Heartbeat of the Bitterroot

by Janice Mineer

The engine chugged a mechanical heartbeat as the animals milled around, snuffing great gusts. Sometimes they balked and jumped nervously at a slight noise or movement from behind. For me it was unnerving to have the great horned heads so close, the smooth split hoofs trampling around us, but Cindy was calm and smiled as we waited for the animals to satisfy their curiosity.

  “That’s Nancy, there. Number thirty-five,” she said referring to the four-inch-square yellow tag hanging from the bison’s ears. “The ones with the higher numbers are part of the original herd, the breeders. Did you remember that? Most of them are the ones that came when you were still in high school. Sylvia is the one just coming toward us. I know that’s her even though she lost her ear tags.”

  A cow lifted its woolly head near Cindy’s window for a better view of the interior of the vehicle. “How are you darling?” Cindy crooned.

  “Now, which ones are the bulls? They all have horns. I get confused,” I said.

  “That one over there, that’s Big Boy.” She indicated a huge bull swinging his head, scattering the cows. “See? The head is heavier. He has thicker hair and a longer beard. We have two bulls with this herd and two with the herd in Stevensville. You can’t have too many bulls per herd or they fight. Just enough to keep the cows pregnant and happy.” The heavy animal swung his head again and arched his ropelike tail when another bison pushed against him.

  I clicked the camera, getting some great close-up shots.

  When the bison satisfied their curiosity and drifted away from the Pathfinder, Cindy drove around the pond in the direction of three long, low feeding troughs.

  “I’m going to let you off behind the fence. Don’t touch it unless you want to get knocked on your keister,” she warned. “There are enough amps of electricity in the wire to get the attention of a big bison. I think you can get some good shots with your camera from there. I’ll go give them their pellets.”

  I bailed out of the car, my camera strapped around my neck, and walked through the gate and shut it behind me. Working quickly before the bison could gather too close, Cindy tore open the bags of pellets and dumped it out into the troughs. A cloud of fine dust spiraled into the cool air.

  I squinted through the eyepiece of my Nikon, turning the lens slowly between my fingers, focusing on the great brown heads.

  When all the feed had been sifted from the heavy bags into the troughs, I opened the gate so Cindy could drive the SUV through.

  As we stood by the fence watching the animals eat, Cindy picked up a short length of wire. “Not something you want in a bison’s stomach,” she said as she spun the wire between her gloved fingers.

  “I love how these guys look out for each other,” I said. “I remember watching them one time in particular. A calf had strayed away and the cows ambled over and made a circle around it—just to look after it. ‘Cow sitters’ I call them. It made me smile. Babysitters for bison calves,” I said.

  “Yes, they do that.” Cindy nodded. “And there’s another thing about them. One day, about six months ago, we lost a cow. Don’t know what happened, she just died here. We had to bring a big flatbed truck out to haul her away.” She rubbed her chin thoughtfully with the back of her hand that held the wire. “The other bison knew she was dead. They made a sort of bison funeral. Formed a long line and slowly followed the truck out to the fence. Stood there and watched her go down the road.

  “These animals are my spiritual grounding. I love working with them. They feed my soul. God’s good creatures. Do you remember Lakota? That’s her over there with the crooked tip on the horn.”

  I searched the milling herd and found the cow eagerly munching down on the treats. The summer before my senior year in high school I remembered helping Cindy feed the baby calf. Milk spilled all over my jeans as the tough little animal eagerly sucked at the bottle. “I can’t remember what happened to her mother.” I said.

  “Lakota was my miracle,” Cindy continued. “She was a bum, because her mother had two calves. They can only really care for one, you know, so this one was on her own—all night on the cold ground. It was amazing she survived. I came across her in the morning and she was about spent. I scooped her up—just scooped her up in my arms and walked away with her. That’s not something the bison would usually let you do, but they knew me, you see. I took her to my house and bottle-fed that baby every four hours. Used that special colostrum we ordered in—that first mother’s milk, rich in nutrients for the newborns. That little stinker laid in my family room for several days watching TV.” She grinned and looked at me. “Her favorite was Animal Planet.”

