Day 38ish: So Much Beauty

June 13

I saw these running one day in June and couldn't help but stop photograph them.  They reminded me of a line from the movie American Beauty,

"That's the day I realized that there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can't take it, and my heart is just going to cave in."

Day 36: Sound To Narrows

June 11, 2016

Disclaimer:  A friend of mine once said that "The only thing worse than watching golf is listening to someone recount their latest round of golf."  If you believe what my friend said about golf to also be true about things such as fantasy football, fishing and running, then you might want to skip the following post. Seriously, feel free, I won't be offended. 

Back before the turn of the century in the mid 90s my Army battalion signed up to run the Sound to Narrows 12K Run (S2N).   All be it under some compulsion, it was a good introduction to what I think is one of the best races in the country.  Though I left the Army in 1998, I kept the running, in no small part because of the Sound to Narrows.  Erin and I began running the race together after we returned from Atlanta in 2003 and have continued to do so almost every year since.  My closet is full of t-shirt evidence.

Some people exercise to lose weight.  Some people exercise to be healthier.  Some people exercise for the endorphin rush and some people exercise because Richard Simmon's tells them to.  It is not a flabby stomach, not good health and not even endorphins but the desire to do well on the S2N that gets me out of bed to run on cold March mornings.   It is my annual test of health.  If I can run it in under an hour then I feel I'm keeping the doctors away.  And if I really want to feel good about myself then I'll beat my personal record.

So sitting in the middle of a sabbatical, I thought, this may be the year I beat my best time.  Hopes were high.  With a few weeks left to race time, I knew from my training that I wasn't going to set a personal best, but I still hoped to beat an hour.  As Erin was out with planter fascias, it was just Jeremy Doty and myself who drove to the race together.  My hamstring had been feeling a little tight the previous few weeks so I tried to loosen and warm it up.  Hamstrings are fickle creatures and mine are the ficklest.  On more than one occasion they've yelled at me, usually while running to first while playing softball.  They yelled so much I quit softball, but now they'd started to whine while running.  Oh hammy's what will make you happy?

Finally the race started and the hordes descended the hill.  The first part of the race is great because its all down hill.  A few years ago I made the mistake of letting loose. I usually run around an 8:00 mile, but by the second mile I was averaging 6:30/mile.  I knew then I was either going to have the greatest time I'd ever had or barely finish.  I'll let you guess which it was.  On this day I held back and was at a nice 7:15 pace at 2 miles.  This was good, but then the hammy started whining.  Actually it sort of screamed, not a pop, but more like a bubble ran across the back of my leg.  I pulled up, and it quieted down.  I slowed my pace and was okay for another mile. I started to feel good enough that I pushed the gas a little - Yelp!  There it went again and I pulled up.  This happened three more times over the next mile.  By the fourth mile I seriously began to wonder if I could even finish let alone beat an hour.  I decided to really slow it down and just try to finish.  I watched as people almost twice my age and 1/3 my age; people twice my weight and half my weight passed me.  A version of a Clash song ran through my brain, "Should I slow or should I go now?  If I slow there will be trouble, if I go it could be double."  My lungs said go, but my legs said slow.

Letting up helped so halfway through the 5th mile I decided to stretch it out.  Bit by bit I increased my stride and the hammy remained quiet.  At mile six I looked at my watch, and it read 46:30.  I still had a chance. If I could run this last 1.4 miles at an 8 minute pace then I'd beat an hour.  Only problem was our nice downhill start was now an uphill finish.  I continued with the masses heaving, lumbering, huffing and puffing up that hill.  At mile seven my watch read 55:30 and I knew I was going to beat an hour as long as the hammies remained quiet.  Lo and behold, like babies in a rocking stroller they must have fallen asleep because I was able to finish the last .4 miles in 3:27 and finish the race at 59:10.

And thus another year where I can still feel good about my health.  I think I'll put that over 40 physical off again.  And next year, look out Mark Spadoni, I'm gunning for 14th in the Male 40-44 category.  JB Gilchrist, you can probably relax.

Day 34: On the Radio

June 9

I can now admit that when I see Reggie Pearsol's name on my phone I usually let it go to voice mail.  Some of you know that Reggie is the music teacher at Manitou Park Elementary.  He also organizes their musicals and spring performances.  He is a master at gathering volunteers and these wonderful events would not be possible with them.  A couple of years ago I was caught in his volunteer net when he needed some people to help with the Spring play "On the Radio."  I had a bit part as an Elvis impersonator, but when another teacher was unable to perform I was upgraded to the role of radio DJ Marvelous Mike.  The play went really well and ended up being a lot of fun.  It went so well, in fact, that Mr. Pearsol decided to bring it back this year which is why he was once again calling me.

