The house on the hill stands empty, her windows dark, save one, the red and golden stained-glass cactus rose, glowing in late-day autumn sun.
Twenty-seven years, as the first deep snow of winter fell, we moved into our hand-built house on the hill. There was no glass in the windows, we had run out of money; plastic snapped in the cold winter wind and we burned 7-cord of wood.
We filled our house on the hill with love, blood and sweat, some tears, babies grand and great, laughter locked within the walls. Watched lightning crack the sky as thunder rolled great bowling balls. Story books and popcorn in the pouring rain, trees bending to the ground.
Remember the bear in the kitchen? Standing in the garden window, looking out at us! Behind the door of each Montana day, always waiting, something wild. Moose in the yard, cougar on the trail. Hey bear, hey bear, are you there?
Swimming in ten-thousand years of glacial melt, the freezing Clark Fork River ran right by our door. Who will dive in first? Jump in, jump out. Or, quietly, without a ripple, canoe to the other side where river otters sunned on warming rocks. Bald eagles and osprey, swans, geese, ducks and loons. Sister raven, brother hawk.
Chop wood, carry water, shovel snow, stoke the stove. Nothing warms the bones like wood heat. Dogs curled up beside the hearth, they knew. In spring the garden grew. Beware varmints and pests of all shapes and sizes! You may not eat my luscious peas! I will stone you where you stand. I am Tomato Queen, sprouting seeds indoors on every sunny surface, spindly seedlings thriving, if mice don’t nibble first. Luciano Pavarotti sings to them. Enough to share with friends and neighbors.
Dark clouds gather behind the house on the hill, warm winds howling up a storm. I hear a wailing; it’s me, crying years of tears. We are leaving. The house is sold. I will take Montana with me to Seattle where diamonds litter my neighborhood streets. Oh, wait. That’s broken glass. No matter. Diamonds or glass, they both glitter in the sun, rainbows and prisms. A new day dawns.
It’s goodbye to old Montana, where dreams have come and gone, and I’ve done all I can.
©Janis Monaco Clark
That sums it up
Well said. 27 years in a few paragraphs paint such a clear picture of so many memories. Goodbye Montana
You would know, Alana. You were there!
Both hand clapping, a bow to you, and a big sigh. Your kitchen table held many fine meals, Tarot reading, how many edits?
Did you mean to leave out the event -the tree that fell across your garden? It’s Dia de la Muerte, a good day to remember a near death.
I missed you this whole year
So long Montana
🎶❤️,
Love is all there is, it goes where you go.
My old log cabin sags not a mile from yours. All that remains is broken furniture and warped records awaiting one last ride to the landfill from whence they sprang. The mice recount tales of an ogre who built the place and how he laughed, cried, sang, played guitar, drank, stunk, smoked, fished and peed in a jug when it was too cold to run to the outhouse…but hell…whut wuzz-ain’t now…experience is my eternal suitcase.
We have stories for the campfire!
Beautifully said my friend – What is in your heart is there forever. You have taken the memories with you – Now look for all that glitters and the fact you are on the threshold of a new adventure, new vistas and new things to write about. Blessings & Light.
I loved your story Janis it made me feel lonely for my old home too. I will miss everything but am grateful we had the chance to move on when we did. New adventures await right around the corner as you and Bruce know.
Beautifully written, dear Janis…..congratulations on your sale, but also sad for you to sever your deep and delicious connection to Montana, tho’ I know you will carry (and hopefully write about) those memories and stories that shaped you into the amazing elder that you are….may you and Bruce be blessed richly and deeply in whatever way is good for you.
Love ya’