“Y’all gon’ PICNIC up there in all that???”  You bet yer ass, pard…

Well, it IS Montana, after all. And those of us who delight/endure the usual 6+ months of below-freezing weather have found ways… yes,ways to pass some of this frigid, snowy time. And occasionally we decide to have a picnic. That’s right. A sort of
sick, misplaced wishful thinking, perhaps, but probably more to the pioneer spirit which resides, to one degree or another in each of us out here, which speaks, “Let’s speed Spring along with a bit of a picnic, what?” Excuse me here… I’m watching Downton
Abbey on PBS as I write, and I so love the English’ version of English.

Anyway, we feel we can have a damned picnic any month we want to… that the weather doesn’t (usually) define what kind of fun we can have, or when. I love these winter picnics we have. They are a subtle way of thumbing our Montana noses at the elements at hand, and keep us thinking we are still in control of our own destinies here in the high country.

Last Thursday the ACME Groomers, of which I am a member, decided to trailer our four sleds down the Madison Range toward Yellowstone to a place called The West Fork Of The Madison River. The West Fork is cold, and often windy, and usually has more snow than some of the surrounding area around Virginia City. There are two main trails leading out of the West Fork parking lot. We chose the longer of the two… Standard Creek.
                                     Coffee Time On Standard Creek Trail

Standard Creek is a rugged and beautiful part of the southern Gravelly Range. We rode 23 miles in, and could have gone even farther. We picniced on top of a sunny hill at 20 miles in.

The day couldn’t have been better – sunny, in the teens, little wind. Our eldest member, Gene, was in fine spirits, for some reason. The rest of us were, well, the rest of us… fairly jolly, always on alert.  The trail, for the first 16 miles, is wide and well-groomed by a Virginia City guy, Eli Thompson. Average speed for the first 10 miles is 20 to 40 mph. Standard Creed is fairly narrow for that stretch, then widens considerably, with beautiful views of higher peaks and  granite outcroppings. The others ride by these views, more interested in whether their sled is heating up, or how long before “the picnic.” They’ve seen this stretch dozens of times, and the views are expectedI.

On the other hand, I gawk. And often I stop and take a few pictures, for every time we go out to a new place like this, I am overwhelmed by the beauty of this state.

For some strange reason Gene, our senior member, always chooses the campsite. And as is his bent, he always picks a windy knob to try to build a fire, and we all bitch at him incessantly. He endures it with a grin…he delights in rubbing us the wrong way a bit. But this day he failed. For the knob he picked was sunny, no wind and there were more than enough dead branches at hand for a good fire.

Larry dug down into the snow, and after 3-plus feet, decided that the fire either would burn or it wouldn’t. it was a 4-foot hole in the snow, with no bare ground under. But we placed some sticks on the snow and Gene placed a few little purple pellets among them, and in a minute the sticks began to catch and we had a fire… on the snow.

We dug out franks and buns, mustard and catsup from the sleds, and I dug out my famous potato salad. When I found that no one had brought plastic ware, or paper plates, or napkins, I fished them out of my bag as well. Why did I think to bring them?? Because my B had told me about a mens’ outing, in which no one bothered to bring the extra stuff. I remembered, brought it as a possible back up, and was an instant hero. “You brought plates? Great!” ” “you’ve got forks for the potato salad?” And, “Don’t suppose you brought any napkins…” Then, the coup de gras… I passed my flask of brandy to larry, who looked at me for a moment, as if he didn’t recognize me. It was a delicious moment. Thank you, B. The boys see me slightly differently today.

After lunch we rode three miles further northwest, past Wolverine Basin and back toward the Snowcrest range. We got nearly within rock-throwing distance of a prominent mountain, Black Butte, 10,5000 ft. I have not seen Black Butte from this vantage point and it was impressive.

                Equally impressive were some of the views on the ride back to West Fork.

                         Look what we get to see every time we go out!

Gene got his “sporting blood” up and promptly got stuck. Daryl rode up there and helped get him out.

We stopped and chatted with Eli, who grooms these West Fork Trails twice a week. He’s a good man. Eli’s in the orange jacket.

We loaded up and headed home at 4 p.m. A long day, a lot of deep snow, shoulders and legs sore, hands and feet cold. But… I had my brandy flask, and Larry and I sat in the back seat of Gene’s big diesel truck on the way home and got well. It was a great day, all around. Gene was in a good mood, I shared my “B raisin oatmeal cookies” with the boys, no one got hurt, we figured out how to get to the head of a few remote trails and we saw a bunch of great country. And that’s how it should be… when you decide to have a picnic in SW Montana in the Gravelly Range on February 14th, there, by god, better be a reward. And there was.

Steve Hulse

Okay. I love music. Almost all music. Always have. I made my living in music
for 43 years. Doesn’t mean I know a lot about it – it does mean that I care about it…
a lot.

I’m watching the Grammys. I can’t believe what I’m seeing,,, or hearing. The
Grammys is about music, right? The best music of the past year? Or… is it simply
the most successful, moneymaking music of the past year? The two are often
mutually exclusive, you know.

The first 45 minutes featured only two or three awards, the rest of the time was
spent entertaining us. entertaining us with songs that never once played more
than five chords in the entire 45 minutes. The Foo Fighters live song had more
chords in it than that first 45 minutes of entertainment. So I was listening for
lyric content, not being very happy with the banal musical attempts the Grammys
thought we would be Ga Ga for. And what did I hear? Par – par – par – par – paradise…
ooh oh, ooh oh, ooh ooh; Par – par – par – par – paradise… ooh, oh, ooh oh, ooh, oh…
Well.  I tuned in, thinking I’d be hearing some of the best music produced in the world.
Evidently I missed something. Oh, I listened…

45 minutes in, the Foo Fighters did their live hit, and I felt the show lifted a bit. Did you
hear the lead singer of the Foo’s acceptance speech? The part when he said the
music has to come from here, and here…
Then the next 30 minutes nosedived (to me) again. I saw a bunch of strange hairdos, goofy
clothes and record company attempts to make marketable moneymakers out of
mediocre talents that looked… um, different.