I tried my best to get out of the play offering multiple excuses.  

"I'm not sure I'll have the time."  

"I'll be on sabbatical then."  

"Wouldn't you like to get others involved?"  

He countered every defense I gave.

"It won't take too much time."

"We'll work around your schedule."

"There will be plenty of chances for others to be involved." 

  Okay, I conceded, but this time I prefer to direct the actors instead of performing if that was okay.  Sure, he said, we can do that.  Ten practices and a dress rehearsal later and we were finally at performance night.  You can see some pictures and a video below from how that went.  

"On the Radio" performed at Mt. Tahoma by 2nd & 3rders from Manitou Park Elementary

Joseph was one of my actors.
He played a son who just wanted to listen to the Beatles.

Sorry for the poor video quality and being 90 degrees off

Days 26-28: For Pete's Lake

June 1-3

I love backpacking. Erin and I got out on the trails frequently back in the day...the day before our kids came along.  As our  kids have gotten older we've started taking them on day hikes to great benefit.  Our clan can be in the grumpiest moods all but impervious to any efforts to change their attitudes but by thirty minutes into a hike every thing has changed.  Things went so well hiking that I thought it worth taking things to the next level: backpacking.  Before taking the kids, I thought it wise to dust of the camp stove and thermarests and see for myself if even I had still had what it took for a couple of nights on the trail.  It's a good thing I did for by the end of my three days in the woods I had discovered that my boots were too small, I needed a camp stove and Cooper Lake wasn't worth a night's stay.

Two intrepid explorers about to embark.

Several of these creek crossings needed traversing on the trail

Tallulah and I set off on Wednesday, June 1 from Salmon La Sac campground on the trail to Cooper Lake where I planned to camp.  Five minutes into a hike up the hill in which I was realizing fifty pounds was probably too much for a guy who hadn't backpacked in ten years, I passed a mountain biker who asked my destination.  "Cooper Lake?" he replied, "don't you know you can drive there?"  Yes, I did know that, but his saying so didn't help.  Five miles later I arrived at Cooper Lake and realized the campsites were all pay to sleep.

This wasn't what I was looking for.  So I decided to keep hiking another four miles to the more remote Pete's Lake.  Other than the damage on my toes, this proved to be a good decision.  I ended up seeing fewer people on the trail than I can count on one hand and there were even fewer staying at the lake.

Pete's Lake from my campsite

 I could not have been more satisfied with my campsite which I'm convinced was the best on the lake.   It had access to water, a great view, was near the inlet of the Cooper River and free of any neighbors.  Well there were some neighbors nesting adjacent to my camp but they were there first.  While searching for wood I came across the tightly woven hummingbird nest you see in the picture below.  Those are eggs inside the size of which are just amazing.  They really look like those tiny candy eggs you get at Easter.  I resisted the temptation to taste them.

The next day I was admittedly disappointed when I heard voices and the jingle of a dog's collar. Tallulah began her protective barking at a smallish black lab.  An older couple followed behind the dog.  They introduced themselves but as I often do quickly forgot their names.  I thought they'd said Peggy and Stu.  "Nah," that couldn't be right, that was just me with a Buddy Holly song stuck in my head.  "Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue, oh how Peggy I love you..."  Of course that was the song that I feel asleep to.

The next day the couple stopped by to say hello and a little conversation.  By this point I'd been alone long enough to thirst for a conversation with someone who didn't bark.  As it turns out, Buddy Holly was right and their names were Peggy and Stu. They were a retired couple who lives in Duvall where he works at a used book store.  They try to get on the trail as often as possible while their bodies still allow it.  If forced to guess, I'd put their ages in the late 60's.  They gave me hope for more trips in my twilight hears.  We had a wonderful conversation in which I learned that Stu builds Mandolins.  I told him about my recent dive into bluegrass music and wondered out loud if he might consider building a mandolin I could purchase.  "Well," he said thoughtfully, "I don't know if I could sell you one.  I'd rather make a few dozen before doing that."  This kind of perfection, of course made me want one his mandolins even more.

