Oh Christmas Tree

Thanksgiving was fun and then Friday rolled around, everyone left, and the house got quiet. Since we had no more friends to invite over, we decided it was time for ... Christmas!
We piled into the van, grabbed a saw from the Andres and headed up to the Eagles' Nest for a Christmas tree. No boyscouts in Ashland! We got it home, cut it to size and had it up by dinner. Notice Susan's gingerbread ornaments and cranberry-popcorn garland.
Steph and Cass added some flare by gifting each of us a western-style ornament, including a saddle, a spur and a lasso. In place of a star, we graced it with a cowboy boot we found in the bushes. Basically, it's a Country Kitchens classic.

Thanksgiving

To allay our pining for home and for our Irish-Catholic families, we had 21 people to Thanksgiving. With four JVs from Hays, four from Billings, four representatives from the Cheyenne home, Cassie’s parents, and one JV girlfriend, we got all the chaos we needed. As people arrived Wednesday night and Thursday morning, the house got lively and the chefs got rolling. While the birds cooked on Thursday morning, we headed out to the football field for the Turkey Bowl, Ashland-style. If you’ve read our previous posts, you might associate “Ashland-style” with any number of things; on this day, it meant lining up in four inches of powder on a brilliantly blue, twenty degree day to play six on nine. “The Ashland” plays six on nine because, per our competition-starved males, even teams are for chickens. After rallying a bewildered Cassandra into the battle cry, “Give me Three-Men-Down or give me Death!” the two ripped off their shirts, chest-bumped, pumped the crowd and sprinted back to the line to dig in across from the five girls on Hays-Billings line. Hays-Billings promptly blitzed.
Despite the discrepancy, our JVC spirit triumphed and we concluded in a 4-4 tie. Highlights from the match included Jo-face diving Bobby Orr style for the interception, Hays-Billings repulsing a leaping Stephanie as she tried to go over the top for the TD and mean tackles from Danielle “Fighting Irish” and Rachel “Bird-Butcher” Forte.

With Rachel’s hit, we thought Matt’d kicked the bucket, but he picked himself up, shook his head, muttered something about the size of the fight in the dog, and ran straight into the goal post. Everyone watched in horror. Except Molly. When snowballs couldn’t wake him, or cattle whoops, or Pup licking his face, we knew it was bad and everyone fell silent (even Molly.) Eyes dropped downcast, someone placed a glove on his chest and we turned, slowly, to head back home.
Then suddenly, as if in a dream, Susan threw open the kitchen window, where Joe’s neglected turkey was on fire; we watched, mesmerized as the smoke snaked up and down, along the ground, swirled around our ankles and curled under Matt’s nose. For a moment nothing happened and we held our breath. Then, just like that, he sniffed, sat up, staggered once, and made straight for the open window. Amazed and astonished, we followed him to the house. We followed him to the table, where he sat in front of his name tag, staring straight ahead and making no sound but the methodical tap tap tap of knife and fork until dinner was served.
Anyway, that was the business about Thanksgiving, with the Turkey Bowl and Rachel, but we are trying not to dwell on it. Ever since we finished the leftovers of the turkey and Matt has stopped sniffing around the kitchen, he doesn’t seem to remember anything. So when we talk about Thanksgiving, we usually point to Susan’s harvest loaf, the king crab Cassie’s parents brought or the vat of 18 mashed potatoes; we like to remember Susan’s homemade tablecloth, six year old Jasmine kidnapping Cassie’s camera or the epic games of mafia. Yes, it was a quiet, uneventful holiday in Ashland.

Halloween

After throwing together costumes from the .25 cent Mission Clothing Room (I'm a truck driver, he's a fisherman) Matt and I took the dorm kids trick or treating. They chose to go with the morbid (left) "Father Nate" (right) and very much themselves (rest.) Our first stop was the St. Labre "village," which is home to teachers, staff and of course, the JVs. We lost several boys momentarily into their favorite teacher's house, but when they emerged having nicked only a "Men's Health" magazine, I chose to let that go. From there we progressed to the "Heights," to the homes of the administrators, directors and our three resident sisters. If Sister Bernadette was surpised to see "Father Nate" on her doorstep, she didn't miss a beat. It was a beautiful night -- a balmy fifty degrees in a state accustomed to its first snowstorm on Halloween -- and the kids made out well on the candy front. Back at the dorm, we finished the night with burgers and cupcakes.

Earlier in the day, Steph and Susan had set up a haunted house in the elementary school and recruited me, Cassie, Joe and Matt as spooks. We had a lot of fun, and we turned out to be pretty scary, judging by the kids coming back three and four times, and the couple of little girls who left crying. To the boys, the tears may have meant success, but I felt pretty bad. I couldn't blame the kids, however -- when I first saw Joe lying corpse-like in a pitch-black room, I almost cried too.

Gettin' the wheels rollin'

As the English major of the bunch, I have been assigned the role of posting about our first three months in Ashland. By this time, I am a veteran at tackling jobs for which I am unprepared. Fortunately, this assignment is not nearly as hazardous as participating in my first sweat, riding a barely broken horse, or rounding up a hundred and fifty head of cattle with a reticent Cheyenne Indian. These experiences are emblematic of our fall, and so I will start with the man who made them all possible: Mr. Robbie Bement.

