. We’ve been living in New York City and it seems like forever since we’ve been to Montana. Andrew couldn’t wait to go fishing so I thought I’d take a walk around town while he’s out on the river.”
“Well, a lot has changed, but after
living in New York City, you probably won’t even notice the difference.”
I have a look around. A lot has
changed for sure, but in a strange way, the house bears a striking resemblance
of our loft in SoHo. Jennifer leads me up the stairs to what she calls The
Great Room, and I must say, it is great. An open floor plan reveals a huge gleaming
modern kitchen. White walls and white subway tiles meld stylishly with white
cabinets sporting trim back hardware. State-of-the-art stainless steel
appliances sparkle throughout. The black, white and steel combo gives the room
a look that shouts out neutral, not a single speck of color anywhere, yet it
still pulls off a lively feel.
This wonder of a kitchen blends seamlessly
into the large dining area and living room.
What I can’t help noticing is the soaring floor-to-ceiling window offering
an unobstructed view of the Bridger Mountains. The large window also reveals a
humongous garden. Even in late September, the garden blooms prodigiously. From
my perch above, I can several luscious tomato plants, not the spindly variety
Andrew and I tried so desperately to grow all those years ago. Bright red
tomatoes resembling softballs hang proudly from the plants. A sprawling vegetable
garden yields a bounty of produce, a lush bed of wildflowers blooms in all
colors of the rainbow and if I’m not mistaken, the vines crawling up the gazebo
are sprouting tiny kiwis. Unbelievable. The whole scene is so stunning that I
can’t help but exclaim, “Some yard. What a garden.”
“People were all freaked out over
climate change, but really, when you think about it, it’s what we were all
waiting for. We can now grow everything we need in Bozeman.”
She confirms my suspicion that
those are indeed kiwis. She says they’re hard to grow, but they always manage
to get dozen or so each year.
“This is quite a renovation
Jennifer.”
“When the electric train went in a
few years ago, real estate prices skyrocketed. This area had been blighted for
so long that prices were cheap in comparison, so my husband Bridger and I bought
this cute little fixer-upper.”
Her cute little fixer-upper was our
delight. How we saved for it, stressed out over whether we could really afford
it. Should I be insulted? A cell-phone rings chirps with a space-age tinkle and
conversation is cut off for a moment. Jennifer’s loud booming voice fills the
room and it’s impossible to avoid overhearing the conversation. It goes like
this,
“Hello?”
“…”
“Gallatin darling. How are you?”
“…”
“No. Way.”
“…”
“Incredible.”
“…”
“This is simply divine.”
“…”
“Yes, Bridger and I will be there.
We wouldn’t miss this for tuit le monde.”
Her posh accent enunciates the French perfectly.
“…”
“Splendid darling. See you at 7:30.
Ciao.”
“We just got a reservation at The
Anker.” Jennifer exclaims.
The Anker, she informs me, is the
nickname for Conrad Anker’s Bistro, the new gluten-free restaurant in the
Baxter Hotel. It’s only been open for six months and it’s impossible to get a
table.
“But there was an unimagined cancellation
tonight so thankfully we won’t be spending another evening at Plonk.” She rolls
her eyes at the mention of Plonk.
So, Plonk is still around. Jennifer
says I can find it in its new location on 74th Street. I remember
when Plonk opened. At great expense, the old hallmark store was converted into
this swanky wine bar, the first of its kind in Bozeman. There was much debate
as to whether a swanky wine bar had its place in Bozeman, but it took off right
away.
We settle into the luscious couch,
its overstuffed suede seats engulf me in a cocoon of comfort that is otherworldly.
Jennifer offers me some polar ice cap spring water, the boutique water that is
all the rage these days. Oddly, no one seems too concerned that the glaciers have
dwindled down to next to nothing, or that it’s not locally sourced, or that it
takes a carbon footprint the size of Montana to get it anywhere. I take a sip
and I must say, glacial run off is a cool crisp delight and I can see why
people rave over it.
“Plonk is so gauche,” Jennifer declares. Another word in French. I wonder if she’s
taking a French course or if she’s perhaps a tad pretentious?
“Old fashion wine bars made a
comeback a few years ago, but trends come and trends go and everything moves ahead.