The next morning I left camp around noon after making myself a mug of tea.  Loaded up with bruised toes and a lighter pack it dawned on me that I had gone to the woods to enjoy the hospitality of creation - a goal that was undoubtedly attained.  What I hadn't expected was to also enjoy the hospitality of strangers.  Thank you Peggy and Stu for your kindness and conversation.

It was nice to be able to have a fire by the lake

This Rocky Road pudding may look gross but tasted delicious

Tallulah waits for me  to catch up on the trail

Pete's Lake

Days 24 & 33: Raspberries, Righties and Rainbows

May 25 and June 8
Some of you may remember us mentioning our neighbor's house burning down several years ago.  One of the boys in that house, Steven, went to Manitou and was in the same grade as Will.  Despite moving a couple of times Steven continued to go to Manitou.  Last winter I coached a basketball team at the Boys and Girls Club on which Steven played (very well I might say.)  At the end of that season I invited the boys to join our baseball team.  Two of them did, one of whom was Steven.  I was very excited to add a couple more players to our long running team, but there were two problems.
     First, Steven's aunt and uncle could pick him up from practice but couldn't get off work in time to take him.  This problem was easy to solve as myself and some other coaches were able to give him a ride.  Sometimes, as you can see from the pictures below, Steven just came home from school with Will.  This was great for us because Steven would quickly head through the house into the backyard and back to the basketball hoop.  Our kids like basketball, but usually prefer other activities, except when Steven is around.  Within seconds of arriving he's leading a game of HORSE.
     The other problem was simply this: Steven had never played baseball.  He'd never been to a baseball game.  He'd never even seen a game played.  The first day of practice I had to show him which hand to put the glove on.  "Uh oh" I remember initially thinking, "I was hoping this season would be one where all the kids started to 'get it.' but now we're starting at the beginning with Steven."  Oh well, that's coaching, right?  Then, after getting the glove on the correct hand Steven threw the ball and my fears vanished..."Pop!"  It nailed the glove of the other player.  Steven could throw the ball.  By the end of the second practice, he was on the mound working with our pitching coach.  He did so well that we put him in to start our second game and here's how the first inning went.
Batter 1: Strike Out
Batter 2: Pop out to the Pitcher (Steven)
Batter 3: Strike Out
     Steven exited the field to raucous cheers and some proud coaches who were sure we had the next Felix Hernandez on our team.  Then the next inning went like this.
Batter 1: Walk
Batter 2: Walk
Batter 3: Walk
Batter 4: Walk
Batter 5.... well you get the picture.
     We had to pull Steven after 4 runs scored and my pitching dreams went from King Felix to Bobby Ayala (sorry M's fans for speaking the name of the reliever who shall not be named).  Winston Churchill once said, "Success is not final, failure is not fatal; its the courage to continue that counts." Churchill would have loved Steven because he continued - through many more strikeouts and walks.  By the end of the season he'd started to put it together and struck out the side in his last inning of our final game.
     I considered sitting this baseball season out when I received the sabbatical grant.  I knew I'd miss several games and didn't feel like I could coach the team being so absent.  Fortunately Jeremy offered to be the head coach while Jason and Erik offered to take on some more responsibility.  It is so great coaching with other guys who are willing to share the load.  Had that not been the case we'd have missed the chance for things like shared raspberries, rookie righties and rainbow diamonds.  What a shame that would have been.

Raspberries are worth taking a break from basketball

The 2016 Mighty Manitou Bulldogs

Coach Jeremy leads the team in our  last cheer, "Go Manitou."

Turns out instead of finding a pot of gold, its diamonds are at the end of a rainbow. 

At the Lake House

Let me begin by apologizing to anyone who has checked the site hoping for an update.  I know many people spend all day clicking refresh on their browser awaiting a new post like a scoop of Mayfield Moosetrack Ice Cream only to receive a big sugar cone of jack squat.  In my defense, the lake house at which we are staying doesn't have wifi.  Can you believe it?  In all honesty, this has been a blessing.  Instead of updating my fantasy baseball team, I've been casting a plastic worm.  Instead of reading about the mariners, I've been watching the sun set over the lake.  Instead of writing blogs, I've been playing the guitar.  So, how's that for a defense?

I have a host of posts waiting to be written; about backpacking, school plays, Minnesota and St. Simons Island, but until I get to those I thought I'd post a few pictures from our first three weeks at the lake which began on July 5 and ends on August 4th.  There will be more to come, unfortunately none of them are near as good as that Mayfield Ice Cream. 

