By Jennifer Savage
At least once a day someone asks me about the drive I make everyday from where we live, 25 miles north of town, to Missoula, where most of our lives take place.
“How long does it take you to get to town?”
“Does that drive get old?”
“Do you come in every day?”
“How do the kids handle it?”
I answer in rote fashion not because I’m irritated but because there are simple answers to most of these inquiries.
Twenty three minutes. Sometimes. Most days. Depends on the day.
Most of the time, these questions are coming from a good place. People are interested, curious and maybe a little intrigued by the thought of living out of town. But every now and then I have friend who digs a little deeper, who just cannot understand our choice to live in the middle of a cow pasture with falling down fences in every direction.
“Missoula is so great, why do you want to live way out there?”
“Isn’t all that driving inconvenient?”
“Don’t you want your kids to ride bikes and have neighbors?”
“As soon as you get tired of the novelty, do you think you’ll move back into town?”
These conversations force me to take deep breaths. Then I remember these kinds of questions usually come from a place of love. So I answer them, too.
Missoula is an amazing place filled with our friends, who are like family. No, the driving is not one bit convenient and, yes, I want our kids to have a neighborhood that’s theirs. They have had this and they will again.
But right now what they have is open space and an irrigation ditch to play in. They have a soaking tub in the backyard that their dad lovingly fires up on weekends and a tree house with one of the best views around. For now, they have a Townes Van Zandt song, with “the sky to talk about and the world to lie upon.”
And what I have is them, all to myself, on quiet snowy nights, on long summer evenings when it seems the darkness will never come and on slow, Saturday mornings that slip into afternoons of driving the truck around the pasture looking for the perfect rocks. I have this, and for just a little while longer.
I know this. I really do.
Soon enough there will be things that tether us to town. Practice, school projects, study groups, boyfriends, girlfriends. There will be movies, hanging out a friend’s houses, driving (God help me), early love and heartbreak that can only be healed by walking to a friend’s house at 10:30 p.m. to cry to her instead of crying to a mother who surely will not understand. There will be things I don’t know about and don’t want to know about. And I will be thankful for the watchful eyes of other mothers that will fall upon my daughters as they move through this growing up.
But we are not there yet.
So every day, when I bump along our quarter-mile driveway and turn onto the dirt road leading toward town I think about other things. I think about calling Marge for lunch or going to see Garth at my favorite bookstore. I think about getting Eliza to school on time and meeting Lucille at the goodbye window at her preschool. I think about the morning coffee that’s on the other side of the hectic get-out-the-door routine, my favorite barista and how she leaves a heart on top of the eight ounces of pure goodness she serves me. I think about braving the fabric store or the next freelance assignment I’m working on. I think about this writing gig and how it fits into my life now. I think about a noon walk in the North Hills.
And when I leave it all at the end of the day I drive west, the lights of Missoula at my back. By the time I turn north onto the highway that will lead me home my mind begins to wander and I drive with one hand on the wheel, the other in my lap. At the top of a winding grade, rolling hills turn to rippled mountains where the needles of larch trees come on neon in spring and leave mustard in fall. The sun is often shinning as I drive around one forested bend after another. As I come out of the trees and head down into our valley I pass our friend’s body shop. I think about the horses he grazes in our pasture and how he came over one day last summer in the saddle to the astonishment of my daughters who had to take rides down the driveway with him. When I slow down and turn onto our road I think about how it is a faint line on a big map. I think about the peaks in the distance and often tell my daughters to say hello to the mountains.
“Hello mountains,” they say in unison. “Thanks for watching over us!”
In these moments I think about how I get to come home to all of it: the view, my little girls and acres of fences that will never stand upright. It’s all here in front of me, just 23 minutes from town.
Jennifer Savage is a writer and mama of Eliza and Lucille. Lately, she's learning to be a city girl. She writes from her home in Missoula, Montana. She is also one of Mamalode's favorite writers and you can fall in love with her too at Jennifer-Savage.com Read more of Jennifer's mamalode articles here.
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This is so beautiful.
And I resonate with this myself, living outside of town. But we have made it work, being just a little closer than you. Some days it is 3 trips to town and I feel guilty. But other days it is us….all of us, big boisterous teenagers and an 8 year old….glancing out at our snowy hillside, hiking up behind the house and catching the glimpse of Missoula from above and afar, and breathing in fresh air with a hint of wood fire smell and feeling SO BLESSED.
Ah so lucky we are.
Lucky indeed.
I love this….. You are such an amazing writer and mama. I am glad I know you.
Thanks lady. Means a lot coming from you.
This was *wonderful* to read on this snowy day. And here I was moping about living so far away from any “activity”. But I have to remember what we have and how it’s so perfect for my young kids. Thanks for this.
I have those days too, then I see my girls climbing the fence and I think we’re doing something right.
Luv it wifey…just don’t forget the occasional lunch date…
Always, wifey!
I love this so much, J.Sav. For the past almost decade, every time I drive by your house I crane my neck to get a view of your red door. I love that you guys are back there. That post is gorgeous. So full of appreciation.
Thanks GT. Miss you, mama!
Amen to that, sister. Crow love.
Crow love right back at you!
You balance on that fine line, ever so gracefully. Uh-huh, that’s right.
And so do you, friend!
Really good writing, and although I miss seeing you roaming the neighborhood at “happy hour” with a beer in hand, I love your description of your country life.
I was just thinking about that the other day…the 5:30 p.m. laps around the hood. Here’s to NS pride. I’m flashing gang signs.
Jen, this is great. Reminiscent for me. I grew up out of town, with all my friends in the same two neighborhoods, a car trip away. I can’t imagine growing up differently. Most of my childhood memories are of the outdoors–what a gift! It seems like, as with most things, there are perks to both locales. We were out, not we’re in, and I don’t know where we’ll end up! Enjoy!
So true Anna. It’s good to hear a perspective from someone who grew up in the country. I hope you are well over there in Bozeman!
love that place and that you are all there enjoying it! beautiful writing, my friend
miss you, friend!