For some reason, Plonk stayed the same. Don’t get me wrong, the drinks are
great, the food, to die for, but the atmosphere has got to go. And with all of
those professors and conservation folks filling the place, and their beat up
old Prisuses and Subarus parked out front. Plonk is, you know,” she pauses
trying to be tactful. “It’s like a museum to the past.”
I make a mental note to stop by and
take a look for myself. I shake my head in disbelief that Bozeman now extends
to 74th Street. How far did it go when I last lived here? Past 19th
for sure, maybe as far as 23th or 27th?
“Let me guess. You and your friends
liked Ale Works.”
Jennifer rambles on with her
commentary about Ale Works and the kind of people who frequent it, people like
me she says, active and social, part of the hard-core crowd. And when I think
about it, I’m not surprised she’s drawn that conclusion. I’m wearing khaki
pants, river sandals, a sports watch, and a KGLT t-shirt. I carry a small nylon
Patagonia bag, the kind athletic girls use in place of a purse. She’s also
right that we did like Ale Works. It was our go-to spot.
Jennifer litters her conversation
with lingo from back in the day; bro brah, droppin’ in and the like. I’m the
course of the conversation she reveals that was a history major in college and now
runs the historical society. A while back she helped curate a big exhibit on
turn of the century Bozeman and favorite part was the old ski bum culture. It’s
kind of surreal to think that our lifestyle all those years ago has been
recreated in a museum setting.
“Yo’ dude! Go big. Hard-core.” She
mimics the lingo and gestures perfectly. “That’s my favorite, hard-core. You
sounded like a bunch of ballerinas or stay at home moms on a Pilates kick.”
She’s chuckling at herself like she’s a real comedian. “Get it? Core.”
Good God. This girl is nice enough
on one hand but full of it on another.
“As I worked on the exhibit, I
couldn’t get enough of those extreme ski films. The rad skiing, the old-school
gear, the ubiquitous techno music,” she says while busting out a few dance
moves. “Untz, untz, untz. I’m surprised it didn’t drive you mad. Of course,
everyone was probably half mad to begin with. No offense.”
“No offense taken,” I mumble, but I
don’t know if Jennifer heard.
“I mean, of course you were mad schlepping
those massive skis and clunky ski boots up and down the mountains all day. In
flimsy Gore-Tex before climate change really kicked in. I’m surprised any of
you lived to tell about it.”
She speaks in an endless series of
exclamation marks, which is jarring, yet she speaks with great enthusiasm and
doesn’t hold much back, which can be kind of refreshing. In a way, Jennifer
reminds me of a stereotypical opinionated New Yorker.
“Let me show you something. You’re
going to love it.”
Jennifer comes back with a box that
was left in the shed by previous occupants of the house. She’s having her
curators at the historical society label and catalogue the contents, and they’ll
use the artifacts in an upcoming exhibit.
“Go ahead, take a look.”
I peer in side and find a treasure
trove of memorabilia from back in the day; a single Chaco river sandal that has
seen plenty of action, an old avalanche transceiver, a dog-eared copy of
Outside Bozeman magazine. A collection of season passes from Bridger Bowl
dangles from a cord, and I thumb through them. Ty Wiggins, the young man on the
passes, transforms in front of my eyes from a gangly young college kid, to a hipster
with a silly ironic mustache, to a normal looking blocky guy. A flood of
memories comes back to me, and I have vivid memories of being 28 years old.
“Look at this,” Jennifer says
handing me a Co-op membership card.
“I was a working member there. Is it
still around?”
Sure enough the Co-op is still
around. Chain supermarkets were outlawed from Bozeman and there are now over 30
Co-ops around town. Everyone always loved the Co-op, so it’s not surprising they’ve
grown, but a law against chain grocery stores? That seems kind of over-the-top,
and besides, with 30 plus Co-ops, hasn’t the Co-op become the new chain? The
irony is hard to miss, but before I can point this out to Jennifer her phone tinkles.
“Please excuse me. It’s my
daughter’s school calling. I’m going to take it in the other room. Yogo’s been
having some discipline problems lately, so this may not be too pretty.”
Left alone in the living room, I
realize how worked up I have become. I rise and stand tall, take a few deep
breaths and extend my arms overhead before lowering hands to my heart in
Namaste. I remind myself to breathe. Deep breathes. I bow my head to clear my
thoughts, but equanimity does not come. I look at my FitBit, which tells me my heart
rate’s okay, my chi is flowing freely, and that my temperature’s all right.