This is the view from the upper level of our dock. In the distance you can see the steam from the nuclear plant.  Nothing says sabbatical like a nuclear reactor, eh?

Here's Watt's Bar nuclear reactors in their full glory.    So far we've chosen not to eat the fish. 

Speaking of fish.  I get to chase these large mouth bass daily.  Every once in a while I luck into catching one; thanks mostly to my brother in law Chris who loaned me rods, reels, worms and pliers.  I've never been so happy to get worms.  

In 1972 I was born and my grandfather bought a boat.  That boat survives and thanks to my uncle and dad (who fixed it up and registered it) it is now our primary means of transportation.  Above is the expression affixed to my face every time we go out on the water.  

Tallulah captains the boat.  Unfortunately, she thinks every time I throw a lure, she needs to fetch it.  She's a good pet but horrible fishing partner. I call her the fishmonger. 

Here's a cicada, fortunately they don't bite. 

Here's me with my best friend from 3rd Grade, Mark

Every visit is concluded with a trip to Mr. Twister for some ice-cream. 

Speaking of food, here's some country ham and grits i cooked up.

And just as tasty, a Zebra Cake from Little Debbie's.  Many debates have been waged over which is better Little Debbie or Hostess.  What do you think?

The food has been put to good use as we've shared many dinners such as the one above with friends and family.  Here we are on the patio having dinner with the Doty's and the Walkers.  My friend Chicken (Jeff) is across the table in the orange hat.

Sunset on Watt's Bar

Days 20-23: Memorial Weekend Camping

Before Erin and I had children we camped.  After children we didn't.  Sure we tried, but the five year old refused to stay in her tent because of spiders and the two year old refused to stop crying until the sun came up.  We put the camping gear away for another day.  This sabbatical brought just such another day.

Due to obvious vocational barriers, Memorial Weekend outings have been untenable for the Sikes family.  Every year our friends, the Doty's, load up their camper and head for the mountains.  Each year they invite us.  Each year we declined until this year.  When we told them Erin, Janie and I couldn't join them until Saturday they offered to take the boys on Friday.  We wanted to say yes, but memories of that last camping trip stung our frontal cortex.  We expressed our doubts, but they assured us the boys would be fine.  So, we let'em go and promised to join them on Saturday, hoping to the God above that all would be sane when we arrived.

I'm sure this is what the Beatles were going for in their Abbey Road cover art.

"I hate white rabbits." 

On Saturday Erin, Jane and I rolled down 410 across White Pass.  Man what a drive, just gorgeous.  We arrived at camp and were relieved to discover all the children alive, alert and apparently well rested.  They'd made it one night in the woods and seemed to be looking forward to more.  Little doubt remains in my mind that their enthusiasm for more outdoors was due to Doty hospitality.  Jeremy and Kodi know how to set up a camp for maximal enjoyment.  To paraphrase Kodi "when we go camping we bring too much, eat too much, drink too much, stay up too late, sleep too late and have a great time."

On Sunday the kids discovered our plan to head home that night. We knew "Operation Camping 101" was a success when they proceeded to beg us for another shower free, toilet free and boundary free night in the woods.  Somewhat off-offhandedly Jeremy said, "write a skit to convince us the reasons you should get to stay."  We mostly forgot about this challenge when thirty minutes later the youth troop returned to invite us to the performance.   You can view this soon to be Broadway musical below.  I'm sure you'll agree with our decision to grant them a stay.

Some more S'more's

Flannel Troop prepares to perform "One More Night in the Woods"

Who knew five kids and a dog could huff and puff and blow a 150 year old mining house down?
If you want to see their work, head to Copper City an abandoned mining village.

Despite the collapsed mining house, the decision to remain another night was undoubtedly the right one.  In fact, the kids seemed as if they could stay another week.  On the way home we stopped for a view of Mt. Rainier's backside.  As no children screamed of spiders or wet diapers we will chalk "Operation Camping 101" as a success.  Things went so well, I decided to start working on "Operation Backpacking 101", stay tuned.  

Mt. Rainier's backside and five content campers

Jeremy's co-pilot fails at his job on the ride home

Days 19: Build a Box

Our community garden is in danger of closing.

Will and Benjamin doing more work
than I can get them to do at home.

