Heidi Thomas: Growing Up in Rural Montana

Jordan Dormitory alumni: Heidi’s Dad, class of 1942; Heidi, class of 1968







It is my pleasure to have Heidi Thomas as my guest during her blog tour. Heidi’s coming-of-age novel, Cowgirl Dreams, a story about her grandmother, has met with wide acclaim. At one time she mentioned to me that during her high school years she lived in a dorm during the school week, since their family ranch was too far from school for a daily commute. I find this fascinating and have asked her to tell us more about that part of her background.

What do you do when you live 150 miles from the nearest Wal-Mart (or K-Mart, etc.)?

Actually, when I was growing up on a ranch in eastern Montana during the 1950s and ‘60s, there weren’t any of those ’Marts, so I didn’t know what I was missing! The nearest town of any size was Jordan, population about 200.

You might say that I lived a life that was rather similar to that of my grandmother’s in many ways. So, in that respect I feel like I could identify with how she grew up.

We did live a mile and a half from a little country grocery store and Post Office at Sand Springs, so we could go there for groceries. But many people lived 30 to 50 miles farther from the main highway and they would take their big cattle or grain trucks in to a larger city in the fall to stock up for the winter. If it was a long winter with a lot of snow, we might not see them for four or five months!

So, because there was no bus service, when I attended high school, I stayed in a dormitory during the week and came home on weekends. About 60 out of the 150 students in high school, lived in the dorm, a two-story building across the street from the school.

Boys lived on the first floor and girls on the second and we had a no-nonsense dorm matron who made sure we adhered to the rules. After school hours, we were required to sign out and in, we each had chores assigned for a month at a time, we had to be present for meals, and we had a 9 p.m. curfew. The exception to that was the one or two nights a movie showed at the local theater. If the movie ran longer than 9 p.m., we were excused.

Because of the “baby-boomer” generation, the dorm was filled to capacity during the four years I lived there. Most rooms housed three (some had four) girls. Can you imagine that many teenagers sharing one tiny closet? We tried to pack clothes for a week at a time, but it was still a little on the crowded side. We shared a communal bathroom, with one shower stall.

Dorm life was something I had in common with my dad, who lived there during his senior year in 1942. He told me out of 109 students in high school, only three had their own cars, so more students stayed through the weekends during the winter.

My parents often took me to school on Monday mornings and picked me up Friday afternoons, or I sometimes rode with neighbors. I did have my own car when I was a senior.
Extra-curricular activities were few in those days. Some kids “cruised the drag” (Main street was about two blocks long), some boys were involved in basketball (no girls team and no football team). I was involved in chorus, band and the school newspaper.

I returned about 20 years later to do an article about the dorm for Montana Magazine. By that time, residents had dwindled to fewer than 20, because of a decline in the general student population as well as added daily bus service to the outlying areas.

In many ways, the landmark founded in 1936 had not changed much. The rooms were spartan by most teen standards. The bunk beds of the ‘60s were dismantled into single beds and some of the rooms were empty. But each still reflected the personality of its occupant.

The Jordan dorm was the last public high school dormitory in the United States when it closed in the mid-1980s.

Thank you, Mary, for hosting me today, and thanks to all of you for joining me on this blog stop. Come back tomorrow for an interview on Teens Read Too http://www.teensreadtoo.com/ and an article on “Connections” on the Women Writing the West blog http://womenwritingthewest.blogspot.com/

ACT NOW TO MAKE YOUR HOME WILDFIRE SAFE

Photo by Randy Fueuriet, Mission Ridge, CO

Each year, wildfires in our country take a terrible toll. With summer coming on, it’s time for homeowners to think about the possibility of wildfire and what we can do to protect our property.

How wildfire safe is your home? Be it a house in the forest, a neighborhood in a woodsy setting, or a home surrounded by wide-open spaces, consider the possibility of wildfire. Are you at the mercy of a careless camper, a stray Fourth of July bottle rocket, a bolt of lightning or even an out-of-control “prescribed burn?”

Firefighters, Departments of Forestry and other fire plan coordinators recognize the need for prevention in ways more complicated than Smokey Bear’s message to be careful with matches, though that rule certainly still applies. In today’s world of high-grade logging, wooded housing areas, and trendy homes built contrary to sound fire prevention standards, homeowners need to understand the risks.

Wildfires present a major threat where wildland and urban areas interface. These fires can be unpredictable and no region is immune to them. Each year, entire towns and hundreds of homes are at risk from wildfire. So what can you do? Plenty. Firewise construction and materials can make a difference and so can wildfire preventive landscaping methods:

● Provide a safe environment for firefighters by providing a clear access and a safe exit. If your home poses too much risk for firefighters, prudence dictates they don’t try to save your house but rather move on to one that can be saved in the limited time available to them.

