But now … I’d experienced an unhappy ending. I was not a child anymore, easily distracted from life’s harsh realities. I was alone, with finances rapidly trending towards broke, and without any particular dream except to write novels. Was coming to Glacier going to dig me out of this hole or dig me in deeper?
Still lost in my reveries, I neared Glacier, and turned off Highway I-5 to secondary road 1-26 leading to town. I realized, as I cranked Beauty’s stiff steering wheel, that time seemed to have slowed down. As my van rumbled along the pothole-strewn road, I felt familiar comfort washing away my dismay about running from my reality back home. Glacier existed in a bubble of its own time that just felt right, and I sensed that with forgotten relish.
I crossed the Mole River at the edge of town on a narrow two-lane bridge. Spreading below me was the village buried in the Willamette National Forest, not bustling but active. When I got to the only stop light, I pulled over to the roadside and stared.
First established as a mountain trading post when bears, elk and wolves were the only residents besides a few pioneers, Glacier was a sweet spot in the mountain valley where trappers could get their supplies and whiskered prospectors could register claims. It was isolated and, because of that isolation, also a free, unrestricted place. It grew slowly from one trading cabin to several and then, in time, into a village of like-minded souls. The Glacier I could see from the side of the road was anchored to that slowly evolved past. Exterior walls of downtown buildings were dressed in brightly colored murals of village heroes. Monuments, relics of the past, dotted town. There was an old sluice box rig floating in a stream of stone. There was a coal excavation bin with its threadbare conveyer belt still attached beside the town hall. Beside the park I could see an old truck loaded with ore and riding up a ramp like an invisible mountain road. In the park a metal elk statue stood beside a pelt stretcher made from bark-stripped pine trees. I soaked in all the sights with a pleasure that felt new but was old and locked in my distant memory.
I remembered reading about the arrival of an investor from the coast who came to Glacier for a visit and never left. He’d seen a perfect hidden gem of mountain tranquility, a place where stress-plagued skiers from the city could play in nature. He’d built an exhilaratingly steep ski hill right on the town’s namesake Ranson Glacier.
Looking at Glacier from the edge of town, I remembered the differences that ski hill had made. Glacier’s winters weren’t quiet and lonely anymore. When snow dumped on the valley, the village filled with coastal skiers and snowboarders because of the ski hill. That created a boom in accommodation and it affected everyone in town. Emily’s B&B, the Crow’s Nest, which I’d known as the only place to stay, suddenly got competition. Up popped the multi-storied Lee Hotel and the string of Bavarian-style chalets called Gossamer Pines. Elwood’s Gas Bar expanded from one pump to four. An office block was built and a tiny shopping mall was constructed, which forced Glacier’s dry goods store to change from a small trading post-style of place to a modern supermarket.
For all intents and purposes, the tiny village I loved as a child had disappeared with that ski hill, but Glacier still managed to hang onto its quaint and cozy nature somehow. The people who called it home were all a little different. I imagined them to be like the fearless settlers in Alaska. They were there for private reasons they didn’t want to explain. Like me.
I started the van on the nearly empty street, and put it in gear to make the last mile of my journey. Driving into town I could tell Glacier was still humble. Children played without parental supervision. Dogs ran free. On the side streets I passed, I glimpsed people on their verandahs sharing iced tea and gossip. Every building, every person I saw walking on the sidewalk, and every glimpse of the mountains surrounding town, made me replay fond memories and provided me vibrant rushes of color and sound.
My uncle Barney's coffee shop was called The Grind. He’d converted a two-story brick house with an expansive front lawn into his dream café, and had also established Bookmarks, a small bookstore, inside what used to be the big house’s dining room. I never understood why he’d opened that bookstore. As far as I could remember, Barney had never read books or talked about them. And the base of customers for a bookstore was scant to nonexistent in Glacier as much as I could recall. In fact, I had to put in a special order at Elwood’s Gas Bar to buy the Oregonian, Portland’s daily newspaper. Even Barney didn’t carry it.
