Category: Writing

Words big enough to see. That was the first hurdle I encountered on this wacky journey. A trip to the office to grab my monitor and I’m off.

Also ticked off the list … stuff I knew would distract me from concentrated bouts of time: The stories are arranged calendrically. Isn’t it odd, by the way, that the word calendrical actually exists, but no spell checkers seem to know?

• Reference materials at hand. Including a book on-loan coming soon
• Christmas is struck and in storage
• The garage is ready for small, limited sessions of clearing and cleaning
• The weather is set to suck for the next few days
• Plenty of response to the blog means I’ve got a great support system in place

All that’s left to do is the writing that fills in the gaps. Ready. Set.

Here we go.

I’ve been reading Work Song, by Ivan Doig. All you Anacondans (you know who you are) should take a look. Borrow, beg, or buy this book! Mr. Doig has been an inspiration to me since I read his This House of Sky in my Montana Lit. class at the U of M.  Though the book takes place in Butte, it is a fine, fictional account of the life of a non-native, working various jobs in 1919. Those of you who know your history, know this was a time of great turmoil in the mines, and subsequently at the smelter.

The details of the work stoppages are intriguing to me, not only from the point of view of the non-union narrator, but also the inner workings of the men, unions, Wobblies, and the families, whose lives were inextricably linked to the hill.

I begin to wonder, by the time our town was hit with a strike in 1967, if some of the inner-workings of the emotions had become inbred in us. The fierce loyalty we have for each other. The contempt we had over the lack of control we experienced in our lives. How we held each other up, whenever our community was laid low by the machinations of a company that was so much bigger than our will. The underlying need to keep the company going, even when it so obviously was crushing our spirit, and sense of freedom.

I was only a casual observer to what was going on behind the doors of the smeltermen’s families. My dad wasn’t reliant on the hill for our daily bread, it’s true. But many of my friends and neighbors, cousins and uncles, were. Is this where my independent streak was born? Was this the power behind the voice that criticized, cajoled and extolled the foolish opinions of the outsider?

Among my various treasures, collected from the years away from Anaconda, (there are now, in fact, almost twice as many years living away from Anaconda as there were living in), I wonder if the stationary box, given as a Christmas gift from my employers eleven years ago, isn’t more prescient now as then. Engraved in the lid of the box is a quote from Mother Jones, “I am not afraid of the pen, or the scaffold, or the sword. I will tell the truth whenever I please.”

But maybe I’ve got this all wrong. I was young, when the smelter shut down for almost a year. I was young when the smelter closed. Naive. Impartial. Unattached. Somewhat uninterested.

Still, there were things we said to each other. Things we did for one another during those times that became a part of me. My job is to honor those moments. Seek them out and illuminate the corners of the memories. I believe there is enough truth to tell in those.

I have to admit, “going public” like this is causing me a wee bit of existential angst. These events I’m writing about really happened. The plot is truly true, but the dialog is, admittedly, fabricated through the fog of my own perceptions. Like Huck Finn tells us:

“YOU don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly — Tom’s Aunt Polly, she is — and Mary, and the Widow Douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before.”

So, buoyed by my belief in the forgiveness of those who read my stuff, I forge ahead. Putting words into other people’s mouths.

As for the whole “Does it matter?” part … well, I think that’s a little more slippery. Many of the people who encourage me to write, tell me it doesn’t matter. All of the writers I speak to have said as much, many with a witty remark or a sly wink.

But I hesitate now, only because there have been times in my life when someone has said, “And then you told me … ,” and I think to myself, I absolutely did not say that! And having that happen is my real fear. (Well, that and boring people.)

It’s the meaning behind the words that always belongs to the reader, right? Right? Right.

My sister and I used to have this mantra with our parents, which I still use almost everyday. When we wanted to make sure they understood us, we’d say, “You get me? You understand me? You see what I mean?”

Today’s challenge: legibility. Tomorrow’s challenge: facing the music.

This is undoubtedly the biggest day of the year here in the Byington household—a tradition gleaned from my mother more than anyone else. I’m most certain my sisters and my brother are thinking many of the same thoughts today as they sit with their respective families and chat away the long winter night.