Yes, I’m in my late 60′s. So maybe I shouldn’t be able to relate to the “new music.”
Wait… really? I’m a jazzer. I and my jazz cohorts know exactly how high and how low
music can take one, when it’s good… really good. It might not be quite fair to tell me
I don’t relate to the new music just because I’m old. When did I lose the ability to
perceive quality? Especially in music…

Well, of course I loved the Beach Boys. Loved them the first time around, loved them
tonight. Stevie Wonder is a class act. Paul McCartney is a class act. Yes, they’ve
been around forever, and why wouldn’t I relate to them? But we’re still talking about
music here… supposedly great music. I thought it was a great example for the world
to see how radically, ridiculously our concept of good music has changed over the
past 30 years. That first 45 minutes, I kept thinking, “Well, if I were a great dancer, and
could sing a little bit, with the help of deep, expensive electronics, then hell… maybe
I could be a star too, and win an Grammy…” Sure, I’d have to lose 30 pounds and
50 years, but aside from that…

I’ll just say this… if I had Bruno Mars’ hair, I’d be a star without singing a note.

Glad Adele won. She has a killer voice, and is a terrific song writer, who writes about
her life, her experiences… songs that her huge fan base can relate to. Which is what
music started out to do in the first place.

There was a lyric I really liked in the first hour. “I don’t just want to make love, I want to
make love last.” Excellent. Would’ve loved to hear much, much more on that level.

I know entertainment has changed, on tv, in our lives, everywhere. and, once again
showing my age, I am so sad tonight that huge background fires and stunningly blue
hair and over-the-top costumes are needed to sell “good music.”

You know, I don’t like most critics. I don’t like to read critical reviews about movies,
plays, books, art displays……….. or music. They always sound pompous, pretentious
and self-indulgent. And now I do, too. Guess the lesson for me here is that when one
feels strongly about what they think they know something about, they put it out there
with their hearts. it’s the “feeling strongly” about  a review that leaves us feeling that
the reviewer is opinionated. And why not? Of course they are opinionated… it’s their
opinion they’re sharing with us… an opinion laced with passion for the subject. And
that’s what I’m sharing with you now… just so you know.

By the way, there were  seven chords in the last song Adele sang… two more than
the show’s entertainment played in the first 45 minutes. Keep in mind that she’s
a singer first, then a songwriter. Even better, her band and her background vocals were
all live. The crowd loved her. And I’m glad for that. Hell, she got a standing O….

I thought the Glen Campbell tribute was appropriate, but why not also acknowledge
the writer of ‘Gentle On my Mind” – John Hartford. Glen had that hit because John first
wrote the song. Did the Grammy committee think that wasn’t important??

Thank god Bonnie Rait honored Etta James’ death. Was she any less than Whitney
Houston? Was she?? What are people thinking out there? My friends, I’m thinking
here, as I listen to yet another tribute to Whitney “I Will Always Love You” that there
is no reason I can find that fame should put one person above another… it’s deeds,
not our perception or love of that person, that should finally measure a star…..
and each of us. It has to be deeds… and only deeds.

I will not flame out like this again. it’s a rare time, when I love music so much, and
am trying to stay current in what our country thinks is award-worthy.
Mine is probably an old, sad concept of what I wish music could still be. I admit it.
And I liked the last Chris Brown song. It was creative, very well-produced, steam
and all… 4 chords and all.

And finally, there was Neil portnow’s moving music speech – the gist of it being
that the Grammy Foundation is throwing money at young musicians to make more
music like ….. this? Searching frantically for a positive note here, I found the animated
mouse ‘interesting’ – And how about Nicki Minaj?? Huge production, more steam and fire,
electronic drums, electronic track & vocals… and 4 chords.

Okay, I’m stoked. Record of the year…. I can’t wait. Well, it was Adele. “Rolling In The
Deep.” I don’t know. It’s a good song,  a great performance and production. At this point
in the show I have no idea whether they’re trying to do what they secretly know is right,
or whether they decided to pay lip service to real music, knowing this might well be
the last year that real music really needs to be dealt with on any important level.

Album of the year, Adele. What a breath of fresh air. Good for her.
And then Sir Paul… “Once there was a way to get back homeward, once there was
a way to get back home…”
And then, “Sleep little darlin’ do not cry, and i will sing a lullaby.”
Thank you, Sir Paul, from the bottom of my heart. So glad I’m old enough to see,
and enjoy your magical mystery run of music and of life. Curious, how my two
fave artists this year on the Grammys are both from Jolly Old…

Growing old is hard. It just is. And yet, at the same time, we’ve made it this far,
after all, and shouldn’t we be appreciative of that? I think so. Appreciative that
we heard Sir Paul and the Beatles when Ed Sullivan was calling them “Those
lovable mop-tops from across the pond…” that we got to sit at a bar years ago,
nursing a warm beer and a love lost, while Etta James sang our hearts to us
on the juke box in the corner… that we got to watch a Super Bowl maybe 15
years ago, and when Whitney sang “The Star Spangled Banner” on the field,
I was all teared up, thinking, “Now THAT’S the Star-Spangled Banner!!”

Well, it was different, to be sure. it was disappointing, and it was a trip back
in time. At this moment, tonight, I am so confused as to what I perceive that
people in this country think music really is today… it actually hurts me.
I don’t pretend to know what others should like, I don’t pretend to think I could
ever force my concept of quality in music on anyone else. I write this tonight
because I live in a country where I CAN write this, and because it’s a cry
in the wilderness for sanity, for purity of intent, for engagement of principals
in our art forms, for ethics in our media presentations. Have we gone too far?
Is quality music fast becoming a relic of the past? Or have I simply lost touch
with “what is sick,’” and “what is now…”

I guess it wasn’t a bad show. I cringed in disbelief, I sufferer through the
4-chord dysfunctional repetitive babble. I smiled and shed a few tears…
I guess it wasn’t a bad show. I’m going to crawl into bed now, and try to
remember when Tony Bennett could really belt one… when Etta James
soothed my young, aching heart, when the Beach Boys sang “Good
Vibrations”  and when the Beatles sang “Yesterday, love was such
an easy game to play.” Yes, it’s time for bed, but I’m going to drift off
tonight, with a real melody in my head, and real lyrics…
“Sleep, little darlin; do not cry… and I will sing a lullaby.”

Steve Hulse

He flies through the air with the greatest of ease
That daring young man on the flying trapeze

To fly through the air accidentally or on purpose…
That is the question.

Dillon, my son, and Betty, my Lady, have been spending time with me
up here in the frozen tundra of the Great Northwest. We’ve had a great time together,
Dil & B have gotten to know each other, and we’ve already shared some pretty funny
stories and experiences… which is why I haven’t written a post here recently. Nothing
like the holidays and company to keep one hopping, right??