The Grind was tucked between Bubbles, the local five-washer laundromat, and a consignment store for what passed as high fashion and called Rose’s Clothes. Down the street was an exercise studio that, I could tell as I drove past, was oddly crowded and busy. A folding ad board on the sidewalk said Shaanti and offered yoga, Pilates and tai chi classes. Down from Rose’s Clothes was Valley Drugs, one of the oldest buildings in town. It shouldered to Elwood’s. Across the street from The Grind was the Lee Hotel, a large multi-gabled building that looked like its design was pulled from an old English manor house painting. Next to that was a cinder block office and down the street a little further from there was the Long Branch, a bar fronted with split pine logs and that sported a hitching post, as if horses still wandered the Glacier streets. There was a drug store and a travel agency/bookkeeper on the other side of the hotel and beyond that I could see houses on Jones Avenue. A short walking distance from The Grind, the park was equipped with a swing set painted in a rainbow of colors, two teeter-totters and a sandbox. Glacier had also managed to acquire the big city accoutrements of a lawyer, an accountant, a mortuary and two schools, although I suspected they barely had enough students to stay open.
The road I had used to access Main Street split in two directions. One went to Eugene, a large community of 160,000 that was sixty miles west, and the other direction took traffic on 1-26 back to Portland. In the north direction from The Grind, train tracks marked the end of town along the Mole River. Towering mountains surrounded the village, offering plenty of hiking and of course the road to Ranson Glacier and the ski hill. When I finally rolled the van up to The Grind I was excited but also frustrated. The road in front of the café was plugged with cars. It’s Thursday. That makes sense.
On Thursdays, The Grind offered fresh baked goods. Everything from bread and buns to cookies, cakes, and pastries of all sorts. I was actually surprised to see how popular Thursdays still were at The Grind. The local farmer’s wife my uncle had hired to bake for him years before seemed to have built up a loyal clientele.
Beauty looked like a dirty smear of yellow when I finally found a spot to park against the full green caragana hedge on the border of The Grind’s lot. I parked right up against the hedge so I had to crawl over the passenger seat to exit, and eased myself out of the van with a groan. The Grind, a Victorian style house with a huge bay window, sported a hand painted sign on the front lawn resplendent with a big cup forever steaming. Another sign, much smaller and almost invisible, pointed with an arrow to Bookmarks. I urged my tired legs up the steps and, with the bell tingling above the door, stepped inside to a crowded coffee shop. No one seemed to notice me. Thank God for that; not ready to share my life story yet.
Many of the people I remembered in my youth were present. I recognized the man who’d been Glacier’s mayor since what seemed forever, and assumed the man in the puffy black bomber jacket was a policeman. What is his name? He looks familiar. I remembered the town’s accountant with his balding monk-style haircut. He still wore blue jeans and a checked shirt buttoned to the collar. Can’t remember his name. I saw the town mortician and his wife seated in one corner, he in his suit and she buried in an overcoat as if she was cold. Does he have more than one suit? And the young town medico, Dr. Phillips. Still kinda cute but he’s put on weight. However, at the edge of the crowd there was one man I didn’t recognize. He was Indian; not Native but from the sub-continent. He was slight and dressed in a T-shirt and blue jeans.
There was also a group of older men, whom I didn’t know, dressed in dungarees and plaid ja
ckets. Glacier dinner jackets. There were what appeared to be retired ranchers, retired miners and one or two young men and women in the group. A chunky lady in her fifties, her hair tied in a bun, was busy passing out the display case goodies with scientific efficiency. Mrs. Podeski! You haven’t changed much.
Customers pointed into the display case. Mrs. Podeski asked: “How many?” With their almost servile answers given, she'd fish out the pastries off their doily-covered plates with tongs and stuff them into white paper bags. I tried not to laugh at the drama unfolding before me. Mrs. Podeski would fold the top of the customer’s bag meticulously, then fumble with a tape dispenser to seal the purchase. She’d hold the bag out for the customer while she carefully punched the sale into the cash register and wouldn’t release it until she had received their payment. If necessary, she’d fish out the change from the till and pass it over without a smile. They were hardly friendly transactions.