A inexplicable feeling washes over
me, like none I’ve experienced before, a strong sense of “Where am I?” I open my
bag and take a look at my plane ticket, which says I’ve landed in Bozeman. Out
the window I see the Bridgers, so this must be Bozeman. Isn’t it?
“Whew!” Jennifer says barreling
back into the room. “Really nothing at all. I just forgot to give permission
for a field trip. It’s the skydiving unit in PE and they’ll be doing some big
jumps in the Tranquilities today.
I try not to judge young people,
and I don’t want to be that fusty old lady worried about everything, but someone’s
going to get hurt.
“Skydiving?” I gasp.
A friend of mine was badly hurt in
a skydiving accident. A freak accident really, but it still leaves me shaky.
Jennifer senses my discomfort and in a rare moment of empathy she tries to
reassure me.
“There’s really nothing to worry
about. Skydiving’s become so safe. Yogo started when she was four.”
The Tranquilities, I am told, are the
mountain range near Big Timber. They were known as Crazy Mountains when I lived
here, but the name was making people uncomfortable so it was changed. That was
during the height of the big mental health crisis that swept the country a
while back; when people still had to use primitive drugs like Valium and Prozac
to handle stress and anxiety.
“You said they’re going to the
Crazies, I mean the Tranquilities, for the day? That seems like a long way to
go for a gym class.”
“Yogo’s away at boarding school in
Big Timber.”
I tell Jennifer she doesn’t look
old enough to have a daughter in boarding school and realize this might come
across as tacky, so I quickly inquire, “Since when does Big Timber have a
boarding school?”
“Yogo’s only six. Bridger and I had
kids pretty young. We were only 32. Call us old fashion, call us nuts, but we couldn’t
wait until we were in our 50s to have a child like couples do these days.
Anyway, Yogo is spending her primary years at the Big Timber Multi-Lingual
School for Young Children.”
“Can you repeat that please?”
“The Big Timber Multi-Lingual
School for Young Children. Based on the Thich Nhat Hanh concept of primary
education.”
A Thich Nhat Hanh school. I read
about those in the New York Times, a multi-lingual boarding school with a
mindful approach to education. I nod my head in recognition.
“It’s the new paradigm,” she says.
“Bozeman, even today, is pretty isolated and not very diverse. Thich Nhat Hanh
schools require at least 50% of the teachers be foreign born. A curriculum of
genuine holistic mind/body education,” she pauses and if I’m not mistaken she’s
getting teary eyed. “Bridger and I always knew that was how we wanted to
educate our daughter.”
“How does your daughter, Yoda is
it, deal with being away from home at such a young age?”
“Her name is Yogo,” Jennifer corrects me holding out her hand so I can admire her rock size Yogo sapphire and diamond ring. “Named after the most precious gemstone ever mined in Montana. So impossible to come by these days. The Yogo sapphire, more rare that a bro bra shredding cold smoke at Bridger Bowl on a powder day. Excuse my humor.”
Once again, she finds herself
terribly amusing and gives herself a big chuckle at a not so funny joke. But
I’ll give her credit, she really does have a way of things into historical
prospective. No wonder she runs the historical society.
“Sending your child to a Thich Nhat
Hanh school is so de rigueur.”
What kind of person says de rigueur?
The ideology, which Jennifer calls
“quite brilliant,” includes everything from rigorous academics to destiny
expanding opportunities to intensive outdoor recreation. They even have a
totally local, vegan cafeteria.
“When Yogo’s ten she’ll go abroad
for a more worldly education. Besides, there’s the crime we have to worry
about.”
Proper education? It sounds good to
me, but I feel the question will lead us down a place I do not intend to go, so
instead I ask, “Since when is crime a problem in Bozeman?”
“Since developers build mid-rise
apartment buildings all over downtown and took away all the parking,” Jennifer
huffs. “You thought growth was crazy when you live here, well after the
mid-rises went up it really exploded and crime came with it. Bozeman’s no
longer a cow town, if you can imagine that.”
I roll my eyes slightly agitated. “Apparently,
it’s no longer even a ski town” I say and my disgust is obvious.
Jennifer doesn’t even notice as
she’s already launched into another one of her monologues. “At the turn of the
century people used to think crime in Bozeman was under control, but then that
guy with the soup kitchen built a homeless shelter.”
