I used to say things like, “I could never live anywhere that didn’t have the four seasons.” Meaning snow, of course. The older I get, the more I hope to never say never, because right now I feel like I could live somewhere without the four seasons, very easily.
Yes, I ski. Yes, I get out during the winter. Yes, I do think snow is pretty, especially on the mountains on a clear day. But I have to say, the dark that comes with the cold around here makes me irritable, and the cold can be painful for someone with as poor of circulation as I apparently have. My hands double as ice cubes for most of the winter. I don’t even need to get an ice pack for an injury. I just put my hands on my neck or my knee, and get immediate relief. I wonder if that’s what they call a healer?
Unfortunately for Doug, I sometimes try and warm my hands or feet on his body, and he yelps like an animal in pain every time. I just don’t know why. Huh.
As I’ve noted before, amnesia sets in around here once the weather starts to warm up a bit, and you forget that you ever had thoughts about living in the South Pacific because summers are so perfect. But right now I wish I was a snow bird, and could fly until I felt the sun on my face and heard waves crashing from an ocean nearby. Wouldn’t that be lovely?
I think it’s about time I start writing about where I live, because it’s a funny place. Jimmy Buffet even wrote a song about it. When I finally read the lyrics I was surprised to find a few references to deviled eggs in bars. I’m no real partyer but I’m pretty sure no Livingston bars serve deviled eggs. It’s probably against the health codes.
’cause they’ll be rockin’ and a rollin’ on a livingston saturdaynight.
In actuality, Saturday is kind of dead in Livingston, and Friday nights are busy. We like to celebrate the end of the work week.
So, a reader of my blog wrote to ask a few questions about Livingston, and I decided it’s high time I wrote my own Insider’s Guide to Livingston, Montana.
Let’s address the most important questions first:
Why Livingston instead of Bozeman?
Well, this is true. Why would you live 30 miles from where you work, over a mountain pass, in a community that gets nearly blown away every winter by wind? And the answer is easy. To get away from Bozeman. Bozangeles (as I like to call it) has a few more people who don’t have to work for a living and a lot more big box stores. Plus, it’s a hell of a lot less expensive over here to live. I’m okay with creating some space for myself over here in the windy city.
Is the wind really that bad?
Yes. Livingston is officially the third windiest city in the United States. What does this actually mean? It means that in the summer, when the snowbirders are in town, the wind is fairly quiet, with some occasional afternoon gusts that could make boating on the Yellowstone quite difficult. In the winter we batten down the hatches and prepare for gusts up to 80 mph, passing semi-trucks and trailers on their sides on the Interstate, tree limbs flown into the street, and the feeling like you’re on a ship out to sea when you climb into bed.
Doug says I’m the only person he knows who doesn’t complain about the wind, because, believe it or not, I grew up somewhere windier. But, the wind is survivable, and you kind of forget about it come summer. I recommend buying a white noise machine and checking the condition of the roof carefully before you buy a house here.
My favorite fact about Livingston:
Livingston is a city for writers. Per capita, we have the most professional writers of any city in the United States. Dave McCumbe, an author himself, chased down the litany of writers in town. They include:
“Novelist and Time Magazine columnist Walter Kirn. Mystery writers Jamie Harrison and Peter Bowen. Environmental authorities Doug Peacock, Alston Chase and Thomas McNamee. Fishing and hunting writers John Holt and Ben 0. Williams. jazz critic and humorist James Liska. Foreign correspondent Thomas Goltz. cowgirl poets Gwen Petetsen and Sandy Seaton. The fine historical novelist, Richard S. Wheeler. journalist Steve Chapple, Debby Bull, Maryanne Vollers, Max Crawford, Diane Smith, Steven Hughes, Kim Leighton, et cetera.
Then there are the literary drop-ins, those who spend at least part of the year here on a regular basis. They include Jim Harrison, Peter Mattheissen, Guy de la Valdene, Toby Thompson, Richard Ford and Robert F. Jones.”
I remember walking in the Owl Bar when I first moved here and loving the fact that as many books were behind the bar as liquor bottles. I assumed that all of them were written by people who’d sat on a stool but the bar was sold before I could ask. I’d like to have a book of mine sit behind a bar some day. Then I’d have a laugh.
On Tuesday I was waiting for the bus to take me home, reading a book, and checking my watch every few minutes.
My fellow commuters were stretched out on the university’s lawn, plugged into ipods or blackberries or books. The bus was late, but they didn’t seem too concerned.
I, on the other hand, had just walked like an Olympic speed walker for a little over a mile to get to the bus stop on time and my heart rate wasn’t down to a normal level. I watched my fellow travelers for cues as to whether to be alarmed, but they seemed relaxed. Finally, fifteen minutes after the scheduled departure time another bus pulled up to pick up passengers and a woman approached the driver.
“Did you ask her about the Livingston bus?” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “The driver got lost. He’ll be here soon.”
“He got lost?” I repeated back to her. “Lost?”
This might be possible in Seattle, or Los Angeles, or somewhere a hell of a lot more urban than Bozeman, but if you’ve been in Bozeman, Montana for more than a day you’ve probably seen the whole town, or at least the main routes.
We all stood around chuckling at the thought of someone lost in Bozeman and legitimately worried about our trip home. When the bus arrived a woman immediately said to the pushing-sixty-year-old driver, “We’re going to Livingston. Exit 330.”
“I’ve only been there once,” he said. “Last year, so you may have to give me directions.”
Directions? In a town where you can make approximately two right turns and get to the Interstate that will take you directly to Livingston? I couldn’t help myself. I had to laugh. We all did.
Once he picked up speed on the Interstate I thought our worries were over, but I was wrong. He hit the tight curves in the canyon too fast and we all swung back and forth across the leather seats like we were on a carnival ride. For some reason, this sparked another round of giggles among us, and we laughed for a good ten minutes about our driver’s initiation to the Livingston commute.
Montana isn’t a state known for its public transportation system. People live in hundreds, not tens, of miles from each other, and most places aren’t served by either Greyhound or Amtrak. I shouldn’t complain about the bus – it is after all an incredible free perk for commuters who travel to work the 25 miles between Bozeman and Livingston.
And it’s also a remedy for people who are driving impaired. I joke to Doug that you can tell who in town has had his license jerked for a DUI. He’s riding a bike past our house, in a 30 mph wind, gripping his cowboy hat in one hand, and pedalling fast with his faded cowboy boots. He’s clearly not a recreational mountain biker. He’s in need of a bus.
All I can figure is sometimes we all need to be slowed down a little bit, or maybe even lost.
