Nostalgia Slough - Missoula, Montana

Winters of my early years featured a ritualistic layering on of socks and thermals and outerwear and toques and winding and winding and winding of a very looong hand-knitted scarf until only your eyes showed. This allowed you to see what there was to see once you waddled out the door for a long snowy ramble - in below-freezing temps  you welcomed because you'd begun to sweat by the start of all that winding - across fields, around frozen sloughs, and through barbed wire fences thanks to an older sibling who held the strands apart so as not to let your snowsuit get snagged. Good times.

All these years later I realize sending us thus adventuring was a valuable tactic for preserving my mum's sanity while preventing cabin fever amongst her brood - and, of course, with the underlying intent to instill in us a sense of independence and confidence in our own capability. (Yah, that''s what Mum was thinking about by the time she was shooing little Number 7 me out the door into the brilliant Alberta winter sunshine and snow.) Modern patois labels this 'free-range parenting'. In our era, it was commonly called, 'Go outside and play until I call you in for supper'.

The pictured mini melange of grass and ice reminds me of the bunchy grass edging a winter slough. Ah, nostalgia! Days I wouldn't trade. It may not keep your eyelashes from frosting on a day like today, but it sure makes for a toasty heart.

Suspended, Missouri Headwaters State Park, Three Forks, Montana

When chinook winds gently reduced our snow forts to languid farmyard water features, this signaled perfect timing for a spontaneous dessert trip to the W & E drive-in. These days, we never consider transporting more bodies than there are seatbelts in a vehicle - oh, the horror! But in the idyllic era of my childhood, the art of condensed transport was highly refined by our family of nine. You’d be amazed how many people can stack on a pick-up truck bench seat and still allow enough wiggle for the driver to shift gears. And any leftovers rode in the back with the dog - oh, the joy! - for the mile ride to town.
Our sardine-like forays to town yielded two treats: a creamy, soft-serve ice cream sundae, and its long, clear plastic serving dish. I say “serving dish", but it was really a boat, perfectly designed for drifting on the placid waters of Barnyard Lake. (C‘mon - I was five; it truly seemed vast enough that I was afraid of falling in.) Hunched along my own little shore, feet clad in red-toed rubber boots and imagination fueled by tales of The Borrowers and Stuart Little, I would play play play until called in from the gloaming to wash up for bed. Children don’t require reminders to seize the day.

Winter Wetlands, Missouri Headwaters State Park, Three Forks, Montana

This winter wetland area along the meadow path at Missouri Headwaters State Park brought to mind childhood winter rambles. In our quest for a sledding hill on Grandpa’s farm, we trekked across acres of pastureland, skirting sloughs much like the one pictured, always careful to step on thick hillocks of grass and avoid the iffy ice. There was plenty of snow, and the cold had us bundled to leave only our eyes showing. Talk about a golden era of childhood freedoms - it still amazes me when I consider the leeway given be gone all day, on our own, with no cell phone tether and no neighbors for miles. Perhaps therein lies a clue to my craving for the balance of "alone time" and also views of unfettered terrain.

Green Glass Grapes, Missoula, Montana

As an adult abhorrer of dusting, I am amazed when I consider the things I had to dust as a child. These glass grapes reminded me of a decor period in my childhood when we had some, ummmm, realish-looking grapes displayed in a bowl. I would be distracted from dusting by the pinchiness of each individual grape, which invariably earned me a motherly reminder to not play with the grapes but get back to dusting. 
There is not enough therapy available to overcome such a deeply rooted aversion as I've accrued. One coping mechanism I’ve developed is to only buy things I adore enough to dust. Thankfully, my husband - whom I absolutely adore! - is an advanced self-cleaning model. I'm definitely keeping him.

In my tidy mother’s defense, she was a pretty good sport about this, as she was about many things. When evening lamplight revealed our finger-scribed messages in a late-week layer of dust on the low shelf of the dark wood coffee table, it usually only earned a comment akin to, “Interesting how people in this house will make the effort to write in the dust when, in the same amount of time, they could wipe it off… “. Humour, passive-agressive or otherwise, often wins the day.

Unfurling Toward, Missoula, Montana

As a kid, walking the mile to town - with an older sibling, of course - was a big deal. Apparently, it was not a busy road several decades ago, as I remember dawdling along, skipping stones across lush spring ditches filled with idling water.
In winter, the snow plow threw a huge ridge of snow into the field, parallel to road. Someone invariably ran a skidoo along the top, leaving an elevated walkway perfect for small people bundled in snowsuits with only their eyes showing. (Winter walks were actually more of a waddle into town.) From our lofty height, we surveyed a rolling domain of diamond crusted fields, sparkling in the clear winter sunlight.
Memory images are not like a movie - there’s no plot, no distinct connection of why and where we were going, or how we got home. The actual journey toward is what made an impression - the discovery of along-the-way, the being in the present. And isn’t that what we need a little more of? Our lives get so busy, so scheduled and planned ahead with destinations mapped. Remember to take in the simple joys of the everyday journey - to stop and smell the roses, as it were.

Cupcakes As Far As Eye Can See, Missoula, Montana

The school colours of recent family graduates translated to some seriously staining cupcake frosting.

My mother didn’t bake cupcakes, that I can recall. She routinely baked muffins, which are shaped the same, but have no frosting and are delicious in a more robust fashion.
Thinking about my mum's hearty muffins, I consider how, in many ways, I had an idyllic childhood. (In other areas, therapy has been invaluable - but that’s another saga!)
On the food front, our childhood featured a tremendous jump start to health. Home baked bread, cookies, and lemon meringue pies to die for. Living farm-to-table before it was ever marketing lingo - milk from our own cow, Blackie; veggies from our massive garden; a hundred chickens and a beef in the freezer. (Thankfully, we had a chicken plucking machine to streamline a particularly tedious chore. Envision a large sanding belt, but with hundreds of rubber fingers. Good times!)
I was in middle school before I ever heard of mushrooms coming out of a tin can - on a good year, we harvested 5 gallon buckets at my grandpa’s farm. Same with wild blueberries - I spent quite a few summer mornings wondering how my Ukrainian baba wasn’t roasting in her long-sleeved sweater as we all filled endless ice cream pails with tiny wild blueberries. And all winter, the fruits of summer graced the supper table with reminders of sweet, balmy days. This was how you managed with 7 kids and plenty of acreage in rural Alberta.

Winter Grass, Stormy Sky, Missoula, Montana

Christmastime often takes us back to childhood, sparking memories with seasonal smells, sights, and sounds. Anne Cassidy's post today about Chincoteague, Virginia, pulled me back to winter afternoons wiled away indoors with a friendly sunbeam and one of Marguerite Henry's many horse novels that peppered my childhood with engrossing historical tales.
May all your Christmas memories this year be of the bright variety.

(So, I was just kidding about the swans yesterday. I know, juvenile of me.)

Pussy Willows Along the Bitterroot River, Hamilton, Montana

I love pussy willows. They evoke memories of childhood walks to town along roadside ditches running full, gurgling with excitement at the very springiness in the air.