One of the fun things we three decided to do together was to take an easy cruise on my snowmobiles up Alder Gulch, a road along  Alder Creek which stretches for six miles up into the mountains
south of Virginia City, gaining around 2500′ in altitude along the way. Deer, moose, coyotes
and fox are not uncommon up in there.

The scenery is pretty great, the ride is easy, if one
stays on the trail, as the V.C. Groomers (of which I am one) keep the trail groomed and
smooth all winter long. B & I rode the new sled, while Dil rode by himself on the older sled,
until he got his “snowmobile legs” under him. Then we traded and he took off down the
trail on the new sled as if he’d been riding all his life.

On the way back to town we stopped for a breather at 3-mile, an open spot next to the
trail that is sometimes used as a parking lot for sled trailers in the Spring. I told Dil to take
the new sled around the big lot a few times, to get used to turning more sharply and learn
to lean into the turn. Well. he did two turns around the big lot while I was trying to set my
camera into video mode. I heard the motor rev high and looked up to see Dil and the
sled flying through the air toward Alder Creek, Dil already separated from the sled but flying
along side it. It was the strangest moment, all in slo-mo, and I remember not believing
what I was seeing even before Dil and the sled slowly spun back to earth.

Dil and the sled disappeared down a small bank and hit the snow, side by side. B said
“Oh dear God” and started for him. I put down my camera to follow her when he popped
up over the bank and yelled, “I’m okay!”  So we rode the old sled over to him, to check
him out, make sure he was all right. He was a bit dazed, but otherwise fine. We got the
sled upright and back up on the level, he rode it around a bit, said he felt fine, so we
all rode home. He bruised his leg, but nothing more serious than that.

With the greatest of ease, he flies through the air
He knows he will land, but he knows not where…

You know, we all have moments…. defining moments, when we, or our loved ones, are
momentarily in harm’s way. In those moments there is so much basic, pertinent, important
information going on in our minds, our hearts and our emotions in those moments…
if and when they turn out okay, and we’re willing to relive them, and our perception of them,
I think that we learn a great deal about ourselves in those moments. We learn if we love
someone, and how much. We learn what we’re willing to do for them. We learn that maybe
our life is so intertwined with theirs, that if they were to lose theirs, we would also lose ours.
We learn how strong love, and our love for them, is. We learn how far we’re willing to go
to save them from harm… perhaps  to give our own life for them. This examination, I’ve
found, has to be close to the event itself, otherwise our visual remembrance and our
relief that all turned our all right will blur the clarity of our emotions of that special moment.

I heard the love and concern in B’s voice when she saw Dil disappear into the snow bank
and whisper, “Oh dear God.” And she’d only known him 3 or 4 days. But it was there. I
remember thinking, “B’s got a cell phone. If he’s hurt, we’ll save him… we’ll find a way.”
And the incredible relief when he popped up and yelled to us, “I’m okay!” The relief flooded
from the top of my brain to my toenails. I was vibrating. Relief on that magnitude is a
powerful emotion. Some people fall to their knees. I think I might have peed my pants.

We can’t have fun… hell, we can’t really even live our lives to the fullest, if we don’t have
some adventures, some danger, some moments, some accidents. Sorry, but we just can’t.
For one thing, life isn’t designed that way. We can be in danger going to the grocery store.
We  can have an accident in the kitchen. Well then… should we not live a little closer to
the edge, to experience a little more excitement, to feel a little more alive?? Many of you
do that, I know. Skiing, sailing, snowmobiling, kayaking, 4-wheeling… in all those
activities there is a thrill, an excitement, a challenge, a moment, and a satisfaction. Why
would we want to give that up? Is that not much of the stuff life is made of, after all?

As it turns out, Dil is fine, B & I are fine, we all had a great time. No one got hurt, Dil can now tell his SoCal pals what it feels like to fly through the air with the greatest of ease
in the winter wilds of Montana. B can relive Dil’s close call, and all the close calls of
her kids and grand kids, and be thankful they’re all still alive and well today. And I can remember how I felt in that pink, breathless moment when Dil flew through the air with the greatest of ease…
he jumped up and waved, and I fell to my knees.

Actually, I was never worried. I’ve seen Dil survive moments like that on several occasions.
And so maybe I did experience a tense moment or two there… so what? I’ve got several
clean pair of long johns in the drawer. And besides, a little pee never hurt anyone.

Steve Hulse

Also, a little making light of a tense moment never hurt anyone either. Here’s a cartoon of the event which you might enjoy.

This is for those of us who have kids, family, loved ones, who live apart from us. This is for those of us who feel and taste life with our hearts first. This is for those of us for whom “A Tear And A Smile” is not just a great book written by Kahlil Gibran, but also means a day well-spent, well-felt, well-lived.

We were all kids once, and most of us came home to our families once in awhile… maybe on holidays, maybe because we couldn’t take the big, new, difficult world anymore and needed to rest, regroup, reconnect with the reasons we were out there in that crazy life in the first place… and maybe to simply be back with family, because those ties were hard to break, and because we knew they needed us. After all, when we were young, the new world was out there, waiting for us to conquer it, and most of us couldn’t wait! Remember that point in our young lives when going home was an obligation rather than a relief… I do.

After it all got sorted, after we made our dent in it all, after the chase and the madness and the successes and the failures, the laughter and tears, we ended up, all of us, with a core group of loved ones whom we knew so well because of our shared life experiences… and who knew us as well. From middle age on, the meetings with those dearly loved ones has become precious. Parents, nephews, favorite aunties, pals from high school, have become so much more meaningful, especially if we allow them to. Sentimentality has somehow gotten a bad rap in this fast-moving, emotionless techno-world, and probably not all of us will allow ourselves to feel and appreciate the real warmth of our deeper relationships with those who know us best. But I do.

And no, this is not about me, dammit. Just sayin’ – it’s why I’m writing this to you tonight, wanting you to know that someone you know is out here is willing to remember, to feel, to love, to weep with joy, that we’re all still here on the planet, still together, still doing our things, and still getting back together once in awhile to share our successes, our failures, our dreams, and our loves… with those who really know us, and know how far we’ve come.