A conversation like this is too
exciting to sit through and Jennifer is now standing and pacing uncomfortably
around the room.
“The mid-rises went in a few years
later,” she tells me as she beings to talk in a rapid and ever more dramatic
manner. “And it’s been a constant stream of new folks moving in and disrupting
our quality of life. And with the electric train zipping people,” she almost shrieks,
arms waiving around, pointing wildly, “from
Bozeman to Three Forks to West Yellowstone and beyond, and with over 300 miles
in the Main Street to the Mountains trail system everyone has become much more
free to move around. That’s how crime spreads, you know.”
She is now looking directly at me
while she leans forward nodding her head, her forehead mere inches from mine. Give
me a break. People getting away with acts of crime using the trails as their get-away?
I don’t think it happens that way. Jennifer leans back and looks slightly
startled. She sheepishly sits down leaving the room in awkward silence, but thankfully
she is still.
“Oh, listen to me going on again,” she
says breaking the silence. “All I know is what I’ve read at the historical
society. Bridger says when I get like this I sound like a desperate housewife.”
“I loved that show,” I declare to a
confused Jennifer, but my attempts to describe the sitcom are futile, so I stop
mid-sentence. Another awkward pause, but the calm is broken when Jennifer looks
at her watch.
“Look at the time! I’m late for a
lunch appointment. I have a million things to do before dinner at The Anker.
I’ve got to go.”
Jennifer runs around like a
tsunami, gathering her coat and throwing things into her bag. Nothing about
this young woman is subtle.
“No problem. I enjoyed our visit. I’m
surprised you let a stranger in considering the crime.”
“You can spot an old-time
Bozemanite from a mile away so I knew you were okay. I enjoyed our visit, too.
I should call you. I’d love to interview you for the historical society. Better
yet, why don’t you just drop by? We’re located in the old Story Mansion, in
between the coffee shop and the city offices.”
“Thank you Jennifer. That’s a very
kind offer.”
“I’m sorry I have to run on you
like this,” she responds waving her hands in the air. “My life is frantic! I
don’t know how I manage to fit everything into one petite day.”
Jennifer pops a pill from a small
bottle and instantly becomes calmer. She tilts the bottle towards me, but I
shake my head no.
“I used to work in marketing for
the Metropolitan Opera and in times like this our lead soprano used to get
frantic and call out, ‘I need a Valium. Someone bring me a Valium.’”
“Cute. Valium,” Jennifer chuckles,
and when I think about it, that is a quaint old-fashioned notion. Jennifer’s
use of a pill and its instant calming effects mere minutes ago confirms just
how far medicine has come since the Valium days.
We shake hands and start walking
out the door. I am within steps of freedom from this bizarre experience, but
Jennifer has to have the last word.
“Jennifer?”
“Yes?”
“Go big!”
“Yo dude!”
“Hard-core,” are her final word
before I am back down on Rouse Avenue. Alone, free to enjoy my day of reminiscence
the way I what it to be.
***Part Three, Figuring It Out
“Valium. I need a Valium. Someone
bring me a Valium.” I hear someone call out.
I’m in a dark room at Jennifer’s
house. What time is it and how on earth did I manage to fall asleep here? Who
needs a Valium? I feel my heart thudding in my chest and a sense of dread shrouds
me.
The lights come on and I see Andrew
rushing towards my side. He must be back from fishing. How did he find me here?
“Honey, calm down,” he assures me. “It’s
just a nightmare. Everything is okay. What were you dreaming about?”
That was me, calling out demanding
a Valium? I fully awaken and find myself back in our SoHo loft, which looks
exactly like the house in the dream. I’ve fallen asleep on the couch, my book
and reading glasses discarded on the floor. I start to sort out what’s going,
but it’s a slow process.
“I was dreaming we were in Bozeman,”
I tell Andrew. “I was visiting our little house on Rouse, but it had changed.
Everything had changed. Everything was different.”
My pounding heart begins to slow,
but the panic is still present. The thought of sweet little Bozeman being
ruined disturbs me. Could people be right?
“Of course dear,” he says. “Bozeman
was always changing. It still is. Come to bed now. We leave Bozeman in the
morning. I can’t wait for the reunion. Moscow Mules at Plonk!”
Yes, yes, the reunion is this
weekend. I’m excited too, but I’m going to do my darndest to make sure we don’t
end up at Plonk.
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