Feeling a little out of place, like a ghost from the past, I sidled behind the crowd to an empty table by the front bay window. Surprisingly, despite the melee, it didn't take long for the café waitress to descend on my table. I was craning my neck, looking for my uncle when she reached me.
Her name tag, pinned high on her chest, said Nancy in a florid script. She was young, about my age. I always thought of myself as a bit of a hippy travelling around in my van, but now realized that was silly. Here I was staring at the real thing. Nancy's hair was plaited in double braids. She wore a white peasant blouse that hung off her shoulders and flowed loosely around her waist. Beneath the blouse she wore a flowing tie-dyed skirt of Indian cotton. On her feet were worn Birkenstocks.
I had to suppress an almost uncontrollable desire to giggle. Here I was in this small, ultra-conservative village, staring at a throwback from the sixties who seemed to fit perfectly amid the crowd of old businessmen, ranchers, and miners. Nancy stood waiting for me to speak and toyed with a braid.
“Is Barney around?"
Nancy inspected me with an obvious glare of suspicion. I could tell she was wondering who this young lady, with long hair, and wearing a puffy vest and hip hugging jeans, was. Had she come into The Grind by mistake, looking for hiking at the ski hill?
“He’s not here right now,” she finally said, deciding she had to take my order whether I was there by mistake or not. “He’s walking his dog. You want to order something?"
"Oh!" I tried to sound cheerful. “He still has Su-Jitzu?"
Nancy’s eyes opened wide.
“He's my uncle," I said. “I've come to surprise him.”
"Uncle?” Nancy leaned in and carefully scanned my face. “Wow! I've never seen you around here. Been a long time since you came to visit?"
"It's been years," I answered, feeling I should edge myself further away on the bench seat.
“Hmmmm,” Nancy said. It looked like she was considering whether she should tell me about my uncle’s whereabouts. She turned to the crowd and then back to me. “He always takes off when the baked goods arrive. Doesn’t like the Thursday hubbub all that much, so he leaves with the dog ‘til the place clears. Don't worry. As soon as they have what they want, most of the customers leave. Only the regulars stick around and then Barney will be back. You want to order something?"
“Do you still have ‘coffee of the day’?"
"Absolutely,” Nancy answered with a beaming smile. “It's one of the bestsellers."
"Always was. I'll have one of those and make it a large. I've been driving for hours."
True to Nancy’s word, as Mrs. Podeski passed out the baked goods and collected the payments, the crowd dispersed. Eventually, those who remained settled with leisure at six tiny tables in front of the display case to munch on their pastry purchases.
I stared out the window, feeling even lonelier than I had in my van. What am I doing here anyway? Running away from things? Not sure I fit in anymore.
I was nearly finished my coffee by the time my balding uncle Barney appeared at the back door. The tiny Jack Russell terrier with him wasted no time disappearing into the kitchen to find his water bowl as Barney hung Su-Jitzu’s leash by the door and removed his light summer jacket.
At that very moment the slight Indian man I’d noticed stood up at his table to address Mrs. Podeski. He told her he'd like the last piece of carrot cake, and had already pulled his wallet from his pocket ready to pay for the delicacy. I was confused by Mrs. Podeski’s reaction. The stern-faced woman carefully pulled the slice of carrot cake he wanted from the display case and slid it onto a plate.
“Mayor Simpson," she said with a happy inflection, looking to a table of four next to me, “didn't you say you wanted some carrot cake?" It looked to me like she had deliberate intent. She took the cake from behind the display counter, walked right past the Indian man, and put it down before the mayor.
The rotund mayor looked confused. "I didn't ask for that."
“It's on the house, Mr. Mayor," Mrs. Podeski replied. Her voice was as sweet as the white icing on the cake. She patted the mayor on the shoulder, urging him to accept.
"But I didn't ask for any carrot cake," he said again.
“I wanted that," the Indian man barked. He was obviously aggravated because his posture had stiffened. Why would she treat him that way?
"He’s the mayor and he should get the last piece of carrot cake," Mrs. Podeski said with venom in her tone.