Now this isn’t a challenge, or a finger-pointing. Actually, I know that all of you who bother to read this have great hearts, and dear ones whom you take great care of, and have much love for. Guess what I’m struggling to say here is that I encourage you to keep it up; that it’s still okay, that it’s still cool (really!!) to love each other and show it. Naturally it’s easier to do if we’ve ever had a child. For that “unconditional love” thing comes into play right away, and never really goes away. It seems to make our hearts larger, our egos smaller, and all that is an incredible inward growth for us – a growth we never get over, never want to get over. For to love someone more than ourselves is to get outside ourselves and see our lives in a beautiful and new perspective. Our egos can sometimes be an anchor on our hearts, and I believe that, ultimately, our hearts know WAY more than our minds do. You know, that must be the case, for how else could our species have survived all these centuries of the ice age, etc?? We had to care for each other, help each other, band together to survive. Those of us with kids know how far we are willing to go to insure their survival. Hasn’t it always been thus?

With our kids, our hearts are mostly on our sleeves, though we try not to show it. And occasionally our hearts are in our throats, and we just smile, and turn away, because they might not understand… understand how very much we love them. They will, someday. But probably not now. So we try to be careful.

I know my boy, Dillon, will read this in a month when he’s back in La-la land with his buddies, when he’s working again, and has just spent two weeks with his old man up in the frozen tundra of the Arctic North he’s come to know as Montana. It might embarrass him for a moment, knowing I’ve put it all out here this way. But maybe not. Perhaps he knows me better than I think he does. At any rate, he’s coming home, to let me love him, take care of him, indulge him the way I remember my dad loved and indulged me. Perhaps he knows I need it more than he does. And…. maybe he still needs it, too. God, I sure hope so. I’m so excited tonight… if I didn’t sit here and type my feelings to you this way right now, I’d be jumping right out of my own skin. I tell you, I can’t wait, I absolutely can’t wait…for he’s coming home tomorrow.

Steve Hulse

I don’t know about you, but Christmas is an emotional time for me. I can’t help it… all this jolly music, the decorations, the lights, the jolly attitudes at the Post Office… I don’t care if they’re forced… I love it. I love it all. I have my share of toddies and egg nogs, I sing along with some of the Christmas songs on the radio, I watch Rudolph and The Grinch and love them as I did those many years ago. And I remember Christmases past.

                           Christmas ’67 in the Madison County Sheriff’s Office

All my memories of Christmas with my family are good. I know it’s not that way for everyone. I don’t remember any strained emotions among any of us during the Christmas Holidays. There was some tension around New Year’s, sometimes, as there were occasional fights in the bar on New Year’s Eve. We always had extra help on that night, and Dad could handle everything, anyway.

The only Christmas tension I remember was when I was 14. I wanted a Santa Fe electric passenger train that year. I’d been scoping it in a catalog for 4 months. Mom knew all about it, of course, and sent for it for me. Dad had gone to Peru 3 months earlier to work on a big construction job down there, and Mom and I were alone for the first time at Christmas.

Christmas morning came and I opened my train, and… and… it wasn’t a Santa Fe train. There was a note inside that said they were out of Santa Fe trains, but because I lived in Montana, they thought I might enjoy a Northern Pacific train instead.

Well. I was not happy. The Santa Fe train was silver, with the coolest red stripe going down the engines, while the Northern Pacific was a semi-drab two-tone green. Mom went downstairs and made herself a mimosa while I put it together. I got it running, and it was pretty cool. I was mumbling under my breath that “I’d been rooked.” Mom was in the bathroom, putting on makeup and combing her hair. When she came out, I was still grumbling “I’ve been rooked.” Her eyes flared. “If you say that one more time, I’m putting it back in the box and sending it back where it came from. Now that’s enough!!”

Yup. That was enough.

                                                   The bar, Christmas, ’56

Mom would decorate the bar every Christmas, as some of their patrons didn’t bother to do anything at home, or simply didn’t have the money. My mom taught me how to decorate the tree when I was about 6, and for the next 10-12 years it was a source of great pride to me to decorate our “upstairs” tree. Mom would decorate the big bar tree downstairs and I’d do the one up in the apartment. She taught me to space the ornaments and lights in just a certain way, so everything would glow and twinkle off each other. She taught me how to double-hang the tinsel, very close together, so that when done, the tree would absolutely shimmer.

                                             The snack bar, Christmas ’54

It would take about 4 hours of an evening just to do the tinsel. I would be drinking a pop that Mom would bring me, put all their (six, I believe) Christmas records on the record player, and listen to that music while I decorated. If, for some reason, I was not already in the Christmas spirit, the tree decorating did it, every time. We listened to Percy Faith, The Ames Brothers, which, by the way, is still a great album to listen to. Fred Waring & his orchestra and chorus, which I always loved, and, of course, Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters. Good stuff.

                                Mom & Dad & the upstairs tree, Christmas ’65

My family always celebrated Christmas on Christmas day, as the bar was open on Christmas Eve, and I’d always go to bed early. You know… “So jump in bed and cover your head, ‘cuz Santa Claus comes tonight.” And I always did, with that song in my head. We would open our presents on Christmas morning, then Mom would fix a nice dinner for us, as the bar was always closed on Christmas day. Don’t remember if it was turkey or not, but I
think it was. I would be upstairs in the apartment playing with my new toys, and Mom and Dad would go downstairs, have a drink or two and prepare the meal. I remember going downstairs to get a Seven-Up or something, and be in the darkened bar… it was so neat to me, the shades pulled and only a few little lights on in the bar… the atmosphere was magical to me on those rare days. One of the main lights on those holidays was the Great Falls Beer Sign that was also the bar clock… it resides in my kitchen now, and the light warms my kitchen deep at night just as it did in my folks’ bar those long years ago. The train? It’s upstairs in a box. Still runs, too. No, I wasn’t rooked.

                                    My first tree at Fort Apache, Christmas ’80

One Christmas eve Mom came up to tuck me in, and put another log in the wood stove. I was probably eight, still believing in Santa, but on the edge, and she told me that tonight might be a special night. I was about to tell her I already knew that, when there was a thump, thump thump on our roof, right outside the apartment window. Mom gasped and said, “Oh, I’ve got to go downstairs now, honey. I think Santa’s here! Good night. Merry Christmas, Stevie!” Well. I believed for one more year. Found out way later that Dad had been outside, and had thrown up a couple of chunks of wood up on the tin roof… worked like a dream. God, they must have loved me so much to do some of those things.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays to you all. I’ll fire up this blog a few weeks after the new year. Until then, be cozy and enjoy.

