Other Things Worthy of Your Time
An Attitude of Excellence
4/24/03
There are things Montana authors do constantly when writing about their state: they put extra energy into describing the setting and the scene—their countryside—and defend and protect it with their Montana attitude. For anything they don’t do, they do what they do do well. It’s nothing remarkable. These are only traits of the Montana personality.
“Spring lay on the land, the first touch of spring, delicate as something a breeze might break, or a sound. The sun sailed in a sky like deep water, touching the earth with a small warmth. The pinched skin loosened in it and spread smooth over the flesh, and the muscles rested long and easy and the heart lifted, afraid, almost, to believe. Riding out of the canyon of the Medicine where flowers had begun to blow along the edges of the old snowbanks, Boone saw that green had tipped the plains” (Guthrie 304).
Open up to any chapter in Guthrie’s The Big Sky. Half the time, if not more, any of these chapters will start off with something about the “long western sun” (139) or the “stars like fresh-struck flames” (117). Guthrie paid attention to detail, and when reading the story less for the story, and simply watching the words flow, this level of detail was enjoyable of itself. He made sure he spoke of his land, and made sure it sounded beautiful.
No matter which author it is, they are always sure to note the temperature—or since it’s Montana—how damn cold it is, or how really hot it is. They’re sure to detail where the sun sits in the sky, or where the stars are, or if you can even see them. You always know if it’s raining, or snowing, or if there is a single cloud in the whole, wide open, Montana sky. Whether or not it’s a passion or simply a natural process for the authors in the Treasure State to passionately portray the setting so it seems so real, so natural, they can do it. It’s also believable no matter to what degree it’s taken—and important. It matters what the stars look like if you’ve ever seen them in this sky.
“The cloud was bigger, blacker, and closer. A whole hell of a lot closer. It also was rumbling now like it was engine of the entire sky … A dark block of a storm, with pulses of light coming out of it like flame winking from firebox doors. … A jagged rod of lightning stabbed from the cloud to the earth. Pale lightning, nearer white than yellow. The kind a true electrical storm employs” (Doig 257).
If there is one constant about the weather in Montana, it’s that it never is constant, but it always seems to get its point across. When it rains, it pours, and when it finally snows, the next question is when it will stop. On the other hand, when it’s hot and dry, it’s really hot and really dry. Likewise, when at last, there is a nice day, it’s a really nice day. Perhaps by portraying scene and setting with such passion and accuracy—even if exaggerated just a little—these authors are expressing a true quality: Montana itself, and its people, don’t do anything small. Not the country or the weather, not the cowboy’s workday or the women, and especially not the ego or the attitude.
“We squeaked through. Which left me with only one more anxious act to do. To close the gate for there were cattle in this field. Even if they were the cattle of the damn Double W, even if it mattered nothing to me that they got scattered to Tibet; if you have been brought up in Montana, you close a gate behind you” (Doig 259-260).
Boy, it’s the only place you’d ever know to do that.
If you were brought up anywhere where it’s possible you might have to close a gate, you’re going to learn it’s like putting the toilet seat down: if you don’t do it, you’re going to hear about it, regardless if it’s a dairy farm in New England, a tobacco field in Carolina, a cornfield in Minnesota, or a damned, dead rock dump in Montana. Of course in Montana, to the guy that owns it, or anyone who steps up to defend it, that field is prime pasture and they’re the ones with manners enough to keep it that way.
It’s always easy, given time, to tell the people who were born and raised here to those that immigrated in, even if they’ve been here awhile. Montana products have a sense of humor but not when it’s picking on them or their state—especially from some ‘Outastater’ or outsider. While they may take a jab or two from someone who doesn’t know any better, if there’s any other corner of the world you’ve known it’s going to be, ‘Why don’t you go back [there]?’ or ‘And I bet [that place] is so much better. For being such nice people, self-proclaimed or not, there’s a nasty jagged-end of the knife.
Because of this respect for themselves and their state, Montanans have, at least, always presented themselves in good light. Most of the time, they are the people who complain last—if at all—and just put up with it (par some Montana bitching). They are the people to greet you sincerely, for no reason, or speak out if you give them any reason. Us ‘Outastaters’ know when to shut up. Then again, these Montana traits are sometimes things we imports can only hope to inherit, or be thankful we did.
Again on the hind side of the cheerful attitude is the stubborn ego. While in certain degrees of this nature, like any iron will, no one wants to be around it. In another sense, it’s always been quite productive. Montana’s not known for its technology, its science, or its arts, and, although it is towards there, it’s not even the top of the ladder in agriculture. Montana is successful in what it tries to do well. People don’t meddle in politics more than they have to—there are few smart enough—there are few that try to be.
The only thing other people think about of when they think about the state anyway is that it represents everything the west is, from when it was wild, to what it is today. Maybe that’s what Montana tries to do, and why it’s what the west is recognized as. People here do what they want to do and do it right. You as the tourist, the reader, the critic, or the disgruntled, uninterested youngster who jealously disregards the works of Montana authors believing in undeserved success—the same success he would someday like to see a lot of—just have to appreciate it as that.
Works Cited
Guthrie, A.B. Jr. The Big Sky. New York: Bantam. 1972.
Doig, Ivan. English Creek. New York: Penguin Books. 1985.