Sometimes I feel like packing up and moving back to Lafayette,Louisiana, where by April, I'd be in my cutoff shorts, tank top, and Tevas, two-stepping away to some hot Zydeco on the back patio of the Blue Moon Saloon. Instead, I am clad in heavy sweat pants and my Patagonia jacket, happy that on a June morning, its at least sunny and almost 60 degrees.
Don't get me wrong. I love Montana. Just yesterday I went for a hike near my house and after cresting the highest point in my neighborhood, looked out toward the Madison Range Mountains, once again awestruck that I actually get to live here. The sky was huge - not even the mountains could dwarf its endless spanse. Guess that's why they call this "Big Sky Country". It was a blue that I've seen before - the color of a sunny day in a Monet painting - cerulean, I think. The peaks in the distance were a soft blue gray, still capped in white from the long winter. Clouds spread across the expanse, white, gauzy sheets so sheer that the blue sky could still be seen behind them.
New flowers were everywhere - purple Pasque flowers, magenta Shooting Stars, sunny glacier lilies, and delicate pink and white spring beauties. I stopped and plucked a sprig of sage leaves and crushed it in my fingers, then held it to my nose and inhaled deeply - God, what heady, herby heaven!
I looked over again at the mountains, then down into the valley just below me. The Gallatin Valley was a corduroy patchwork quilt of browns and greens - some fields already lush with crops, others still waiting for seed. I couldn't see it from my vantage point, but from the serpentine line of cottonwoods winding through the valley, I knew that the Gallatin River was waking up from hibernation, its banks ready to burst with snow melt, hungry enough to devour any land weak enough to fall prey.
I smiled to myself, thinking of the coming summer and days spent wading the river, casting my fly into sparkling waters while making deals with God if he'd only give me a brookie or a bow that day. Couldn't do that in the Vermillion River, lemme tole you sha! Brown, dirty water probably swarming with gators and cottonmouths. No thank you! Still, I do miss the food, the music, the distinctive patois of my Cajun cousins....maybe I should just visit more often. The last time I visited was last May; before that, it was 1985.
Why did I wait so long? Well, that's a long story, one that I am writing about in my memoir, Blue-Eyed Cajun Girl. Maybe someday I'll be ready to tell my story. Someday.
Well, as my Grandma Fabre would say,
Soingner Vous! (can't remember it in French exactly)
Take care of yourself!
Don't get me wrong. I love Montana. Just yesterday I went for a hike near my house and after cresting the highest point in my neighborhood, looked out toward the Madison Range Mountains, once again awestruck that I actually get to live here. The sky was huge - not even the mountains could dwarf its endless spanse. Guess that's why they call this "Big Sky Country". It was a blue that I've seen before - the color of a sunny day in a Monet painting - cerulean, I think. The peaks in the distance were a soft blue gray, still capped in white from the long winter. Clouds spread across the expanse, white, gauzy sheets so sheer that the blue sky could still be seen behind them.
New flowers were everywhere - purple Pasque flowers, magenta Shooting Stars, sunny glacier lilies, and delicate pink and white spring beauties. I stopped and plucked a sprig of sage leaves and crushed it in my fingers, then held it to my nose and inhaled deeply - God, what heady, herby heaven!
I looked over again at the mountains, then down into the valley just below me. The Gallatin Valley was a corduroy patchwork quilt of browns and greens - some fields already lush with crops, others still waiting for seed. I couldn't see it from my vantage point, but from the serpentine line of cottonwoods winding through the valley, I knew that the Gallatin River was waking up from hibernation, its banks ready to burst with snow melt, hungry enough to devour any land weak enough to fall prey.
I smiled to myself, thinking of the coming summer and days spent wading the river, casting my fly into sparkling waters while making deals with God if he'd only give me a brookie or a bow that day. Couldn't do that in the Vermillion River, lemme tole you sha! Brown, dirty water probably swarming with gators and cottonmouths. No thank you! Still, I do miss the food, the music, the distinctive patois of my Cajun cousins....maybe I should just visit more often. The last time I visited was last May; before that, it was 1985.
Why did I wait so long? Well, that's a long story, one that I am writing about in my memoir, Blue-Eyed Cajun Girl. Maybe someday I'll be ready to tell my story. Someday.
Well, as my Grandma Fabre would say,
Soingner Vous! (can't remember it in French exactly)
Take care of yourself!
Great first entery. Looking forward to the next. :o)
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