  I laughed. “How old is she now?”

  “Oh, that was over a year ago. She’s a big girl now. But I will always be her mother.” Here she nodded for emphasis and stared out at the herd. “In fact, I’ve told my son, when I die, bury Lakota’s ashes with mine.” She let out a chuckle and added. “He says … he says, ‘Mom, I am not having a fifty-gallon drum in my living room filled with all your pet’s ashes.’”

  I laughed at the picture that created in my mind.

  As we stood talking, one of the smaller bulls came to the gate and snuffled between the thick bars where there was no electrical current.

  “Do you have a name for this one?” I asked.

  “Well, I name the breeding stock, because they stay around. They don’t get sold off so it’s OK to get attached, I think. This one’s name is Marley. You know, like Bob Marley, the singer, with the dread locks. And this one,” she said as a smaller bull came over, nosing close to smell her fingers until the larger animal shoved him away. “This one is Dozer.”

  “Dozer?” I asked puzzled.

  “Like bulldozer.”

  My laughter startled the smaller bull. When he settled down, I reached through the fence to touch the thickness of his irresistible, deep chestnut hair.

  “Careful now. Don’t touch him up high by the horns, down here’s OK. I don’t go inside the fence close by them. It’s just that they are so big they could crush you with a movement of their head. And those horns can do some damage.”

  “You guys want some treats?” Cindy asked them tenderly.

  We carefully fed them pellets through the fence, holding our hands flat to avoid their teeth. Their long rough tongues snaked through my fingers, pulling the pellets into their mouths, dropping some. I was drawn in by the sound of their warm breath rumbling and huffing, vibrating through the hollows in their massive snouts so close to me. It was the sound of their life, their magnificent spirits.

  When the treats were gone, the bulls wandered off, and we stood silently, watching the herd nosing around the ground for any stray pellets. A flock of ducks flew overhead, slicing the sky in a perfect V, honking encouragement to one another.

  Cindy put her booted foot on the bottom rail of the gate. “I just love these animals,” she said. “Ever since that first night, I was hooked. It was a cold, starlit New Year’s Eve. They had recently arrived, and I needed a little time to myself so I came by to check on them.” She leaned an arm on the top rail and looked out across the pasture at the great brown animals. She squinted her eyes against the sun just breaking through the clouds. “I stood here on this side of the fence, and they just came right up to the fence in the dark, in the quiet. They acknowledged me, you know.” She nodded at me. “Acknowledged me. Since then, I feel a part of them.”

  “You just have to respect them. And be careful.” Cindy picked up a few stray pellets and tossed them over the railing toward the animals.

  “I knew your mom, Jenna,” Cindy said suddenly as we walked along the fence toward the SUV. “Did you know that?”

  I was startled. “You did?”

  “A bit. She spent some time here when you were just tiny. You wouldn’t remember. She worked with me at the clinic for a short while, feeding the animals, helping your uncle. You have her likeness in your mouth, Jenna, her build, her walk,” she paused and looked at me, “but not her heart. She didn’t have your strength—your d
irection. I expect you came with that. I see that you have cultured that despite everything. It’s something to be proud of. I know your uncle is proud of you. Talks about you all the time. That’s a good endorsement … from a good man.”

  My face flushed and I was at a loss for what to say, but a kind of relief washed over me, and gratitude swelled in me for these people who had filled my life with so much that was good.

  “You’ve been lucky,” Cindy said. “Seems to me you have had a herd of ‘cow sitters’ of your own.” Cindy smiled. “Time to finish our job,” she said. “Got to run these guys through the chute.” She headed to the SUV for supplies.

  Chapter 27

  dc

  I spent the morning helping Cindy with the herd, and I got some beautiful photos of the bison.