In Anaconda, Christmas Eve took weeks of preparation. We’d start the day after Thanksgiving. There was the usual hubbub about the tree, certainly something that goes on in most people’s houses. But it was beyond the tree that concerned my mother, who would cover every flat surface with some kind of decoration. As she aged, this did not get better.

There were knick-knacks and angel hair and pine cones and ceramic figurines and … well, you get my point. Two of these stick out in my mind this morning. One was a sleigh made out of felt that had been glued to a turkey breast bone. It held Christmas cards and letters. The other was a mistletoe thing. (No shit, the word “thing” is the only way to describe this.) It was, I believe, a styrofoam ball, around which empty plastic medication cups (like the kind of the top of NyQuil bottles) were glued or stuck with pins. The cups had been rimmed with Elmer’s glue and red and green glitter. The result was  … spectacular.

The cooking would start around 8:00 a.m. and not stop until dark, when boatloads of relatives would appear and pack themselves into our house. The food would be laid out on the kitchen table and everyone would use my mother’s china and silver to sit with a plate in their laps, wherever they could find a space. (It was a casual/elegant type of deal.) Then the exchange of gifts and goodbyes. Seems fairly standard.

But it was the spaces between those events that fill my mind on Christmas Eve. The idea that I could have more than one canned shrimp. The incredible, incomparable taste of my aunt Glenna’s pies. If we were lucky, we’d get my uncle Orlin drunk enough that he would yodel. (My uncle Orlin was a first-class yodeler, but he only did it when he’d had a few.) My uncle Julian, generally a quiet, gentle man, would actually roughhouse with us. I adored him. He was the only man I’ve ever known who consistently and successfully wore a hat. My dear aunt Pauline’s hearty laughter … it is all so tightly wound into the fabric of my day today.

When it was all over, and the relatives would leave, my brother and his wife would linger longer at the open door than any of the others. My parents and my sister would go to bed, and I would turn off every light, save the Christmas tree, and watch the midnight mass from St. Peter’s Basilica, the Latin pouring over my head, anointing me with the rich and powerful unction of places far, far away.

I can only hope the same for everyone, everywhere today. As I sit down to my adopted family of theater friends tonight, I’ll intone the same wish I’ve had since I’ve started hosting a Christmas Eve gathering: God, thank you for this night and these friends. Please keep your watchful eye over all who do not have a roof over their heads, or who are coming to a table less bountiful than ours. We add to this our fervent wish for peace.

It’s eleven, eleven. Time for a kiss! Okay, that’s really something that I share only with my wife, but now you know it, and there’s no backing out. It’s one of those little things that people say to each other.

Growing up, there were more than a couple of things my mom would say to us. Most of them were strong enough to echo in my daily life. Here’s a few:

“Good God! It looks like a bunch of Okies live here!”

“I don’t see a piano tied to your ass.”

“I wonder what the poor people are doing now.”

“Don’t blame me, I only live here.”

“Can’t we all just get along?”

“Well, at least you’ll be better before you get married.”

That last one is sticky. No one really knows why my mom said it. And she said it a lot … upset tummies, mumps, chicken pox, broken hearts … it was her salve for just about every thing. I think she probably said it because she thought it was funny.

Today, I’m working on a scene that’s particularly tricky. When I was six, I dove into a wading pool in Missoula, Montana. I don’t know why. No one really knows why. When I ask my sister, she remembers the blood and gore, but not the impetus. It’s hard to figure out the motivations of such an act. I was scraped and skinned from head to toe. And my poor, long-suffering mother poured bottle after bottle of hydrogen peroxide on my legs, my ass cheeks, my nose. But here’s the thing—I was numb. I don’t remember feeling anything. After every wound-cleaning session, she said, “Well, at least you’ll be better before you get married.”

She never lived to see that happen. Part of me is thankful for that … hard for anyone to measure up to her critical eye. But I think she would have been happy to know that I found Alana, who seems to love me—scabs, scars and all.