Two years ago a local car dealer bought an adjacent lot where they built a garage.  Since the new building only took up half the lot, the dealership offered the empty portion to neighbors for a community garden.  After a year of planning, we pulled things together enough to start the garden.  If you'd like to read more about the garden you can do so here (www.sotacgarden.blogspot.com)

Some time towards the end of 2015 we received news that the garden was in danger of closing.  Apparently the car dealership's garage needed rezoning.  They'd built a commercial building on a residential site.  Either they needed to tear the building down, build a house on the vacant portion (as they'd said they would in their plans) or get the site rezoned to commercial.  You can guess which option they chose.  They submitted a rezoning request before the end of the year.   If the lot were rezoned commercial, then there was nothing to stop the dealership from evicting the garden and building a parking lot.  You can guess how the neighbors felt about this.

Sherry and a young neighbor dump Tagro into a new bed.

After many conversations with the dealership we thought we'd reached an agreement for the lot to be partially rezoned.  Unfortunately they kept their request for a full commercial rezone, but affirmed the presence of our garden and promised no parking lot would ever be built on the site.  Some gardeners were skeptical and  resigned their membership.  Others remained optimistic and chose to stay.  This remnant decided to continue gardening this season and see what may come.

The rezoning hearing occurs in July.  I have mixed desires for the outcome.  If the rezoning fails, then the site will remain residential (yeah), but the dealership will have to build a house on the lot which will oust the garden (boo).   If the rezoning passes, then the garden can stay as long as the dealer says so (yeah), but at any moment they can evict us and build a parking lot (boo).  Let's hope Joni Mitchell's isn't singing Big Yellow Taxi at our little corner of paradise anytime soon.

In the meantime, we have decided to build more boxes.  The accompanying pictures are from our one day build a box gathering on May 26th.  Once again I was encouraged to see the power of communal work to bring folks together.   Old and young, neighbors with all manner of other differences became one for several hours on Thursday afternoon.  In the end we not only built and filled three new garden boxes, we also built multiple new relationships.  Yeah dirt!

Days 16-17: Fish and Birds in Missoula

After dropping Erin and the kids off at the Billings airport I began my westward trek back across Montana.  I chased the sun out of Billings through Bozeman and Butte until I finally arrived very late on the eastern side of Missoula.  Not wanting to spend much money on an accommodation for such a short sleep, I found an AirBNB host who allowed folks to sleep in their yard.  The cost was only $12.  Though my budget thanked me, my back would later rebel.  Our 2006 Dodge Grand Caravan is great for many things, sleeping is not one of them.  

After a spectacular breakfast at the Catalyst Cafe in downtown Missoula I headed over to the Kingfisher Fly Shop for some advice.  They affirmed what I'd assumed about fishing in May.  It wasn't the best time, however, off season in paradise is hard to complain about. Rock Creek was my best bet for success, if not for fish than for the scenery.  I bought a few flies and leaders then headed to the river.

Driving up the river I saw these guys.  Phone camera's are the best for zooming so you may have to squint to see these mountain goats.

I fished for several hours without much luck.  Just when I started to shift into, "well at least it's pretty out here" mode, I felt that familiar tug which keeps anglers everywhere returning to the river like grandmas to slot machines.  After a little fight I landed the nice bow below.  

 Feeling buoyed by my good fortune I continued fishing into the afternoon.  I felt particularly optimistic when I came upon a promising stretch of water.  Unfortunately, the San Juan worm with which I was having luck chose to get snagged on a log.  As it was my last fly of that pattern I wadded into retrieve it.  The water was too deep, so I shed my fleece and shirt to return to the water robed only in a tank-top and waders.  Looking like the 5th member of the Village people, I reached for the fly but it was jut a few inches out of reach...just a little more...Ahh! Fly fishermen have many rules, don't be late, cast 10-2 and never let the top of your waders go below the water line.  Man that water was cold.  Abandoning my fly retrieval quest I left the river and disrobed to my boxers.  Fortunately the only audience for this show were a couple of deer.  Unfortunately, while bending to pull off my waders, my back threw its version of tea overboard and rebelled against ambulation without mattressification.  The shooting pain caused me to crumple upon the shore where I lay, cold, wet and partially disrobed.  Somewhere in the middle of my plight I heard a familiar tap-tap-tap.  I began to follow the sound until my eyes were caught by a red flash.