  I had called May the day before to ask if I could stop at her house in Florence on my way home from the ranch. Her paper-thin voice lilted when she heard my name. Of course, she said, stop and visit. She promised carrot cake when I got there, a favorite of mine when I was a little girl, she remembered.

  I was tired and dirty, but I looked forward to seeing her. I was hoping against hope she would have some information on my father. It was a story I was afraid had grayed into obscurity over so many years. If I could just get a clue, I was sure it would help. I was hoping for even fragments, any pieces I could stitch together to recreate the fabric of my mother’s young life before I was born.

  And of course, the bitterroot flower had been staring up at me through the glassy eye of the paperweight on my desk all week like an inquisitive elf, inviting me to know more about it. My uncle said I was like that flower—a great compliment, but sometimes I felt hesitant to dig toward those scraggly roots, afraid of what I might find.

  I had remembered the punch bowl from the wedding that Ann wanted returned to May and it was safely stowed in my back seat.

  I was on the way to May’s house on East Side Highway, south of Florence, when I got a call from Michael and I pulled over to answer it.

  “Emma has this very important occasion coming up, as you well know,” he said. I could hear her piping voice in the background. “She wants to know if you will come to her birthday party this Saturday. She told me she asked you when you were up at the cabin. She is very insistent. I promise it will be very exciting. Ten wild four-year-olds at the Carousel. Could be the social event of the season.” He laughed, yet his voice was pleading. “Jordan will be there and Elizabeth, I think,” he added. “Emma would be so pleased. My mother is playing the hostess.”

  “Oh, yes. I’d like that,” I said.

  “There is a requirement, however,” he said, trying to sound serious. “You have to know how to play Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Can you deal with that?”

  I laughed. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Three o’clock.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. Tell her I will be sure to be there and I’ll bring her a present. Something she’ll like especially. Also, it sounds like a great chance to use my Nikon and get some beautiful pictures of the kids on the Carousel.” In my mind’s eye, I could see the brightly painted carved horses spinning beneath the gold trimmed canopy. “It’s so colorful.”

  A

  May Watkins had lived in the Bitterroot Valley since she was a young bride. She had dug her roots in the fertile soil and raised her family in the peaceful valley while the world whirled itself around them. Wars stormed and blew out, the fifties pounded by, the sixties spun into the seventies. They tapped out the rhythm of their days, making sweet memories where they were planted.

  As I drove the long dirt road to the little yellow wood-framed house, I looked forward to a few minutes with the woman who had won me over as a child. I remembered walking through her flower garden, the pungent scent of her lilac bushes, and the riotous color of her peonies. I had knelt beside her as she troweled her long beds of bitterroot flowers, meticulously separating the fine threads of new starts from among the stubby greens of the mature plants. She would hold my hand and point out the wide, baby-pink flowers that bloomed close to the ground as the green, tuberous leaves disappeared. “The official Montana state flower,” she explained. She told me never to pick the flowers if I saw them in the wild. It was illegal, she said, to pick them or dig them up unless you were Native American and used them for food. The plants were protected. She grew her flowers from their black shiny seed that looked like those in poppy seed cake.

  As I pulled up in my car, the bitterroot beds lay neatly prepared for winter, their blossoms gone, all traces of the plants retracted under the finely tilled ground. The tough little plants lay in the darkness, ready to weather the bitter cold and emerge in late winter to cheer the world with their spears of green.

  May greeted me at the door with a hug. “How are you, dear?” she asked.

  She seemed not to have aged since I saw her last, as if time stood still in her little corner of the world. Her gossamer white hair framed her face and her pale green eyes sparkled.

  Her cat Charlie waddled up, purring like a chain saw. He was grayer around the head and neck than he was the last time I saw him. He moved a little slower, but was just as friendly as ever. He meowed a welcome, gazing up into my face, then rubbed his ample body on my legs. I bent down and ran my hand through his soft coat. “Hi, Charlie. How ya been?” I crooned.

  “Oh, Charlie, let her get inside,” May chided him tenderly.