Steve Hulse

                                               Mom asleep, Christmas ’55

I was 42 when my son, Dillon, was born. I’d say we are basically two generations apart in many respects. We still like some of the same movies, tv shows. video games and animes. We also like some of the same music, big movie scores and orchestral productions. Because of our age difference, however, there are some big, and sometimes humorous, differences in our musical knowledge and in our perception of what is ‘old’ music. Below is a fictitious treatment of a conversation Dil and I might have over this holiday season.

Me – “Dil, do you recognize any of these Christmas songs we’re
listening to?”
Dil – “Well sure, dad, I know almost all of them. I mean, like,
how many Christmas songs are there??”
Me – “Maybe more than you think, boy. Ever hear of ‘Shake Hands
With Santa Claus?’ Or ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,’ by Little
Jimmy Boyd? Or ‘Snow Bound’ by Sarah Vaughn? Or ‘All I want For Christmas Is
My Two Front Teeth?’ How about ‘Christmas In Sun Valley?’”
Dil, looking at me strangely… “No. But I’ve heard of Sarah, uh,
what’s her name…”
Me – “Ha! Okay. Have you heard of Louie Prima? Brenda Lee? Peggy
Lee? Perry Como? Johnny Mathis?  Dean Martin? Andy Williams??”
Dil – “Is he any relation to Roger?”
Me – sigh. “How about the Carpenters?”
Dil – “The Carpenters…….. nope.”
Me – “All right… here’s a dead giveaway… who sang “White Christmas?”
Dil – “Oh, I know that tune. A lot of people have sung it.”
Me – “Yeah, but who made it a hit, initially?”
Dil – “It was a hit??”
Me – “Oh god. Dil, it was the biggest selling, most money-making
record in history…”
Dil – “Record??” Then, “Yeah yeah… I’m just pulling your chain now…”

Me – “But really, man, don’t you know who sang “White Christmas??”
Dil – “Think about it, Dad. When did it first come out?”
Me – Well, shit…  it was written in 1942 or somewhere in there…”
Dil – “Right, and what was that? Let’s see, that was only 44 years
before I was born. I’m supposed to know that shit, right??”
Me – “But it was a hit, it was the biggest song ever, at the time,
and the writer, Irving Berlin, was a famous song writer… didn’t I
ever tell you about it??”
Dil – “You’ve played it for me, but I don’t know who sang it.”
Me – “Ever hear of Bing Crosby?”

Dil, with a huge eye-roll – “Bing. Bing…. uh, Cosby?? What?
Not sure I ever heard of that dude….. of COURSE I’ve heard of
Bing Crosby. Always wondered how he got famous. White Christmas, eh?”
Me – “I don’t believe you. Don’t mess with me, boy, this is serious.
You need to know about some of these things, these classic tunes and
who sang them…”
Dil – “Why? Why do I need to know who did stuff in your era? I hear
a Christmas song, I like it… why do I need to know who sang it first?
That person is most likely dead now anyway. Is there going to be a quiz??
I don’t think so… isn’t it enough to be able to just enjoy the
song, without knowing the history of the singer or song writer?
Especially if it happened 40 – 50 years ago….. Jesus. And besides,
how do I know if this Williams whatever, or the carpenter, or this
Irving person, even exists? How do I know you’re not like, making these
names up, just to mess with me? Wait… let me ask you… do you know
who Bruce Springsteen is??”
Me – “C’mon Dil, I’m just sayin’…”
Dil – “No, Dad, I’m just sayin’- Do I know who Henry Mancini is? Yes,
because you’ve told me a hundred times. Do I know who Miles Davis is??
Yes, because you’ve told me a hundred times. Do I know who Irving
Whatever is?? NO. Because you never told me, and because nobody my
age has a clue who the dude is. Sorry Dad, it’s not something they
taught us in school. Maybe because It’s Not Important???? God….”
Me – “Okay, you’re right. I hate to say it, but you’re right. Guess
I’ve been trying to force my old values on you. It WAS a long time
ago…”
Dil – “Look. I know that music and that period of time means a lot
to you. But you have to remember that Christmas music is a month long
at best, and most of us have never heard of those singers. It doesn’t
mean they weren’t important at the time, or great even… but like,
we’ve got our own great singers now. If American Idol had a
Christmas sing-off, would you know any of the singers??”
Me – “Oh, that’s not fair…”
Dil – “Not fair?? I’m talkin’ singers right now, and you’re talkin’
singers 44 years ago, and you’re like sayin’ “it’s not fair?????”
Me – Silence.
Dil – “Okay, Dad. So who was this Como dude?”
Me – “No,no, you’re right, Dil. It really doesn’t matter. I’m attached
to all that, but that’s no reason you should be. You’ve made a
good point… all that is my life, my memories. I won’t try to
force that stuff on you again, okay?”
Dil – “Oh, for sure, man, it’s all good. I know you didn’t like,
mean anything by it…”
Me – “Good. Glad you understand, boy. Just one more thing, though…
do you happen, just *happen* to know which big, I mean REALLY BIG
rock star sang, ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas?’”
Dil – “Ummm… give me a hint?”
Me – “Well, okay… Elvis…”
Dil – “Elvis who?”

Steve Hulse

Okay, it’s time to tell you… life is fleeting. I know, you knew that already. But… are you really living as if??  C’mon – we all KNOW it, we just don’t quite live it that way all the time. And that’s what this post is all about.  Once a year, okay? Don’t let me preach to you here, but I need to remind you, and me, of moments in our lives that can slip by if we stop paying attention, stop appreciating. Especially the little, seemingly unimportant moments.

Think we have 25, maybe 35 more years left? Ehhh, probably not. We have today, and maybe tomorrow, and that’s it. If you’ve got a guarantee of more, show it to me. I’d love to see it, and see who signed it…

Which brings me to the point once again… are we living, really living?? Sometimes, we do, sometimes we don’t. Tonight, I was on the verge… to live, or not to live… that really was the question. I was tired. No, lazy… I’d had a venison stew, had built a fire in the wood stove and the cabin was warm. My Kansas Jayhawks had won their semi-final game in the Hawaii tournament and although they were sure to be slammed by Duke tomorrow night, all was momentarily well with the world. I was ready for bed, I thought. There was maybe one more glass of wine in the bottle of cheap in the cupboard. I could drink it, to be sure… but where? Here, in front of the crackling wood stove, or out in the hot tub… in the night, in the deep heat that would surely put me out for a long winter’s nap?

