You may have seen
me around, darting in and out of main street shops or cruising the
neverending sidewalk sale at Alco. You see, I’m new in town. I moved
here only a few weeks ago from Edinburg, Texas
(also known as The Hottest Place on Earth). I’m so delighted with the
low humidity and heat here that I’ve taken to walking around outside.
Comfortably. Without gasping for air conditioning every five seconds.
Humidity blankets the city of Edinburg, which is six miles from the border of Mexico.This is not a comfy, security kind of blanket. This is the kind of blanket that suffocates, causing endless bad hair days, clogged pores, and pit stains the size of Rhode Island.
Needless to say, I’m thrilled to be here in Dillon. But oh, the journey I took to get here.
Mom, Dad, and I made it here pretty much unscathed three and a half days after leaving south Texas. The beginning of our journey was slightly harrowing, involving a dead frog and a mysterious turd, but it ended triumphantly with demolition derby and a shoot-out on Main Street. But first, the dead frog.
Some time in May, a mysterious odor began emanating from my guest bedroom closet. The smell was one that I had experienced before when my dad kept bringing home birds that had committed suicide on the front grill of his Honda. For days the garage would stink until we realized that the Honda had become a traveling roadkill mobile. Anyway, I knew the smell in that bedroom was that of a corpse, and honestly, I was too freakin’ scared to go in there.
You see, that particular closet had become the dumping ground for everything I couldn’t fit into my three other closets (yes, I’m a pack rat; get over it). So I bought an air freshener and called it good. Eventually, the smell went away, and by the time I was ready to pack up the closet, my dad was by my side.
I was supposed to have finished the packing before my folks flew in, but I got a little tanked the night before they got in, so I was too hung over to do more than pick them up at the airport. Anyway, Dad and I started moving junk out of the closet, and there it was, a frog, belly up, its mummified legs clawing at the air. God knows how long it has been in there before it croaked (pardon the pun). I buried Jeremiah (he was a bullfrog, after all) in a Bounty paper towel and issued a few final words at the dumpster.
The next day, Mom swept out the closet and discovered what appeared to be a turd. It looked about the size of something a small cat would produce. Okay, so what the hell had been living in my closet for the past year?
My new place in Dillon is on the second floor, so I don’t think I’ll have to worry about anyone’s turds but my own. And Grace’s.
Grace, by the way, is my new baby cockatiel. She tucked into her new cage in my car, let herself get buckled in, and watched as the world went by. She seems quite happy here in Montana. She plays, eats, and poops. What more could a bird want?
The actual road trip here was fairly uneventful. I gave Texas a stiff middle finger as we crossed the border into New Mexico and lost Dad in the U-Haul over a steep mountain pass in Raton. But we snuggled safely into Pueblo at the end of day two (yes, it took two days to get the hell out of Texas),and watched July 4 fireworks set off all around the Colorado valley.
As we jetted through the rest of Colorado and Wyoming the next day, Mom and I read Janet Evanovich (go Stephanie) books to one another and coined the term,“Hatch it.” We (in my Subaru) communicated with my Dad in the U-Haul via walkietalkies, which we left on at all times. Occasionally, someone would cut in on our frequency or we would get interference (especially around Denver). Not wanting to turn off the walkie talkie in case Dad needed us, Mom would place it under her rump to muffle the noise, thus producing our catch phrase, “Hatch it.” We “hatched it” across much of Colorado.
Our favorite stop by far was Sheridan, Wyoming,a small town in northwest (ish) Wyoming.Its charming Main Street was lined with saloons, restaurants, and ten-gallon hat stores (I thought I’d left that in Texas). But most fascinating was the town’s own multi-millionaire, the CEO of the M&M corporation. We saw the mansion that M&Ms built and all wished we could be his kids.
We arrived in Dillon the next day to discover that my apartment was not ready to be occupied. Apparently my landlord had put in a marathon week of work trying to get the place ready (he put in a stackable washer/dryer just for moi), so we had to hotel it for one more night. It gave me a chance to show my folks the town. They became particularly fond of Sparky’s Garage and we ate there every day they were in town.
I have been happily ensconced in Dillon ever since. My new apartment (in a fabulous old house across from the university) is unpacked and feng shui-ed. I’ve even participated in a few town activities. I went to my first demolition derby. I think my favorite part was when the winners would stand on the hoods of their cars and strike Hulk-like poses after demolishing the competition.
I also hit Bannack Days. I rode a horse named Silver (the Lone Ranger was horrified by my riding skills) and ate ice cream in the old saloon. The best was the mock shoot out on Main Street between the sheriff and various bad guys. Eventually, a Union soldier strolled in and shot them all. I just can’t get away from Northerners who like to rub it in that they won the war. I’m originally from Virginia,and yes, we know we lost the war.
But so far, I love it in Dillon. Even with the earthquakes. I love any town whose public radio station features music the day after to ride the aftershocks on. I got my groove on to the likes of “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On,” “I Feel the Earth Move,” and “Shake, Rattle, and Roll.”
