Montana Morning
When my sister left Maui to move to Montana, I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, Maui had changed — mostly not in good ways — from the island it was when I first visited her in the late 80’s: no more sugar cane, too many big box stores and fast food chains, and exponentially more tourists. The last few years she was there, I’d spend most of my visits upcountry and on the north shore, both of which kept more of the local, island vibe. Even so, any time we wanted to venture to the west or south side, traffic was a nightmare and tourists clogged up beaches and restaurants (yes, I know I was technically a tourist but my bro-in-law gave me honorary local status on account of my appreciation of and respect for what it meant to be “local”). Maui was an escape for me, and as more and more people discovered the charm of upcountry and Pa’ia, the more I had to seek out my own “hidden gems.” Which wasn’t all bad. I had some great adventures looking for new hiking spots, hidden waterfalls and secluded stretches of beaches. And I always had a great time there. It was relaxing even when parts were annoying — and I do miss that special Maui smell. It’s different than the other Hawaiian islands. There’s a mixture of sea and plumeria and that red Maui earth that just can’t quite be duplicated. Every now and then I’ll pass a fragrant garden and get a whiff that is similar; for a moment I will be transported back — breathing it in as soon as I step off the plane, soaking it up, along with the warm sunshine, as I drive up Baldwin Ave. I’ll be watching the sunset from her backyard, looking out over the valley, the West Maui Mountains, with Molokai and Kaho’olawe off in the distance. It was a magical place that I’ll never forget.
But now, as I sit on the front porch of her house outside Stevensville, Montana on a perfect August morning, I have that same sense of tranquility, and then some. Then scent of clean mountain air mingles with fresh cut grass and a hint of freshly baked sourdough wafting from the kitchen. A gentle breeze whispers through the cottonwoods and tickles the wind chimes, almost like I’m sitting in some fancy spa retreat waiting for my massage (now that would make it truly perfect!). Even my brother-in-law walking by with his trove of fresh veggies from the garden, talking about being covered in “chicken schmutz” is oddly comforting. I feel sorry for city folk that can’t appreciate the pleasantness of a rural getaway. I wouldn’t want to live here full time — not now, at least — but it’s so refreshing to look out over gardens and fields and the mountains in the distance, instead of house upon house upon apartment building upon high-rise; to hear a faraway lawnmower and my dad cutting wood; the chit-chit-chit of the neighbor’s sprinklers and crazy little corgi Phoebe trying to growl at my pit bull. Life isn’t necessarily slower here either — the house is buzzing around me while my sister and her BFF continue the bathroom remodel and my niece and her dad tend the garden and the chickens. Eventually I’m going to have to get up and be helpful… but I drove a thousand miles the last two days so I get a brief respite.
Oops, I spoke too soon… I’ve just been summoned to clean gooseberries.