● Replace your shake roof with non-combustible materials.

● Double-pane windows offer better fire protection than single pane. Also, smaller panes hold up better than large panes. Tempered glass is the better choice over plate glass.

● Vents--around the attic, under the eave soffits, under floors--are a way hot embers can enter your home. Covering vents with wire mesh screen no larger than one-eighth inch helps prevent sparks from entering your home.

● Wooden fences can act as a fuse leading right to your house. Attach the wooden fence to a cement pillar, a section of wire fence or a gate, to act as a firestop.

● Don’t keep flammable materials near your home. Remove anything that can easily burn–firewood, dense or dry vegetation, tall grass, lumber scraps–to a distance at least 30 feet away.
● Thoroughly water all vegetation within 60 feet of your home and outbuildings during dry periods.

● Follow your area’s burning regulations. Restrict a fire to within four feet in diameter, have a shovel, a charged hose, and a person capable of extinguishing a fire present at all times. Extinguish the fire before leaving it.

Don’t be one of this season’s statistics. Act now, and throughout the fire season, to protect your home from wildfire.

Review: DIARY OF MURDER By Jean Henry Mead

Distraught over her sister Georgi’s mysterious death, Dana Logan and friend Sarah drive an RV through a snowstorm to her sister’s home in Wyoming. Dana dismisses the theory that her sister committed suicide–Georgi loved life too much to even consider taking her own.

Arriving at her sister’s home, Dana and Sarah have immediate reservations about Rob, the “grieving” widower. A cremation is scheduled too quickly and a housekeeper is already boxing up her sister’s belongings. It’s only been two days since Georgi died and these actions make it appear there is reason to cover up evidence. Dana finds her sister’s diary and a winding, treacherous story begins to unfold.

Although Dana and Sarah have played amateur detectives before, this case taxes even their creative and persistent skills. Dana’s talented daughter soon joins them and together the three take on what becomes a dangerous investigation.

Mead does a masterful job in taking her readers down dark treacherous paths of betrayal, deceit and greed. Many people are involved in this suspense thriller--there’s much more to the story than the death of Dana’s sister. Many characters take part in the story, yet Mead keeps them sorted out, making Diary of Murder a riveting, satisfying read.

The Business of Writing

Most of us write for the love of writing. Yet, for many, in order to continue doing what we love, we must get compensation for our work. The business of writing is just that–a business. As in most business enterprises, record keeping is a vital part of the procedure of maintaining our profession and measuring progress.

For me, the most efficient method of keeping track of article submissions is to have a table listing all my submissions and subsequent activities. I list the name of the article, the publisher, the status (submitted, published, paid, follow-up, rejected) and dates of activities. I place an asterisk beside the article name until all activity is concluded.

At the first of each month I do a search for the asterisk to learn the status of article activity and take the appropriate action. I haven't had many problems with delinquent payment, but occasionally I've sent a payment reminder letter, or perhaps an invoice listing the article, when it was published, and the amount due. I wait for at least two months after publication before sending a payment reminder. Using a simple spreadsheet or table shows me where I need to take action.

Of course, the best scenario is when I’m paid in advance for my work. But the above steps keep me ahead of the game and help me to keep track.

Persistence and good record keeping–for me these practices contribute to my success rate in getting articles published and getting paid to write them.

The Blooming Fields of Skagit Valley

We love the Northwest and one of the reasons is the annual Tulip Festival. It’s like viewing the perfect mural–row upon row of dazzling color–brilliant red, sparkling yellow, vivid pink, rakish purple. Though picture-perfect, they’re real, these delightful tulip fields of the Skagit Valley. Not only tulips, but daffodils and iris grace these lovely fields. Although Mother Nature dictates the bloom dates, daffodils bloom first, followed by tulips and finally, iris.

Now extended to cover the entire month of April, this year’s 26th annual Skagit Valley Tulip Festival also features–in addition to viewing the blooming fields--a packed schedule of events including art shows, wood crafting events, barbecues, quilt walks, walking and bicycle tours and kite flying.

Since the mid-1930s, spring-time visitors to the Skagit Valley have marveled at the striking beauty of tulip, daffodil and iris fields. Northwest Washington, particularly the Skagit Valley, has become world- famous for its seasonal showcase and for its commercial bulb production. Washington Bulb Company, the nation’s largest tulip, daffodil and iris producer, makes its headquarters in Skagit Valley.