  I handed her the box containing the punch bowl Ann had asked me to return and waited as she took it to her garage storage.

  The kitchen felt warm, a stark contrast to the brisk afternoon air outside. The smell of bacon and coffee engulfed me. I looked around the familiar room. May’s collection of Blue Delft plates was expertly arranged along the walls and nestled among baskets filled with greenery above the cupboards. A set of colorful, heavy ceramic bowls sat on the counter beside a wrought iron planter of geraniums.

  In the adjoining dining room, shelves were lined with quaint teddy bears dressed in turn-of-the-century clothing. Stained glass panels hung in the windows, drenching the room in jewel colors. Over the dining room table hung an enormous painting of the bitterroot flower fixed in an elaborately carved wooden frame.

  I stepped closer to the painting to admire it. The artist had deftly painted the delicate petals in the flower’s symmetrical cup shape, using bold strokes of pink in pale and deep hues. A small closed bud peeked out from under two full blossoms, a striking contrast to the gray shale background. I was running my finger across the sculpted frame when May brought in two plates with thickly sliced carrot cake piled high with cream cheese frosting. She set them on the lace tablecloth and waved me to a chair.

  “Oh, this is so delicious,” I said as the cinnamon and cream cheese slid across my tongue. “Nobody makes carrot cake like you do, Aunt May.”

  May’s smile crinkled her eyes. “Go on, now. You’re just saying that.”

  “Totally not kidding,” I said with a sigh of satisfaction.

  But by the second bite, my thoughts turned to the real purpose of my visit. My eyes narrowed and I struggled to find the words to ask my great aunt about my mother. I recoiled from starting a subject that might cause me pain. And what if my probing made my great-aunt remember things that would cause her to think less of me? Was it better to leave them buried, like the bitterroots, than to dig them up and expose them to the full glare of the sun?

  I put off bringing up the subject. I looked out the window at the flowerbeds across the yard.

  “I wish I could see the bitterroots in full bloom today,” I said. “I just love it when they make pink carpets in front of your house.”

  May’s eyes lit up at the mention of her favorite topic.

  “When Dan and I built this house twenty years ago, there were bitterroots all over this land just growing naturally. I couldn’t bear to see the bulldozer plow them under. They seemed to call to me to save them. I saw these subdivisions popping up all around and I wondered what would h
appen to this sweet little flower. I guess I made it my mission to save these delicate pink things.”

  “I remember you growing them ever since I first came here. Do you still collect their seeds?”

  “I sure do.”

  She stood slowly, supporting herself on the back of the wooden chair. She went to a drawer in the kitchen desk and pulled out several small, clear plastic bags with dozens of tiny black seeds inside. “I’m sending these to a school in Helena. The kids are studying the state flower and they will plant these. The best ones are round and shiny.” She handed the bag to me. It was weightless in my hand.

  “It’s a perennial flower, so wherever they plant it, it will return every year all on its own,” May said. “They are so tough and resilient, they need very little to survive. I send these out to any class that wants them.”

  “How much do you get for them?” I asked, handing her back the packet.

  She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t charge for them. I just want people to learn about them and appreciate them.” She stroked the seeds fondly with a wrinkled hand.

  All that work, growing the plants and collecting those tiny seeds. Now that was devotion.

  May went to put the seeds back into the drawer. As I looked out the window, my face pulled into a frown. Why was it that some women had that drive to nurture—even seeds—and my mother had so little?

  “What is it, dear?”

  I felt May’s hand on my shoulder. I shook my head.

  “Nothing.” I cleared my throat. “Aunt May, did you ever see my mother with a guy named Skip? It would have been shortly before I was born.”

  May slowly lowered herself into her chair, then laid a thin finger on her temple, tapping as if to dislodge the memory from so long ago. She narrowed her eyes.

  “Your mother never came around much after she left her father’s house. But, there was a young man, came with her once. Tall fellow, reddish hair.”

  My heart rate increased.

  She shook her head. “No, that was Elaine and her man.”