From childhood I've had a fascination with woodpeckers.  This interest was mostly due to my grandmother's love for birds.  Usually the first of my siblings to rise in the morning, I had breakfast and her attention to myself.  After fixing me breakfast she would bring her coffee to the table where we would chat and watch the bird show.  Out her kitchen window were several feeders which brought dozens of birds to dine.  During these breakfast conversations I learned about Chickadees, Robins, Goldfinch, Cardinals, Bluejays and the abundantly frustrating Starlings.  Of all the birds my grandmother enjoyed it was the woodpeckers who seemed her favorite. Often, to her joy, we would  spot a Downy or Red Cockaded Woodpecker at one of her feeders.  These sightings led her to wax poetically about the rare times she'd witnessed one of the grand daddy's of woodpeckers, the Red Pileated woodpecker.  These creatures are larger, louder and rarer than most birds.  Hearing my Gran Gran's enthusiasm created a desire to see one of these creatures for myself.  We continued our breakfasts as well as walks until years later my grandmother passed away.  Though always looking, we never saw the elusive bird.  I mostly forgot about the creatures in the following decades until I heard that familiar tap-tap-tap.   Expecting to see a downy, a cockaded or other small variety I scanned the trees until the beautiful red-head hopped up on the log.  There he was less than forty feet away.

Though my camera failed to capture the beauty of this creature or even that it is a creature, I included the picture as evidence that this was not just another fishing (birding) tall tale.  I'll let you see the work of other photographers to see what these beautiful birds look like.

Wet, cold and half-naked with a throbbing back I pulled out a granola bar and laid down upon the rocks. For the next twenty minutes I sat with my late breakfast and once again enjoyed a wonderful bird show. 

Days 12-15: Lyfe in Forsyth

When my older brother informed me he was moving from Tennessee to Montana I was giddy. Images of snow covered mountain peaks and cool streams flooded my imagination.  They'd now only be 7-8 hours away from us and more importantly, living in the middle of the best trout fishing in the lower 48.

"So where will you be?" I asked,"Missoula...near Glacier...Flathead Lake area.."  
"Forsyth."
"Forsyth, where's that?"
"Near Billings."
"Where's that?"
"It's on the eastern side of Montana."
"Oh, are there mountains?
"Not really."
"Are there forests?"
"We've got bluffs."
"Does a river run through it?"
"Yeah, the Yellowstone."
"Oh, okay..."
"I hear it has all kinds of fish; bass, catfish and even paddlefish."
"And trout?"
"No trout."

My giddy became glum.  Instead of seven hours they were fifteen.  Instead of mountains there were plains.  Instead of streams there were gulches.  My brother and his family weren't moving to Montana, they were moving to Western Dakota.  Why in the world did he want to move to a place like that?  I am ashamed to admit that I didn't even attempt to answer this question until almost ten years later when this sabbatical and my nephew's graduation overlapped.

Welcome
My brother had hoped we'd arrive early enough to help one of his neighbors brand some of their cattle.  Unfortunately, we didn't get there until closer to dinner.  I'm sure his friend was really disappointed to miss an opportunity to have help from the likes of us.  I'm sure at some point I would have asked if some cattle feel superior because they're wearing name-brands.  It's probably best we arrived when we did.  In an interesting side-note my brother informed me that brand collecting is big money.  Turns out there are no new brands.  If you have cattle and want to brand them, you have to purchase the rights to a brand.  Before there was a market for internet domains, ranchers created one for brands.  Basically, ranchers created the internet.

The First Supper
(Counterclockwise: my brother, Easton, Kelsey (Easton's girlfriend), Ashton, Kathy Leaver, Katie,
Christie, Benjamin, Will, Jane and Annalee) 

Part of hospitality is
knowing what your guests love.
Is there any doubt how welcomed
Benjamin feels by the Cap'n?

Soon after arriving we were whisked down to the church fellowship hall for a welcome meal.  The hall was set up for a graduation party for my nephew (Easton), his girlfriend and class valedictorian (Kelsey) and their friend Eric.  You can see their names on the wall in the picture. If the fellowship hall looks new that's because it was recently finished.  When my brother arrived they soon started plans for a new hall.  They refused to go in debt for the project instead completing sections as money was donated.  It took a few years, but they now have a bright, open, accessible and debt-free fellowship hall.

Life on the Range
When my brother said we were going hiking I wondered what that might look like.  Would we just walk down a dirt road or head along a fence post?  And what is there to see that you can't already see somewhere on the horizon?  To get to the hike we drove thirty miles.  The first five were paved.  The next twenty were gravel and dirt.  The final five were just a general direction.  As soon as we hit the dirt road the kids moved from the cab to the bed of the pickup.  There they enjoyed the ride as if it were a roller coaster.  Free of seat-belts and even seats, they were pretty sure they were getting away with something.