Being already toasty, I was tempted to simply crawl to my bed and call it a great day. But there WAS that damned hot tub out there. An old Miles Davis album was playing on my surround system, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that to NOT go out into the hot tub tonight was to basically turn my nose up at one of my several luxuries that  few others had out here, in this part of the country. Was I suddenly taking my great hot tub for granted, and not enjoying it, simply because the moon was not full and I was feeling lazy??

Well, you know the answer. I poured a plastic cup of the last of the wine, threw on my robe and went out there in my moccasins. And what a right move it was. The water was hot, incredible, and before I was sitting out there five minutes, some coyotes across the way set up a howl and a yipping. I sipped my wine and thought, “yeah… this was the thing to do. Damn.” I listened to them while the steam from the water drifted left to right, upward from the hot tub, dimming the lights of the little town below. And it occurred to me… would I have missed this? Would I have gone to bed, lazy slug that I can be, and missed this?? Thank heavens I didn’t. It was magic, it was warming beyond belief, it was reassuring that my life in the Rocky Mountains is a good life… and that the wildlife is still really here, unimpeded by us.

I finally crawled out of the hot tub, pulled the cover back over it, and padded back into the cabin. The wood stove was still lit, pouring heat into the cabin. The satellite jazz station was still filling the living room with sweet sounds. I sat down in front of the wood stove in the rocking chair for a moment, felt its heat, felt the beautiful ambiance of my fantastic cabin. I rocked, and thought about it all. Would I have missed that last forty five minutes? No. Not for the world. The heat of the hot tub, the quiet scene of the town below, the sound of Daylight Creek, already gurgling under the newly-formed ice, the coyotes… Oh hell no. Instead of another night of Kansas Jayhawk angst in front of the fire, I came back inside remembering who I am, where I am, why I am here, and just how incredible this place that I am presently in… is. You know… forget the Jayhawks. I absolutely love life in Montana.

Steve Hulse

What’s in a nickname?? I guess it somewhat depends upon what is in each
of us. To a point, we are defined by our loved ones, friends and relationships. As we get older, we get better at perceiving how our friends perceive us. Sometimes
it’s rewarding to get that inside view… and sometimes not.

I think our nicknames are revealing… as are our occasional lack of them. I know people who have no nickname at all, and some who have five or six. What does that tell us about those people? Do you have a nickname that your friends are fond of using? Do you have nicknames for some of your friends and special people in your life? If not, why the hell not??

It seems to me that a nickname is, at the very least, a token of familiarity, of understanding that person on another deeper, better, perhaps more personal, level. A nickname can be a tip as to how we see a person, or, if we’re really sensitive, how a person wants/needs to be seen. Nicknames hint at what sort of vibe a person puts off, what the comfort level is with that person, what the perception of that person is, from an outside point of view.

I know some folks who wish to be addressed by their formal name, like “Edward.”
Once one knows this, there will be no Eddie, Ed or Edwardo. No. It’ll be Edward, and it’s likely that’s exactly the way they want it. Doesn’t that tell us something about that person? I think so… not necessarily bad, just… something.

the question has to arise, do we define ourselves by our personalities, actions and communications to the point where others can figure us out, figure out how we see ourselves and what we probably want to be called? Yes, I think so.

A part of it is probably a comfort level with each other. Another part of it is probably affectionate. My dad had a close friend named Bob, and often I’d here him say something like, “What do you think, Bobber? Shall we take an hour or two and try our luck down on the river?”

Dad had another close friend, Steve James, whom he named me for. Never called him anything but Steve. Steve was part Native American, as was his wife, Pearl. They were strong people, had an abiding love and respect for their close friends, and had a good sense of humor. But respect of a relationship was at the forefront of everyone they knew. My folks, and all their other friends, knew that. There was no “Stevie” or “Pearlie.” That was okay… we didn’t love them any less.

I, on the other hand, have had as many nicknames as anyone I know. Not sure why, not sure if I want to know why. Mom and Dad always called me Stevie or Stever. Except when I messed up when I was little, and then it was for me the way it was for all of us with our moms… “Stephen! Get down here this instant!!” Her nickname, by the by, was “Swede,” though when she was in a mood, Dad would call her “The growl box.” No, she didn’t like it… Many of Dad’s friends called him “Hulse” or “Hulsie” – Doll Dixon would call him “Hulsie Cottontail” as he was a good dancer for a big man.

I’m known as Stevie, Hulse or Hulsie by many who know me well. Several friends over the years have called me Mister Hulse, and never varied from it. That one bothers me a little… have to wonder if they’ve perceived that I need more respect than I’m getting, or if they’re trying to help me raise my self-perception… or perhaps, C… something weirder than the above.

A couple of old and dear friends still call me Steffen. Now tell me… don’t you get a warm feeling when a good friend calls you by some other name than Thomas? Okay, maybe not… but I do. And when I like someone and am comfortable with them, I’ll pin a nickname on them in a heartbeat… if I can find one, and if they’ll allow it.

This is not written in stone, by any means. I know a Gary, a Jack, a Bill, an Eli, a Daryl and a Mary who do not want, or need, to be called anything else. Well, at least not by me. I also know a Bubba who would rather be called Bob, a “Dude” who would rather be called Bob, and a “Rex” who is actually a “Bubba” but who would rather be called “Gadfly.” Go figure.

I bring this up to you because people affect me in so many different ways. Makes me wonder if it ever happens to you. A college roommate of mine, Craig, became Fern and now Fernsie. It works. Another college roomy, Jon Lodge, dictated to us what he wanted to be referred to as… first  Zodge, then simply Z for a time, and now Zogix! Yes!! The re-defining of one’s self… ahh, it’s a beautiful thing. Funny thing is, he’s right… he is a “Zogix” now. In spades.

Another close friend, a “Steve,” is comfy with Stefano. I like that. On the other hand, I know a guy whose nickname is Skip. I think his real name is Charles. He likes Skip, but don’t call him Skipper or anything else. No. But hell, I get that… we all have a perception of who we think we are… don’t we?

My son and our family dog had to endure a long list of nicknames, because we loved them both, of course. Dillon became Dil, natch… no, wait! When he was a baby we discovered he was allergic to milk, so we gave him goat’s milk for awhile, ’til we found out that wasn’t working either, and we went to soy, which worked out fine. He was our “Soy Boy” for a time. As he was a premie… he was so little at first, so we call him our “Edo man” in baby talk. That became “Edo.” God. Sickening, yes? Worse, that became “The eed.” Wouldn’t blame you if you stopped here.
Just sayin, tho, that’s how far this stuff can go. Anyway, Dil became The Dilster, Dillonio, moving on to Dudley, The Dud, as he grew older and more playful, and finally Dufus, The Dufe, and the crowning moment, Dufus Q. Wormwiggle the Third.

