First things first, because there’s a little tension in the
air—a lot actually. There’s a few people
royally pissed off at me being totally unhinged, so I’m going to clear the
air. I.don’t.give.a.shit. At all.
In case you’re new to Jen going off the edge of appropriate,
let me fill you on a few things: 1.) You
obviously think too much of how I value your opinion. 2.) I’ve written WAY worse about my childhood—bad
enough the phone started ringing and my mother was in a snit the likes of which
are portrayed in “The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood,” and my father
blew up the phone lines asking how much he owed me in therapy, so save me your
pathetic drivel. I’m now reminded at
every family dinner by the parentals about how much I think my childhood sucked
(it didn’t, BTW, it was actually pretty awesome with a few fucked up things in
the middle). But, you’ll get told where
to pack it and how. 3.) I’ve had stuff published that has resulted in people
close enough to be family refusing to speak to me for years. So, in the old clichéd nutshell, as politely
as I can, I’m telling you, you can fuck right off. I write what I want; I write
what I feel.
And I get it that can be scary. It’s scary because feelings are just
that. Feelings. And, I own them and no one can change
them. It’s scary because sometimes it’s
ugly and sad and truly pathetic. It’s a trip
deep into the ugly side on occasion.
Maybe it’s that I just spent too much time in silence.
I’m not a talker. I communicate
and I make sense of my world when I write.
It’s how I figure shit out. Spare
me and everyone else you’re snide remarks you think are so tactful and obscure.
You know who you are, with your less than perfect life, and no, I don’t mean my
mother-in-law, because she had the balls, like my own mother, to tell me what
she thought—and rightfully so. She deserves a voice too.
You, however, not at
all. You can just sit there in all of your judginess, in your judgy chair, and
judge away.
Now that is out of the way, here goes.
I’m unhinged and at a crossroads. People I trust, have known this for a
while. And by unhinged, I mean my
thoughts are coming out exactly as they are.
I’m not ashamed of them, and I have no reason to be. If people don’t want to be written about in a
negative light, they should behave better.
And, just so you know, yes. My
husband read the last “tirade.”
I’m not perfect, and I admit that…if you don’t think so, you
totally missed the macaroni salad thing.
I write about everything.
I’m kinda like those assholes from South Park—nothing is sacred.
Anyway, I’ve never been to Red Lodge without a lump in my
throat. The first time I made it here, I stumbled on the place in a snow
storm. I came over the Bighorns from
Sheridan, stopped in Tensleep for a beer, and decided I could make it to Cody. I was really hoping to make it to Silver
Gate, but the road was closed.
It was after my grandmother died, and I just wanted to sit
in Silver Gate and stare at the mountains and think. Just go into my head and find whatever it was
the universe had to say. I should have known the road would be closed, but
there was a part of me that really said I had to try. I had to get there.
I was always supposed to meet Treasure in Red Lodge, being
it was halfway for both of us, so when I came down the hill from Washoe, the
lump just kind of re-emerged. Sitting in
my throat, stinging my eyes.
Every hotel was full, and driving back to Cody in the snow
seemed insane. So we snagged a room at
the Pollard and walked across the street to the Bull and Bear. Long Islands were on special for $3.50, and I
drank several with a lady who sat next to me at the bar. Sometime into the night, I discovered she
taught Treasure’s brother in elementary school.
I didn’t realize it at the time. But, it was what I needed.
I don’t much remember the second time, except that I waited
three hours in the snow for a store on Main to open, so I could buy a clock…and
a ravioli form (that I have yet to use)... pondering if I was ready for a major
career and geographic change.
Anyway, I’ve always found myself here at a crossroad in my
life. Some grand decision is always in
the works.
Maybe it’s because most of my 20’s were spent wandering
Yellowstone and the outskirts, hugging trees, crunching granola, and trying to
find myself. The best part was I got
paid to do it. So, I was always able to bury
myself in the mountains, and the views, and the awe. I grew up in the mountains, but I’ll never
forget the day at the Yellowstone Institute I watched a grizzly bear take down
an elk calf. It was like Mutual of Omaha…live.
I once sat with my kids at Slough Creek and watched baby
wolves play…just us. All alone and that
only happens when you’ve spent enough time there showing rich people around
that you know where to actually go to find the cool shit without people.
My 20’s were an utter mess that made it pretty easy to throw
myself into the middle of the wild to see what it has to say.
Brian would lecture me for venturing off into Bechler,
alone. “I got bear spray,” I’d say. But in reality, I’d have a damn heart attack
if I ever had to use it. I’d be dead
before a mama bear could even charge.
But it was in those places I could retreat from the world for a few
seconds or a few hours, or if I was lucky, a few days, and figure out what I
needed to do.
I could stare at the mountains, or the carnage, and realize
I’m alright. Come to the conclusion that
I was exactly where I need to be to learn what life had to give me.
Sometimes, it was just a trip to Bozeman to sit in Franz’s
kitchen and let him make me French martini’s while I listened to him tell his
stories about trying to become a CIA agent.
Other times it was sitting in the Moose after a long day of
powder.
On normal occasions, when I don’t feel right, I head into
the desert. To walk the places my dad
would take me…the places I could get lost and find arrowheads. Sit in the sagebrush and watch the sun set
behind the Pioneer Mountains. Perfect
ribbons of orange light streaming out from the sun…glinting off the silver
leaves of sagebrush. Smelling moist dirt
and sage.
But when shit gets heavy, really heavy, when I find myself
at a crossroad…I go to Yellowstone, or somewhere close to it. I bury myself there, and I don’t leave until
I know. Until I know what it takes to
not blow. To just rattle and shake, and
let the steam out in a slow, steady stream of hot steam.
So, we came here to Red Lodge, this time with not just a
lump in my throat, but a knot deep in my stomach ready to make me vomit, to
make a plan. Which road to follow. To unhinge it all and let it out, and let it
flow…and decide which way to go. Figure shit out.
I’ve decided happy endings aren’t clean and pure. A lot of the time, they’re messy and dirty
and you have to hurt a lot first. There’s
a lot of lonely in a lot of happy endings.
Someone said to me the other day I don’t sound happy. It’s not quite an accurate assumption. I’m pretty happy with a lot of things in my
life.
I don’t yet know which fork in the road life will lead me
down. It’s all pretty heavy, but I do
know I’m ready to unload.
What I do know, more than anything… anything… watching the
sunset and the clouds swirl over the Beartooth Mountains, is that it will be a
happy ending. No matter what the road
is, or where I end up, it ends happy.
Happy and free. Unhinged and unloaded.