Robbie is a middle-aged Cheyenne who breaks horses for a living. He lives in Rabbit-town on the “outskirts” of Ashland – half a mile from campus. He has 15 horses, seven saddles, three dogs and a sweat lodge. A “sweat” is an Indian spiritual ritual meant to connect the participant to the Creator through physical suffering. Ten to fifteen people enter an igloo-shaped structure built of willow branches and heavy blankets, pour dippers of water on the smoldering rocks in a central pit and sing and pray as the place becomes a sauna/steam room. There are four rounds of prayer, between which they open the door and let out the heat. Each round gets hotter, however, as they bring in more rocks and pour on more water, and the sweat climaxes in an optional fifth, “cowboy,” round. It is a profound experience and a fun social gathering. Especially at the meal afterwards.

We were invited to Robbie’s sweat by an elderly gentleman named Richard Little Bear, who befriended us at the Labor Day Powwow. When we asked where Robbie lived, he answered, in typical Ashland style, “Go to Rabbit Town and look for the smoke.” So we stumbled upon our first sweat.

The evening went well, barring the split second between the third and fourth rounds when I lost consciousness. I woke up to Miss Catherine McHugh shaking my shoulder and yelling in my face. More embarrassed than anything, I sat out the final two rounds. Everyone else loved it, however, and since then we have become “sweat hogs.” We sweat almost every week, either at Robbie’s or at his friend Ernie’s. I discovered that drinking water beforehand, rather than Dr. Pepper, does wonders to keep me conscious.

Once he determined that we could survive his sweat, Robbie entrusted us to ride his horses. He was gracious when we proved miserable horsemen. With the exception of Michelle, few of us had ridden. Michelle’s comfort level proved dangerous, however. Coming into an open field, she decided to let her horse gallop. Before Joe knew what was happening, his horse, Romeo, had taken off after Michelle’s. For ten seconds, Joe hung onto the horn, feet out of his stirrups, with no idea how to stop the galloping animal. Luckily, Romeo pulled up on his own before Joe cut a new “landing strip” (as Robbie says) on the Montana range. In typical Joe-face style, no emotion was shown.

The following weekend, I was not so lucky. Apparently it is Cheyenne custom to tease and challenge those for whom you have affection or respect. Well, Robbie decided to show his affection for me by giving me Whombly, a horse he had only begun to break. “He’s going to want to run, so just give him a yank if he does,” Robbie said. I smiled and nodded, assuming that the success I’d had on the first trip would be easy to duplicate. Only about two hundred yards out of the corral, the other horses got ahead of Whombly and me on their way to a water trough. Between the group and us, Robbie sat on his horse. Apparently, he saw something was wrong. “You know you’re on a buckin’ bronco, don’t you?” he asked. Again, I smiled and nodded. Right away, Whombly ran at a full gallop straight for Robbie. It turned just in time to avoid a collision, and just hard enough that I lost both the stirrups. At that point, half way out of the saddle, I made the terrible decision to jump from Whombly, who continued on to the water trough happily. About a month later, I am just now able to sleep on my right side again, and I feel fortunate for that much. To console me, Robbie told me stories of his own ‘landing strips’ all up and down the trails. He also gave me two pieces of advice. The first was, “don’t be afraid. He’ll sense it.” The second was, “don’t fart, and if you do, hold on tight.” Lacking the physical or emotional fortitude to follow either directive, I continue to thank God for my safe return that day.

Just as we were getting to the end, Joe had another close call, this one far more dangerous. As we had stopped to give Robbie’s horse a rest, Joe’s horse decided to kick at Robbie’s, which was just behind him. Unfortunately, he got his hind leg caught in the lead rope of Robbie’s horse. Frightened but under control, the horse hobbled for some time. Joe, unaware of the situation, asked simply, “Ahh, what do I do?” Just before his horse went down, he jumped off, acting as cool as the other side of the pillow.

(Side note: I sleep in the same room as Joe. He keeps two books by his bed, a dictionary and a Bible. Where the word ‘fear’ would fall in a regular dictionary, there is a picture of Joe staring at the unfortunate reader. Apparently, the only thing Joe has to fear is Joe himself. Also, he wakes up every hour in the night to chew on rocks. I once asked him if I could try one. He responded by glaring at me and saying, “you wouldn’t like it.”)

After determining we could survive his horses, Robbie entrusted us to round up Ernie’s cows. Robbie invited us, once again, in typical Ashland style. He rolled up to our house on a quiet Thursday morning. With his friend Jay in shotgun and a four-horse trailer in tow, he called out to us, “I need two riders.” Michelle and I jumped in and within the hour we were chasing cows all up and down the hills of Rosebud County. Between that day and the next, we spent six hours in the saddle, brought in 150 cows and learned to holler and whoop like cowboys (it turns out cows move best to loud, shrill yelling.) The only casualty was one lost baseball cap.

There are more stories, of course. The first three months have been one adventure after another, and we don’t expect much to change about that. We’ll try and keep everybody up to date on the goings-on. Our goal, of course, is to tempt all of you to come out for a visit and see the place first-hand. For now, we hope these tales give you a glimpse of the Ashland life.