Viewing that picture posted by Craig Johnson, I remembered my magnetic draw to this land of Montana. "Longmire" exists in a Wyoming setting, much like that of my home. Although I was born in Oregon, my parents were North Carolinians and we returned to their stomping grounds immediately following my brother's birth, when I was two. They were of corporate stock and much more sophisticated than I. Probably the reason I left North Carolina after living in various states and returning "home" when my mom became a widow and moved to be near her family.
Following the matriarch of our family's passing, my much loved aunt, I found myself lying in bed before starting the day with my two young daughters, just staring at one of my aunt's paintings of a bluff in the West. Maybe I had to wait for most I loved to have left this plane of existence to decide to runaway and join the circus of this life. I decided it was time to explore my connections to this land...to My life. Literally, I threw a dart at the map and did some research, settling on a transition to Montana.
Partings can be tough - I'm a soft touch even when I returned my daughters to their dorm rooms, I cried as if there had been a death in the family. But, in this case, the move was adventure! My daughters and I climbed into the cab of the 27-foot Uhaul with 90 pound dog at their feet, cat-in-carrier behind my seat, and car-in-tow and headed that-a-way.
The few years after my aunt's death left rifts in our extended family and upset bonds between my mother and me as we had worked as executrix to the estate. The estrangements overflowed to that link between my brother and myself, too. I decided it was time to see what there was to see; to let old hurts go; and to explore creating this grand undertaking of possible risks.
Settling into the cab of that Uhaul the first day, I thought, "oh, Lord, what have I done?" My daughters each had CD's and headsets and scenery galore. By the end of our fourth day, the interior seemed like a suite and we hired local fellows to unload the truck. Adventure along the route? There was some. I pulled into a motel parking lot only to discover I was totally inept at backing the trailer. The powers that be smiled and I hired a nice garage attendant to rescue us and we were off once more. Storms hit our route with flooding and the guiding spirits offered alternate pathways. Climbing onto the hood of the truck each morning, my daughters handed me oil and antifreeze to fortify this steadfast companion.
We arrived at our new home, just down the road from a feeder stockyard in the heat of June. Aroma? There is nothing quite as memory fixing. The sky was as huge as the expanse of this wide Montana and the sky seemed to go on forever. The altitude is so high that the clouds make shadows on the ground! It was AND is glorious!
Working in Billings, the drive to Shepherd was relatively short. Hiccups in the economy struck my agricultural lab and it closed. We sold and I bought a place with a single-wide trailer, roomy hunting cabin, garage, outbuildings, and 25 acres in Roundup, still employed in Billings almost 60 miles away. The treacherously long mountain skidding to and from work had me rethinking locations in this state. Neighbors are a huge blessing. Once stranded in Billings with car trouble, they transported my daughters to the grocery store and offered a range of help. Changes developed and we moved to Anaconda where I could buy a home outright. I love Land, but going it alone with wells, frozen and high-centered roadways,automobile travail, and power outages in hip deep snow suggested a small town might just be an option.
Now both my daughters are adults and following their own adventures - my youngest married a terrific fellow this past New Year's Eve and my oldest has found a great guy a couple of hours away. Once again I find myself free to "look newly." AND at the ripe old age of 60!
Following the utter heartache and anguish of being taken and left for dead by my ex and his clan, the journey of matrimony that I had believed would be my "last Tango" with romance just might have been such - but romance with living is something else entirely.
For the first time in decades, I awoke to the realization that I want to be "Longmire." No, not a sheriff, but a person of decency and integrity even as I seek new horizons from the stance of a loner-of-sorts. So many of my months had centered focus on plain survival, aiding my family; and now my two dogs, cat, and I have our tiny house which holds love and memories. Once again after many years, I listen to that inner voice reminding me that the "best may be yet to come." I am honestly without a particular road map, but I surely am returning to life, just as the character, Longmire. It's time to rebuild, to find that joie de vivre.
I had felt that the trek through the bowels of the Twilight Zone in my last marriage to a psychopath and his taker-clan might define me as a person. My months and years following, seemed consumed by the quest for answers and comprehending my own culpability. I feel akin to this character of Longmire in this "return to the land of the living." In a way, I, too, have scripted the "package at the end of my particular ordeal" and have just maybe seen what I needed to evaluate. The new fleshing-out of my own character's texture allows for the memories while forever expanding with possibility.
Now I sit in a sphere of economic adjustment and no wherewithal to locate that "ranch" for myself. Maybe it will come in the form of experience or a coloring of distinguishable vitality. It's funny that my sense-of-humor has remained intact. Without the physicality of a new excursion, I am looking from the me of now, that-a-way.
"A man's got to take a lot
of punishment
to write a really
funny book." ~ Ernest Hemingway
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