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When General Eisenhower was still President, but before
we had a television, my father put our family into a green
1950 Dodge and drove us north to Montana, to make a new
home. This was after he walked into the parsonage in Cheraw,
Colorado early one afternoon, sat down at the kitchen table,
crossed his legs and grinned up at my mother. She was just
back from a church luncheon, wearing a blue dress that I
thought was very beautiful. It had hundreds of little
vertical pleats and beadwork shot through with silvery
threads. She called it her squaw dress.
My father had driven down from Denver, where he had been
attending the Annual Colorado Conference of the Methodist
Church a gathering that always seemed mythic to me.
Hundreds of clerics assembled for five days of prayer,
invocations, jawboning and weakaswater preacher's jokes.
At the end of it, lots of younger ministers left the
conference with appointments to new churches and the
Mayflower telephone number.
"Margie, we're going to be driving north," was all he
said at first. Then he got up and strolled into the bedroom,
where he laid down on the bed with his shoes still on. I
knew my mother got bothered when he did this, and that she
was watching him through the doorway. She turned around to
the window and placed both hands splayed out on the sill,
staring hard out at the sandy lot that was our back yard.
It made her shoulders hunch up like the bones of an old
woman, or someone badly formed.
"North." she said. "Well, you've just about choked me to
death on dust. Now you want to freeze me, too. I've been
expecting something of the sort." When she turned around,
the remnant of a smile was on her face.
By dinner time he was awake, and came into the kitchen
holding a tornup RandMcNally Atlas of the United States.
"I've got a good feeling. I believe that this church will be
one of my best so far." It made my ears stand up. He had a
confident manner when he was making plans, and generally
talked as though he was about to take the next step in a
long, well thoughtout campaign. He shook the atlas out to
the page he wanted and flattened it down onto the dinner
table, right on top of the silverware.
All through the meal he explained how we'd drive up
through Yellowstone and see Old Faithful and then go up to
Glacier National Park, where the ice has been moving inches
a year for tens of thousands of years, and drive out from
the Rockies onto the plains the plains would be like
nothing we had ever seen, he said. Mother ate silently and
finally asked why Bishop Phillips had farmed him out to
Montanans.
"Wants me to build a new church. They burned theirs down,
too, just like here in Cheraw. I sometimes wonder if I’m
preaching to Methodists or arsonists." My father had gone to
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Georgia Tech and become a mechanical engineer. He had a
flair for design, and putting things together came
naturally. But assembling turbines for Westinghouse did not
and eventually he himself came apart, and went into a
hospital for a while. By the time he was thirtythree he
decided to do what his father had done, and enrolled in
divinity school. He studied hard, and was liked.
He started preaching in a little dustbowl town in
southeast Colorado while he was still at the school. One
night old, rotten wiring finally gave out and burned the
Cheraw Methodist Church down. A few believers joined him and
together they built a new Aframe sanctuary, and a small
office wing. Laminated beams were shipped out from St.
Louis, altar cloth and communion sets from Philadelphia,
hymnals from Denver. It was clean and modern, and he had a
chocolate brown room fixed up as his study. Bishop Phillips
himself came down for the cornerstone ceremony. He was like
a grandfather, and had always produced a candy surprise for
me when we saw him in Denver. The Bishop wanted Tommy to do
it again, this time in a slightly larger town called Fort
Benton, in Montana.
We set out in a car that was packed up to the windows. My
father fitted a plywood platform on the top for extra
baggage, and driving up over the continental divide we felt
like settlers. Old Faithful spewed as advertised and I
bought a rubber tomahawk and a thermometer set into a small
pine log as souvenirs, but we couldn't afford to stay in the
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big Yellowstone lodge and ended up the first night in a poor
man's Howard Johnson's.
The next morning after breakfast, we stopped at a
roadside stand so my mother could buy some clipon
sunglasses. She was wearing her squaw dress and looked
happy, revelling in the clear air and sunshine, finally in
the mood of the trip. But she said the glare at this
altitude was hurting her eyes. Altitude was frequently
blamed when little things were askew, like pollen in the
spring months. Tommy checked the oil in the car while she
went into the store and in a few minutes she came out. She
was rigid, her mouth a straight line across her face, her
face pale.
"They say they don't serve Indians," she muttered and
climbed into the car, every shred of lightness gone. Tommy
went into the store, and came out with a pair of sunglasses.
He walked around to the passenger side and dropped them into
her lap but she wouldn't lift her hand to take them, and she
wouldn't speak. Later, he would tell the story and remark
that with her deep tan and dress, she did look a little like
a Blackfoot, maybe, but she never laughed. She would say
that she couldn't understand westerners, that they were
crude and rough and "unhistorical"; that it was just like
calling her colored; that such an unpleasant thing could
never happen back in Savannah; that she would never get used
to it out here. After a while he didn't tell the story
anymore.
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Fort Benton clung to the Missouri River upstream from
Great Falls. Ustream meant northeast, and my mother said she
could not understand in her heart how a river could flow
north and east it did not seem to be the way that things
should be. The town sat in a deep valley cut from the high
plains. Not a hundred miles away was the high massed blue of
the Rocky Mountains, but we were surrounded by an ancient
sea of grass and through the farmers work and way, wheat.
Hundreds of thousands of gold, rippled, waving acres so that
I wanted to raise a sail atop the plywood platform when we
drove through it that first day.
The community had grown up around one of the earliest
U.S. Army frontier forts, and the pointed logs of the
stockade wall still stood near the river. It had been an
outpost built for protection from the Indians. The hills
around, where I hid in the summer and tobogganed in the
winter, were full of arrowheads and treasure and sometimes
I’d find a bit of the whitened, wasting lead from soldier's
bullets. In winter the river froze. The streets froze too,
and once my hand froze to the front door knob of the
parsonage as I was trying to come in from a dark sledding
afternoon.
It was on such a day that my father drove up to the front
curb in a new Dodge Coronet, so modern it had huge fins on
the rear of it, and shiny white. It was like a mirage in the
snow. My mother wouldn't get into it even for a test spin.
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She said that Tommy would have to saw those goddam fins
off before she would even walk out to see it. She said
"goddam" more often now than before and her smile was
reserved for evenings when people from the congregation
dropped by, or when we went down to potluck suppers at the
high school gymnasium which was used for church occasions
because the new church was not yet finished.
I saw his shoulders sink inside his parka, but he laughed
and said he'd better go back downtown for a hacksaw. He got
into the car and drove off in the direction of River Street,
where the Pioneer hardware and drygoods store was located
and where all the businesses, restaurants and bars were. The
afternoon passed and he didn't return. We waited dinner for
awhile but my mother finally said she'd waited long enough,
and we ate in the kitchen.
The telephone rang about 8 o'clock and from upstairs I
heard my mother answer it, speak only briefly, and click
down the receiver. She walked up the stairs to their bedroom
very slowly, and through the wall I could hear her opening
the cedar closet next to the bed she and my father shared.
When she passed back by my open door the squaw dress was in
her hands and she was ripping it down each seam, as
precisely as a tailor getting ready to let out a pair of
pants. Her hands were white with the effort and her face was
white with a cold, blank look that I remembered seeing when
we had picked my father up at the dryingout hospital years
before. Back before Denver, before the church, and before
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she had let him promise to buy her that beautiful, bright
dress.
end
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