A favorite local story tells about the Northwest gardener who thought he would buy his bulbs that year from “the source”–Holland. You guessed it–when he received his bulbs from Holland, the package label said the bulbs were grown in the Skagit Valley!

Visitors who return year after year to enjoy the springtime hues will notice that those fields seen last year frequently will not have the same crop this year. That’s because flower bulbs, like many other crops, must be rotated to preserve the soil and reduce pest infestation. The flowers rotate to their original field about every five years.

Tulip Festival maps are available at many Skagit Valley stores, but it isn’t necessary to have a map to enjoy the blossoms. Signs indicate the “Tulip Route,” or you may simply drive along until you see a field. If there is a pull-off, park and enjoy the view, or even walk along designated paths.

Great opportunities await eager photographers. My husband Bruce claims early morning or late afternoon give the best light for picture taking. Many of his pictures include landscape attractions, such as barns or snow-capped Mt. Baker.

If you’re lucky enough to be in the Pacific Northwest during April, join us!

Market Day in Africa: A Peace Corps Reminiscence

Waves of 100-degree heat shimmered off the rice fields as I walked the two miles to market. Carrying my cloth satchel, a few recycled plastic bags, a porcelain bowl, and a small glass jar, I slowly passed a tired donkey plodding along, his head hung low, as he pulled a heavy cart loaded with sacks of millet. With each step I took, puffs of red dust settled on my legs and sandaled feet.

Market day in West Africa is a far cry from a quick run to Safeway in Seattle. It's an adventure.

As Peace Corps volunteers serving in The Gambia, a small West African country, my husband Bruce and I lived as our hosts lived. We hauled our own water from the well, swept our mud-brick hut with a short locally-made straw broom, cooked our own meals, and bought our supplies at the open market and small stores. We didn't have personal transportation, so we did as the local people and walked every place we went.

I heard my name called as I trudged along.

"Mariama! Salaam Malekum!" The name, Mariama, is the African version of my real name, Mary. The traditional Arabic greeting, Salaam Malekum, is heard throughout West Africa. It means "May peace be with you."

"Malekum Salaam, Naba," I answered the friendly African woman. She fell in step with me and we conversed in Mandinka, one of five local languages and the one Bruce and I learned during Peace Corps training.

I found Gambian women to be extraordinary. Their lives were not easy--they worked hard under very difficult conditions. Their strong bodies and graceful bearing impressed me. Typically, Naba carried a baby straddled across her back. Her wide-awake little son observed his world while held close to his mother's warm body. When he became hungry, the woman simply switched him around to her breast. At the market, Naba and I parted, each to her own errands.

I'll go to the meat market first, I decided with dread. The butcher's shop, a small mud-brick building with a corrugated tin roof, was somewhat removed from the regular market. A large concrete counter separated the butcher from his customers. Goat, sheep, and beef carcasses hung from the ceiling.

The meat market crowd pushed their way to the counter. I, too, elbowed my way through the crowd. Whack! A hunk of beef fell off the carcass, severed with a mighty machete blow. Splat! Blood and bits of bone splattered on my dress and neck. Cringing, I held fast to my hard-fought place. Several flies left the main event, the beef carcass, and landed on me.

The butcher spoke a little English. "What you want?"

"Biff stek, please," I answered. In The Gambia, previously a British-held colony, many words sound English but are pronounced with a local dialect. Whacking off a piece of meat for me, he placed it in my porcelain bowl. Then, as a treat, he dropped in a little pile of wrinkled brains. Trying to show gratitude, I smiled, but knew I wouldn't eat them; I'd give them to our neighbor. As I left the meat market, my personal flies came too. I considered the benefits of becoming a vegetarian.

Fragrances bombarded me as I entered the main market, a large open-sided structure. Spices, sold by the bulk, were lined up in little bins. Large flat baskets displayed fresh roasted peanuts. The peanut vendor tore a scrap of paper--any type of paper--and folded a little package to hold the peanuts, still warm from an earthen oven. We briefly haggled over the price, an expected exchange, and I dropped the equivalent of a dime into his hand.

A baker sold piles of fresh baguettes. The earthy aroma of yeast permeated the air. Pankettas, flat yeast dough deep-fried in palm oil, quickly disappeared, breakfast for many shoppers.

I skirted around unpleasant smelling, fly-covered dried fish. We never bought it, though we'd eaten it in Gambian cooking and found it tasted as bad as it smelled. The fresh fish was lovely though and the catfish appeared to still be breathing. Anything that's still breathing must be fresh. I bought a catfish, slipping it into one of my plastic bags.