No seat belts...no seats, just a dirt road, the bed of a pick up truck
and the wind in my face.  

Ten miles into the trip I had yet to see what might be worth seeing.  Clearly my brother was excited about this place but it all seemed so flat, dry, brown and well, sort of dead.  My opinion started to change after we got mooned.  "Over there," my brother pointed, "there's one."  "One what?" I asked.  "An antelope."  Sure enough, one, then two, then three antelope were less than a hundred yards away at home on the range.  They saw us, stared until we got closer and then turned to bound away.  If you've ever seen an antelope bound away then you'll understand what I mean when I say it mooned us.  Their bodies are brown, but their butts are snow white, almost human like.   It was like they were mocking us.  Not much further along I saw a little creature scamper into a hole.  "Prairie dog," my brother replied.  "They're all over the place."  Sure enough we soon came upon a whole prairie dog village where dozens of the little fellas chirped warnings to their neighbors that strangers were coming.  Next we saw a pair of Sage Grouse just sauntering up the fence line.  And then a gaggle of turkeys and then, believe it or not, a Great Horned Owl.  I kid you not.  In the middle of the day one of the biggest birds I've ever seen swooped down, perched on a fence post and stared us down.


Various forms of life continued to surprise us as we hiked from the cistern to the edge of what my brother called a form of the badlands.  You can see one of those forms of life below in the hands of Benjamin.  I almost stepped on this guy who fortunately was not a rattlesnake.  It wasn't until we were driving home that I began to realize how wrong I'd been about this open range.  It may look lifeless but only because I hadn't known how to look.

A hail of  Graduation party  

Erin had to work but was able to fly in on Saturday.  I went to pick her up at the Billings airport and encountered this.  

 Though the storm followed us to the 110 miles to Forsyth, the graduation party went on.  Playing the role of the mean uncle, I was able to get my niece to say nice things about her brother.

Graduation

Graduation was on Sunday afternoon.  My nephew was one of 28 graduates.  That's right, he had just a few more students in his entire class than any of my kids have in any of their single classes.  You might think 28 students would mean there were only a couple of hundred spectators.  The entire town of Forstyth has about 2,000 people, at least half of them were at the gym that afternoon.  

Life in Forsyth
In between graduations and meals my brother showed me the town.  He introduced me to the ladies at the hardware store where I bought a fishing license.  When he introduced me to Carl at the second hardware store, he also asked if he could borrow the key to the church.  Turns out that Carl is the caretaker of the Presbyterian church next door.  He pulled a key from a hook and handed it to us.  No questions, no signatures, just "here ya go."  My brother pointed out murals on the walls of buildings which were painted by a local artist.  Also there is "The Roxy" which was voted best small town movie theater in Montana (or something like that).  My brother made sure we got down the see the Yellowstone River as well as the town museum.  Before we left he took us out to the ranch of Easton's friend Eric so we could ride horses.  He wanted us to see it all.

Despite sharing parents and a last name, my brother and I are different.  He hunts, I fish.  He's a conservative Baptist while I'm a progressive Presbyterian.  He builds guns, I brew beer.  He's a member of the NRA while I'm a Washingtonian for Greater Gun Responsibility.  These differences used to cause tension between us.  That began to change when I started pastoring a small church.  Instead of arguing about hell, pacifism or sanctification we began to talk about pianists, session/deacon meetings and potlucks.  As it turns out, small churches have a lot in common regardless of their denominational affiliation.  What we have in common is greater than what we don't.  After visiting Forsyth I know the truth of that even more.


South Tacoma and Forsyth
Though I'd never been to Forsyth something seemed familiar.  Like an itch you can't scratch or a name you can't remember it began to bug me.  What is familiar about this place?  It wasn't until Sunday night while sitting around a campfire in their backyard that it dawned upon me.  It wasn't Forsyth that was familiar.  It was my brother's view on Forsyth.

Few places could be more different than South Tacoma and Forsyth.  Yet, many have and would ask, "Where is the life here?"  To many both places look lifeless, but that's only because they haven't been taught how to look.  It turns out, despite our differences, both my brother and have come to see life where it is often missed and dismissed.  What a gift to get to see what he sees.  What wonderful hospitality.