December 7, 2007
Friday

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home. 
                    — Edith Sitwell, 1887-1964
                        English poet

 

Aloof Doe and Curious Fawn at Story, Wyoming
December 7, 2007

I have found the place to come back to, the place in the Big Horns that I’ll seek next year or the year after that as a way to get back the mind-expanding, soul-freeing feeling of being able to do anything, write anything, achieve anything. If Vermont cradles me, reminds me who I was and strengthens who I am, Wyoming shows me who I yet can be.

I heard this morning that there might be seven inches of snow by nightfall. I’d stayed in Banner all day yesterday, working. Counting today, I have only six more days before my residency ends. I started the leavetaking on Wednesday, shipping out my cowboy boots, the yarn I bought last week, and some assorted other acquisitions. That package is due to arrive the day after I get home, but as we get closer to Christmas, shipping times get longer. I didn’t want to take the chance on being snowed in up here until Monday, so today I went to the UPS store with the books and papers and other materials I know I won’t need any more this week, but which I don’t want to be without too long after I get back.

I came back by way of Story, Wyoming, a settlement of some 850 people less than five miles from the spot where I am staying. I was attracted by the name (the place I am staying in is officially called Banner — Saddlestring is nearby but I haven’t been there yet) and by a brochure I found in the residence for the Piney Creek General Store. The spelling on the sign is surely ironic, meant to give a folksy feel to the place. They call the office the Story Real Escape Co., and the deli offers “samitches” (“haffa” and whole) and soup (“cuppa” or “bowla”).

The snow capping the sign and the bench is what fell yesterday. It was overcast when I got to the restrunt but only a few fugitive flakes were blowing around. The eating area is tiny and cramped but cozy. It was filled with maybe a dozen people, all clearly locals. I sat down at a very small table beside the last stool of the lunch counter, which was occupied by a young woman discreetly nursing her baby. She greeted me and offered me part of the newspaper she had been looking at. It was yesterday’s Sheridan Press, which hadn’t yet come to Jentel by mail. I checked out the latest letter about Satellite. This one was a shame-on-you-heartless-curmudgeons offering. (And yes, I did go by his spot and gawk again this morning. I had to get gas and it was on the way. I could see the top of his watch cap sticking up from the very thick blanket he had spread over himself, a brown blanket that hadn’t been there the other day.)

I had a BLT with some thin slices of avocado (a haffa, with chips) and enjoyed pleasant conversation with the nursing mother and with the five people at the next table. I got information about places to stay in the area, small operations with individual cabins, modern and well-appointed but inexpensive even in the high season. I had good food and warmth and talk beside a warm heater, and even a bit of the touch of a friendly hand as I held the baby for a bit. I’ve been out here nearly a month, and though I’ve met some friendly and interesting people, I haven’t drawn close to anybody. Everyone who loves me is back east, and I need a hug.

The drive back to my residence was spectacular, past picturesque pastures with snow-wrapped trees like ghosts lining the creek. I stopped to snap a picture of a doe and her fawn. This was right beside a ranch called the Mad Dog. Sure enough, the dog that I thought was tied to his little house came loping down the lane. He was friendly enough, though, and didn’t scare the deer.

Tomorrow morning is Christmas Open House at the Story Public Library. As I write, the snow has not yet materialized up here. Unless Piney Creek Road is drifted shut, you can bet I’ll be there.

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