“It’s mine! I asked for it." The Indian man moved around his table and reached for the plate but Mrs. Podeski gripped the man’s wrist and pulled him back. “It's the mayor’s,” she said loudly. The two would never be paired in a boxing match. Mrs. Podeski’s size had the man at a disadvantage. He tried to pull his wrist away but she refused to release her grip.
As the two tugged at each other, an attractive and obviously fit young man stood up from the mayor’s table and moved between the couple. To separate them, he put one hand on the man's chest and with the other pushed Mrs. Podeski’s shoulder. It didn't look at all forceful, but Mrs. Podeski fell backwards. The husky younger man held the slight Indian man at arms-length and only stared at Mrs. Podeski on the ground.
Seeing what was happening from the back of The Grind, Barney rushed to Mrs. Podeski’s side. Kneeling, he tried to pull her to a sitting position but she angrily flailed at his touch, raking his forearm with her red polished nails. She still held the pastry knife she’d used to load the cake onto the mayor’s plate in her other hand and she waved it with menace at the Indian. “Get away from me,” she growled at my uncle. As she rolled to her knees and stood up, I was flabbergasted. Her mouth was set in a cold grimace. She glared at the slight man and then turned her attention towards the young man who had pushed her.
“You better stay out of my way," she said, stabbing the air between them with the knife. They stared at each other in silence for a moment. The young man opened his mouth as if to speak but then closed it again.
“That was an accident, Utta. Wasn’t it, Bill?” Barney moved forward and patted the young man’s arm. “You want some lemon loaf, Doc?” he asked the slight man. “It’s on the house.” Barney quickly skirted the display counter. He was obviously not concerned about cleanliness, because, using his fingers, he fished a slice of the moist yellow cake from the case onto a plate.
I decided to move at that lull in the action. I stood up and pushed my way around the mayor’s table towards the angry trio. “Hi uncle Barney,” I said, as cheerily as I could. “Got a hug for your favorite niece?"
My appearance startled him. He jumped slightly, glanced rapidly up, and suddenly beamed. He came back around the case, went towards the customer seating area and, without looking, dropped the lemon loaf at the edge of the slight man’s table. It missed the table and thumped to the floor as he rushed towards me with open arms. "When did you get here?"
Mrs. Podeski had to step back to let Barney pass. As we hugged, I could see her bend down, pick up the lemon cake from the floor and put it back on the fallen plate. Th
en she dropped it unceremoniously on the slight man's table.
"What are you doing here?"
“I came for a …” I was surprised by a frenzied scratch on my leg. Despite all the shouting, Barney’s terrier had recognized my voice and was now in delirious doggy heaven, bouncing on four legs by my feet. His tail flapped so fast it was almost invisible. I felt an equal burst of joy as I picked him up. When I did, I was bathed in an energetic blur of cheek licks.
The mood in The Grind flipped from tense to happy. Barney hugged me and Su-Jitzu close with one arm and leaned into Mrs. Podeski. "This is my niece, Melanie," he said. "You remember her, don’t you? She lives in Portland now. I haven't seen her in, what has it been? Ten years?”
“I'll be damned," said the mayor, also standing up and giving me an enthusiastic and unexpected hug. He was quickly joined by many of the others in the café greeting me. Everyone seemed eager to make sure the tension continued to be relieved by my surprise appearance. Through it all Su-Jitzu continued his slobbery kisses, and I smiled the smile of the loved.
3
The first evening with my uncle began haltingly, as I mumbled my way through my heartbreak story. Uncle Barney made sympathetic noises and, like Mom, told me this was my chance to create a new future. “Stay as long as you need to,” he said kindly. “Stay and write a whole novel!” I felt close to tears; touched by his generosity, and fearful of my own ability to write anything.
Finally, we managed to move on to happier topics and the mood lightened as we laughed over our shared recollections. When I finally retired to Barney's living quarters above the café, I found the room I’d always had when I stayed exactly as I’d left it. The bed was made and the room looked untouched since ten years ago. I had to control a sudden feeling of revulsion when I patted the bedspread and found the palm of my hand lifted a light sheen of black. I’d forgotten the curse of the Lok Mine. Coal dust. It always found its way inside no matter how diligent a homeowner was to seal windows and doors.
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