Still want more? Sure, our dog, Ruby. This oughta send you to the liquor store… we started out with Rube, the Rubester, Rubinski. Then we *creatively* broke off that into “Binski” and finally “Bin.” It was too bad, we used up so many of her 75-word vocabulary just remembering who she was supposed to be at any moment, that she often didn’t respond to Ruby, or No, down! or Don’t poop there, PLEASE don’t poop there… our bad.

I have a friend named Spencer. He was so worthy of a cool nickname, but I fear I let him down. The best I could do was “Spencerman…” a takeoff on “Superman” as he is an absolute magician as an audio engineer in his recording studio. But one of the indicators of a good nickname is the use of that name by others. To my knowledge, no one else has ever called him that. I would guess that he indulges me when I do. Sorry, Spence…  oops, that’s doesn’t work either.

A friend back in Kentucky, named Michael Delbert, was, for a short time, nicknamed Mickey D. But he is above that, plain and simple. Two of my favorites are
1. a dear and close friend named Joe in Williamsburg (dare I say Billy’s burg at this point??) who was nicknamed by another friend of mine, who dubbed him, “Joe The Bear.” He is still Joe The Bear to some of us. Nicknames can be so cool.
2. My now ex-mother-in-law, Sonne Capehart. I used to tease her, telling her she was my favorite mother-in-law. Somehow, I began calling her “Fave,” and it stuck. And she still is, to this day, my Fave.

One of my cool sisters-in-law is named Staci. I thought she was a bit spacey when I first met her, so instead of “Space Case,” I call her “Staci Case.” Such a dear girl, I love her, she endures it to this day.

Occasionally, for whatever reason, a person sort of asks for both names, maybe because someone else is named the same. A friend, Steve Davis, has always been “Steve Davis” to me, as there were too many Steves around at the time. Also, a guy named Joe Neil. I called him “Joe Neil” for a long time, it just seemed right. After all, he was one of the guys who has always called me “Mister Hulse.” One night at dinner I heard his lovely wife Ruth call him Joseph, and then noticed that she always called him that. So now he is “Joseph” to me. It’s a respect thing. But when i think of him, it’s always, “Maybe I’ll give Joe neil a call…”

And my dear love, Betty, is now “B.” Don’t ask me why, I have no clue. I only
know that she is, indeed, my B and hopefully she will always be.

Have you been able to make heads or tails of this diatribe?? Of course not, that was never the point. It is merely a nickname ramble. There are WAY more nicknames of friends and acquaintances that I could share with you here, but, last I heard, this is a family program…

Little Stevie Hulse

                                         The Tobacco Roots, in autumn snow

Winterizing, Montana Style

Yes, the second snow of the season just blew in this morning, but this time I was ready. Ready with wood cut for the wood stove, ready with my toys safely tucked away in the garage, ready with some new insulating fabrics inside my cabin to keep the heat in and the cold out. Just in time, too… it really did blow in, just not as bad as they predicted. Now there’s a switch…

Actually, the whole preparation for winter thing began back in August. B and I took my old truck, Iron Jack, up into the high country outside of town and cut a load of wood on a beautiful day, then had a picnic up there when the work was done.

August and September are great months to get wood… the flies and mosquitos are down by then, the air is warm and all the trails up in the hills are accessible by then.
I say “by then,” because sometimes some of our high-country roads don’t lose their snow until the second week of July, and several are usually closed until July 6-10th. Not that it can’t snow here in August… it can, and it has.

I use a medium-size Husqvarna chain saw to cut the dead fallen into movable chunks to throw into the truck. Back at the cabin, I cut them again, into stove-size pieces. The thicker pieces have to be chopped into smaller size so they’ll burn easier.

After the first snow, I throw a tarp over the wood to keep it dry. As I get it cut up, I bring it inside the cabin and stack it in several storage places I’ve devised in past years.

There’s usually enough wood inside the cabin to keep us toasty for at least 5 days. A small electric EdenPure is the only other heat source I use.  The wood stove does a beautiful job.

Look at the beautiful curtains B made for the cabin this summer. They are perfect for the ambiance of the place, plus I can close them on the colder nights to keep the windows from radiating the cold into the room.

Aren’t they double-pane windows? Yes, but they’re also 32 years old, and the technology has changed considerably.

Betty also made two big blankets for me to wrap up in when she’s not here with me. Plus, she made this blanket that now resides on the couch. Is that not a beauty? She’s amazing…

Sealing up the cracks around the windows and doors also helps to hold the heat in.. especially when the wind is howling and the temp is around zero. What to seal them with?? Why, duct tape, of course!

By the time November rolls around up here, one knows the snow can blow in any day. So November 4th I pulled the ATV up to the plow and hooked it on… I’ve had to do it in the snow before, and believe me, it was much easier this way.

Earlier this week I spent most of my time cutting wood and bringing it inside. But when the weatherman warned of a big storm rolling in over the weekend, I knew I had to get the garage ready for winter. A three-stage affair, really… move the winter stuff out, clean up and re-arrange it, then move the summer stuff inside. Sounds simple? It wasn’t.

First the snowmobiles had to be moved to the doorway, off their skids, started up for the first time in six months, and parked outside. I towed them over to the door with my ATV, then got them started and parked by the cabin. That in itself took an hour.

Then I had to hang the kayak where it would be out of the way for the winter, all the while trying to make enough room for Rox Anne, my ’59 Chevy pickup, and the ATV. Roxie is a big truck, and takes up much of the working area of the garage.

I don’t work in the garage much during the winter, as there’s no heat out there. But I do need to get to my tools, the battery chargers and the air compressor, and things have to be shifted around so Roxie can get her big butt in there. Sorry, Roxie, but jeez… look at it!!

Somehow it all worked out and I got Roxie, the kayak and the ATV all parked in there. The ATV was the biggest problem, as I need to access it after the bigger storms to plow my driveway. Not sure how I wedged it in there, but there it is. Soon enough we’ll see if I can get it out of there.