Everyone has been tremendously friendly and welcoming. Even though my year in Texas was suffocating and smelly, it led me here. And for that, I am grateful.
Humidity blankets the city of Edinburg, which is six miles from the border of Mexico.This is not a comfy, security kind of blanket. This is the kind of blanket that suffocates, causing endless bad hair days, clogged pores, and pit stains the size of Rhode Island.
Needless to say, I’m thrilled to be here in Dillon. But oh, the journey I took to get here.
Mom, Dad, and I made it here pretty much unscathed three and a half days after leaving south Texas. The beginning of our journey was slightly harrowing, involving a dead frog and a mysterious turd, but it ended triumphantly with demolition derby and a shoot-out on Main Street. But first, the dead frog.
Some time in May, a mysterious odor began emanating from my guest bedroom closet. The smell was one that I had experienced before when my dad kept bringing home birds that had committed suicide on the front grill of his Honda. For days the garage would stink until we realized that the Honda had become a traveling roadkill mobile. Anyway, I knew the smell in that bedroom was that of a corpse, and honestly, I was too freakin’ scared to go in there.
You see, that particular closet had become the dumping ground for everything I couldn’t fit into my three other closets (yes, I’m a pack rat; get over it). So I bought an air freshener and called it good. Eventually, the smell went away, and by the time I was ready to pack up the closet, my dad was by my side.
I was supposed to have finished the packing before my folks flew in, but I got a little tanked the night before they got in, so I was too hung over to do more than pick them up at the airport. Anyway, Dad and I started moving junk out of the closet, and there it was, a frog, belly up, its mummified legs clawing at the air. God knows how long it has been in there before it croaked (pardon the pun). I buried Jeremiah (he was a bullfrog, after all) in a Bounty paper towel and issued a few final words at the dumpster.
The next day, Mom swept out the closet and discovered what appeared to be a turd. It looked about the size of something a small cat would produce. Okay, so what the hell had been living in my closet for the past year?
My new place in Dillon is on the second floor, so I don’t think I’ll have to worry about anyone’s turds but my own. And Grace’s.
Grace, by the way, is my new baby cockatiel. She tucked into her new cage in my car, let herself get buckled in, and watched as the world went by. She seems quite happy here in Montana. She plays, eats, and poops. What more could a bird want?
The actual road trip here was fairly uneventful. I gave Texas a stiff middle finger as we crossed the border into New Mexico and lost Dad in the U-Haul over a steep mountain pass in Raton. But we snuggled safely into Pueblo at the end of day two (yes, it took two days to get the hell out of Texas),and watched July 4 fireworks set off all around the Colorado valley.
As we jetted through the rest of Colorado and Wyoming the next day, Mom and I read Janet Evanovich (go Stephanie) books to one another and coined the term,“Hatch it.” We (in my Subaru) communicated with my Dad in the U-Haul via walkietalkies, which we left on at all times. Occasionally, someone would cut in on our frequency or we would get interference (especially around Denver). Not wanting to turn off the walkie talkie in case Dad needed us, Mom would place it under her rump to muffle the noise, thus producing our catch phrase, “Hatch it.” We “hatched it” across much of Colorado.
Our favorite stop by far was Sheridan, Wyoming,a small town in northwest (ish) Wyoming.Its charming Main Street was lined with saloons, restaurants, and ten-gallon hat stores (I thought I’d left that in Texas). But most fascinating was the town’s own multi-millionaire, the CEO of the M&M corporation. We saw the mansion that M&Ms built and all wished we could be his kids.
We arrived in Dillon the next day to discover that my apartment was not ready to be occupied. Apparently my landlord had put in a marathon week of work trying to get the place ready (he put in a stackable washer/dryer just for moi), so we had to hotel it for one more night. It gave me a chance to show my folks the town. They became particularly fond of Sparky’s Garage and we ate there every day they were in town.
I have been happily ensconced in Dillon ever since. My new apartment (in a fabulous old house across from the university) is unpacked and feng shui-ed. I’ve even participated in a few town activities. I went to my first demolition derby. I think my favorite part was when the winners would stand on the hoods of their cars and strike Hulk-like poses after demolishing the competition.
I also hit Bannack Days. I rode a horse named Silver (the Lone Ranger was horrified by my riding skills) and ate ice cream in the old saloon. The best was the mock shoot out on Main Street between the sheriff and various bad guys. Eventually, a Union soldier strolled in and shot them all. I just can’t get away from Northerners who like to rub it in that they won the war. I’m originally from Virginia,and yes, we know we lost the war.
But so far, I love it in Dillon. Even with the earthquakes. I love any town whose public radio station features music the day after to ride the aftershocks on. I got my groove on to the likes of “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On,” “I Feel the Earth Move,” and “Shake, Rattle, and Roll.”
Everyone has been tremendously friendly and welcoming. Even though my year in Texas was suffocating and smelly, it led me here. And for that, I am grateful.
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