Chickens roamed freely, pecking at the ground. Some weren't so lucky and hung upside down, feet tied to a rod. They never seemed to struggle, awaiting their fate. As I shopped, I saw many women carrying live chickens in the crook of their arms as they conducted their shopping business.

The astonishing noise level rose as a bush taxi beeped his horn as he dropped riders off. Donkeys brayed as they arrived with their heavy loads. Gambians often talked in a loud boisterous manner and now they shouted to be heard. Children darted about, squealing with their games.

Sewing machine treadles click-clacked in the background. There were no ready-made clothing shops in the village where we lived. When the need arose for a new dress or shirt, one bought the material and described to the tailor the style desired. Because of the heat, clothing was generally loose-fitting so exact measurements weren't required, but these skillful tailors created an amazing variety of garments on their treadle machines.

I eagerly learned what vegetables were available that day. With no cold storage, the availability of most vegetables depended on the season. Tomatoes were available five months of the year, lettuce only about two months. One of our favorite vegetables, okra, was sold about nine months of the year. All year long squash was available as well as imported onions and potatoes.

Friendly women called my name, urging me to come to their attractive displays and buy the vegetables they had grown. Some men sold items too, usually businessmen who bought imported food to sell at the market.

Approaching one of my regular vendors, I admired her tomato display. Most fruits and vegetables sold by the pile, not by the pound. Each pile of five tomatoes displayed a similar assortment--perhaps one large, two medium, and two small tomatoes, in various stages of ripeness. One selects an entire pile, not one from this pile, one from that. I purchased two piles and a piece of squash.

A large rat streaked by my sandaled feet with a cat hot on its trail. Cats fend for themselves so catching that rat was serious business.

I spotted oranges, also arranged in piles of five. Although ripe, the oranges were green. Their tough skins required a sharp knife to peel. Once I counted fifty-two seeds in a single orange.

I remembered I needed rice and crossed to the other side of the market where a vendor sat next to a burlap bag. The man measured rice into my plastic bag, using a tomato paste can as his measuring device. Rice was grown locally, thanks to the Chinese who taught Gambians to cultivate this essential product. It was good rice but didn't keep well. After a week or so it turned wormy and then it became chicken fodder. Our chickens loved it.

I needed flour. A warning stenciled on the side of the 50-pound flour sack read, "This is a gift from the United States of America. Not to be sold." I purchased two scoops and moved on.

I had the feeling of being watched. Now I looked around quickly and sure enough, there she was, peeking out from behind a post. It was a game we played, the peanut-butter lady and I. Either she would sneak up on me, or I tried to come up behind her. We giggled like little girls at our joke. This delightful, tiny woman, beamed a huge smile showing beautiful white teeth. Her family grew peanuts and stored them for use during the year. Before going to market, she pressed fresh-roasted peanuts into a paste.

There was nothing more delicious than this fresh peanut butter, which they called peanut paste. Gambians prepare a sauce with it, called domoda, adding tomato paste and perhaps a bit of meat, spiced with hot peppers, and served on rice. Scrumptious! They couldn't believe we spread peanut paste on bread, nor could they believe how much we bought! I held out my jar into which she plopped five two-inch balls, plus one more as a gift.

The market loomed bigger than life. The smells, noise, heat, and activity, seemed to be the essence of these people. I considered the market place The Gambia boiled down to the essentials. One struggled to conduct business, haggling over prices, jostling crowds, suffering with the heat and flies, but this ritual highlighted my week. While buying provisions, I'd visited with friends and shared with them their ancient marketing tradition.

Review: Cowgirl Dreams by Heidi Thomas

Nettie Brady dreams of being a rodeo champion, but she suffers challenges from more than wild steers. Her mother’s strong disapproval and disappointment weigh heavily on this conscientious teen. It seems everything stacks up against her dream of becoming a rodeo star–family crises, a broken wrist, even nature pits its wrath against her. But no obstacle is tough enough to keep Nettie from the freedom and elation she feels while riding a half-ton of writhing muscle and bone.

Later, when her life is full of Jake, a young cowboy, her dreams appear to be within reach. But Nettie again is torn between family expectations and her own preference for a simple wedding ceremony. She loves Jake, loves working beside him, but her heavy heart longs for her mother’s approval. Will her dreams ever become a reality without pangs of guilt?

Heidi Thomas excels in describing the flavor and excitement of the early rodeo days. But more than that, she captures the social attitudes of the times, and the daily drudgery of every day living on a Montana ranch in the 1920s. Cowgirl Dreams captures readers’ hearts with the throbbing cheers of a rodeo audience and with the aching desires of a young girl who yearns for her family’s love and acceptance.

Publisher: Sundowners, a division of Treble Heart Books