Winter is long here, six months, with an additional month or so of rain/snow, plenty of mud and occasional flooding during the snow run-off. The average summer here runs from around June 20th to October 20th. We’re told the winter of 2011-2012 is another La Nina year, so we’re once again expecting a lot of snow and cold weather. Our average day-night temperature in winter is 30-15. Last winter I remember a stretch of over a month when it never got above freezing. Funny… after awhile you don’t notice it much. The joke up here is that we all should live to a ripe old age, because everyone knows that if you want to preserve something… freeze it!

Steve Hulse

Last week the focus was on Seattle – the man, the chief. This week the focus is on
the city, its people, and what I found there just days ago.
What a town! I lived in Atlanta for 33 years and really loved it for most of that time. It’s a land-locked city, of course, with only the Chattahoochee River running through it.  But it is diverse, multi-cultural and is conveniently located 4 hours from the Atlantic Ocean, 4 hours from Nashville and 9 hours from Disney World.

Seattle, on the other hand, is spread around a watery world of Pacific Ocean and lakes, all in view of the Cascade Mountains, only a few hours away. What a fantastic location! The San Juan Islands just north of town, Vancouver, just across the Canadian border… Seattle felt, to me, more like a series of small communities all scattered on Puget Sound, Lake Union and Lake Washington.

Now I’m not a big city-lover any more. Which is why I live up here in the sagebrush, on the eastern slope of the Rockies. But I found Seattle to be one hell of a good town. It’s way more laid-back than Atlanta, for instance. There seems to be an easy-going friendliness coupled with an awareness of their considerable natural resources which gives it, at least to me, a feeling of  well, a vigilant contentment. So many of Seattle’s residents are able to live either on the water, near it, or at least able to see it, whether around Puget Sound and the San Juans or along Lake Union and Lake Washington, both of which are in the city limits.
There is access to the Pacific from the far end of Lake Washington, under bridges
and through the Ballard locks at Lake Union. I saw more boats in Seattle in two hours than I  ever saw along the whole coast of Georgia. There are houseboats along the lake shores, remember “Sleepless In Seattle?” There are huge yachts, sail boats of every size, right down to kayaks and rubber rafts.

Granted, I had a great hostess for my visit… my dear Betty, who knew where to go, what to see, and the easiest way to get there. It was fairly action-packed for a slow-moving Montana boy, as Seattle’s diverse natural beauty and B’s knowledge of the area kept us hopping. There were many memorable moments, I’ll only share a few with you here.

Naturally, The Public Market was a highlight. We had lunch there at Lowell’s, looking out over Elliott Bay to West Seattle.

After lunch B bought some wonderful tea for me and a bottle of special balsamic vinegar with garlic & peppers at Sotto Voce for Darren, the most excellent chef in Bozeman, MT.

Look at all these goodies… frest fruits, veggies of all kinds… Peppers, Russian Peroshkys.

And fresh FISH!!! Oh, my heart… see, that’s an especially big deal when you live in Montana. Don’t we have fresh trout, well sure… but fresh shrimp, scallops, lobster & crab, oh my….

We  checked out the Ballard Locks, which function like the locks in the Panama Canal. The locks allow public cruises and private boats of many sizes to access Lake Union and Lake Washington from the open sea beyond Puget Sound. But why locks?? The ocean’s tides, silly. Lakes Union & Washington don’t have tides.

The shipping industry is very present near downtown Seattle. Passenger ships and large freighters can dock at  many locations in and around Seattle. The rail and trucking services are built in right next to the docks. The rail system appears to work beautifully, but the trucking causes some bottlenecks in the Harbor Island/highway 99 area. And now they’ve torn part of that viaduct out that connects the West Seattle bridge with highway 99, and The Alaskan Way.

We took the West Seattle water taxi (a medium-sized ferry, no cars) over to Seattle across Elliott Bay and enjoyed a fantastic dinner at (where else??) Elliott’s, after a nice walk up and down the docks around pier 50. While in Elliott’s, B suggested we try a drink she’d seen on their menu called the Dark and Stormy. Well, it turned out to be delicious and very different, and we hurried home to get the ingredients and try making it for ourselves. As I write this I’m happy to report that both B and I can now make a mean Dark and Stormy. How? Thought you’d never ask… two (or so) shots of dark rum in a tall, narrow glass over ice, fill mostly up with ginger beer and a touch of lime, with a wedge on the edge and a long straw. Yum… it’s almost like being back in Elliott’s with my B.
And no, you don’t need a copper mug for this drink… tastes fabulous in a tall glass.

B and I were honored to be invited By Brent and Jill as guests aboard their 60′ sailboat S V Ambition, owned by Brent Huntington, which was moored at a marina in Ballard. A gorgeous craft, well-maintained and so cozy inside.

                                                                   Jill and Betty

Jill told us that Brent has raced it before, from Hawaii to our mainland. They live on it full-time. Pretty cool, huh? Brent installed all the systems in the boat himself. He showed us how he can set a course on his laptop’s sailing software, which in turn sends that info to the GPS up on top,  and the boat will maintain that course. With a little help from Brent, of course. During the Christmas holidays Brent & Jill have been known to host several parties on the Ambition, sailing out to enjoy the Christmas ships and their lights on Puget Sound.  Am secretly hoping to get in on that this Christmas and take some pictures.

We drove down to Gig Harbor and spent two days with B’s son Steven and his two boys. I loved it down there… so relaxed, tons of boats in the marinas, green hills and blue water all around. We enjoyed a bloody mary-soaked lunch at… well, I don’t remember. Heh… a cute little harbor-side bar and restaurant, loaded with ambiance and a great view of the boats.    The place was full on a Friday at lunch, and it seemed that everyone, including us, was enjoying where they were and taking their time… no one in the place, that I saw, ate and ran. Damn, it was so refreshing. That’s what we do in Montana, you know… we eat slow, talk a bunch, then have one for the road.

We spent part of my last day there on a walk along the shore at Alki, which is the community along the beach of West Seattle. You can see some of its buildings over on the shore line in the distance on the right. Little sea food eateries and bars are scattered along the drive, reminding me of some of the more funky, laid-back parts of Cape Cod. I think Seattle might have helped me break my city-phobia last week. My cowboy’s impression of it is that it’s big, easy, accessible, friendly, beautiful, nature-aware, artistic, sophisticated, alive and firing on all cylinders. Thank you, Betty Ann, and your great family and fine friends for introducing me to your beautiful part of the world. I finally had to go, but don’t let your guard down, Seattle… this cowboy’s coming back.

Steve Hulse