A few months ago, I had a routine check-up with my dentist who’s a dental student at the University of Minnesota. He was born and raised in Hamilton, Montana located in the Bitterroot Valley and is an accomplished collegiate golfer. The student working in the cubicle next to us was also from Montana and a collegiate golfer. It’s less and less unusual to meet someone from Montana, but meeting two dental students on a floor of fifty other students, both collegiate golfers, on the same day is bizarre. He said he and his wife who’s also from Hamilton and a law student, plan to move back there after they graduate because they miss it. If not their hometown, they hope to live in a different small town that needs one dentist and one lawyer.
That led us to reminisce about other towns in Montana we both remember, and how the entire state has changed over the years. He said he doesn’t recognize Bozeman anymore and that sometimes it’s called the ‘New Aspen’. A friend who’s lived there multiple times over many decades disagrees. She’s heard that nickname, and thinks the other nickname ‘BozeAngeles’ is a more accurate description. I forget the distinctions while I rewrite this, but what I know is that it’s changed.
Our conversation caught me off guard. With the exam light inches from my face and multiple devices wedged in my frozen mouth I started to drift a little. Sometimes I drive by specific places when I’m in Bozeman, places I’ve lived, places friends have lived, main street, the campus bookstore, the Pickle Barrel for a sandwich, the Western Cafe, and to see if the Far-Out House is still standing. I even stopped by the art building the last time I drove through. I parked, stood on the front lawn, and called a friend who I went to school there too. We told stories and I described how the arts and architecture complex looked the same. “Did you go inside?” he asked. “No, but I did fifteen years ago when I attended some meetings. Inside it’s the same too, but I still didn’t recognize it. I felt out of place.” Our conversation shifted to 1980 when Mount St. Helens exploded. The cloud moved east, and three days later ash fell and collected like snow right where I stood.
After my dental appointment, I walked to a distant parking ramp because the closest one is always full and street parking is never available. I hadn’t been on this part of campus for a while but I noticed the corner deli where I’d received a call from my wife many years ago. I was getting coffee, and she was filling me in because I’d just missed the visit by her doctor and his team. They discovered what was wrong, its critical state, and how they planned to proceed with her the following morning. Fear and guilt washed over me again. Then I drifted to a place in Central Montana which calms me, thought about my dentists hope for his family’s future, and the views he’d enjoy again when he returned to the Bitterroot.
He asked me if I missed Montana. “I do—a little all the time.”
Songs :: The Boy In the Bubble by Paul Simon, Clay Pigeons by John Prine, Small Town by Aaron Espe, Goin’ Back by Neil Young, and Rocky Mountain High by John Denver
© C. Davidson