Bozemans Forgotten Past By: Cavin Losett

Though Bozeman is becoming one of the best towns to live in in the country, it still survives with remnants of its past. They flicker past the eye, staying undecidedly below a conscious detection.

Hiding behind history and an unbeknownst ignorance, the past, of what used to be a small mountain town, speaks in wordsyet no voice but that given to it by an author who can only surmise. Flour that used to package in 100 lb bags off of Wallace and Peach St. now only survives with thoughtfully forgotten murals painted high above todays line of sight. It adds a charm, some say. However, what is now a remote location in the eastern district of Bozemans downtown residential area might used to have been a hub in the towns earlier days.

What used to support a hustle of trade and commerce now sits delinquent, windows sorrowfully shattered tears speak of better yesterdays. All the while dilapidated paint peels layers of sunshine that once shone proudly.

An article by Lanford Wilson entitled Creating Art With the Written Word discusses the importance and value we place on paintings with text in them. He notes, even when the painting, loaded with text, remains a locked-door mystery to the viewer, an impenetrable private or personal mythology, the urgency is so strong, the moment so specific, we never doubt that the artist was completely present, trying to tell us something, which brings the question of what these artist were trying to tell us? Did they imagine their works, their discourse, to be a remnant so many years after its conception? Their words, and images, clinging on long after the motive they were created for has gone; slowly, fading paint is the only indicator of something else that bleeds its ephemeral identity in seconds, in minutes, and in years with every slash of rain and whip of wind. Leaving silent voices that once had a keeping in every day conversation.

A silence so cacophonous that you cannot help but to stop and listen, imagining the symphony of sound that once inhabited the very corners you now see drenched in shadow. A perfect productwheatthe perfect product. Did whomever painted these words understand the gravity, the absolute necessity of wheat? Was it the perfect product for a granary? Was it the perfect product for Bozeman? Now it remains a posted law to keep out, to not trespass. However, the deliberate attempts of many, or few, leave behind their twisted slanderings, their fluorescent names, declarations of love and hate. This is all done in the shadow of what used to be the perfect product.

Though in the midst of dilapidated memories and faded paint there lies a trickle of business, inhabitants of what we now deem Bozemans historic district. They are the ones standing on the shoulders of giants, a view allowing the historic overtures to add benefits and appeal to potential customers. Where faded letters on the sides of buildings no longer provoke probings into their history, they now provide an antique aesthetic feel, helping to counterbalance the rising development of urban ski lodges we see throughout downtown and surrounding Bozeman.

What housed the business for grain and coal some forty years ago in Bozeman now houses Bridger Feeds. Pale tin now combines history with the modernity of the 21st century; where you can walk into a building closer to a hundred years old and buy dog food for your medium to small size dog for only $56for a 20lb bag...

One such business epitomizes a grasp to the past in our age of cellphones, computers, and Justin Bieber; with a slogan of declaration that would make a spit-prone cowpoke crack a wheezy smile, The Stockyard Caf (Calfe) promises a break from a constant engagement in sensory technology and everything else that pulls our eyes from one direction to the next. Promising the service of Just Food No Bull, the Stockyard prides itself in promiscuity, the waitress on her ability to simultaneously make you feel hated and loved, and the food onwell simply being food. Other than the remote location of the Stockyard, there is nothing that screams amazing food, awesome

location, and the sign on the side of the caf spelling CALFE Find IT!. So what is it that compels people to pack the Stockyard parking lot every weekend (they are not open on weekdays)? I believe that it has to do with the status perceived by patrons of the little Caf. It offers a setting more in keeping with rural Montana, it provides sights of old buildings and the art and writing, and in the loving words of Cheryl, a waitress there, I dont know why people like us, as long as they shut up and dont complain! Phew Cheryl, she had sentimentality practically oozing from her when I asked her one simple question. Maybe thats why customers like it?

Consequently, Bozeman finds itself unassumingly mixed between the present and past, as are most places, yet when viewing the side of the Baxter building on sun-swept evening, going inside to enjoy Moscow Mule and a saucy Reuben sandwich, and know that this place, Bozeman, is something special. With neighborhoods united by both history and new business, a creative coalition by the latter, but induced by the former that allows businesss to thrive under (sometimes quite literally) the decade old rhetoric that was carefully, perhaps even inspiringly, created upon, and around, Bozeman. The ability to connect to a time that we (we in this day, in this moment) know so little about; where faded letters, faded words, and long-lost businesses allow residents, even visitors, to feel Bozemans past. Perhaps attributing to Lifestyle Magazine naming Bozeman, Montana the best city to live in, in the country.

Forgotten spokes of industry leave a rusting sentimentality of age and ageless diffidence. Words that were so carefully sprawled upon blank templates to inform, to catch the eye, to draw in commerce, remainbut are gone. What used to be staples among the community that was more comprised of ranchers and farmers, now host pictorial journeys to the past. The punks of today, the taggers, and the graffiti artists now only emulate the evidence of previous generations tendencies to use the building of their business as their billboards, slapping paint on it as wistfully as Picasso.