Missoula Now and Then

Being a rambling meditation in three parts on the nature of mutability, with particular attention paid to those manifestations‹actual and perceived‹as do apply to a certain Montana municipality close to the hearts and minds of many readers of this journal.

I. A Humorous Anecdote—General Remarks and Observations

One Saturday evening not all that long ago, a running buddy and I found ourselves weekend bachelors with time on our hands and a party to attend.

Today's patrons of Charlie B¹s enjoy a chat under acclaimed portraits by the late Missoula photographer Lee Nye. First hung in Eddy¹s Club in the 1960s and 70s, the portraits made their way to several Missoula establishments over the years, but are now back in Charlie B¹s, the former location of Eddy's Club.

The gathering, at a home in Missoula’s slant-street district, was being held in honor of a famous and sensitive visiting poet. We didn’t attend her on-campus reading, which preceded the soiree, preferring to reminisce about the glory days over a schooner or two at the Missoula Club.

Soon enough, we arrived at the house, a pair of harmless, lovable old dogs wearing Levis, boots, and woolen shirts. Our perfectly affable hostess—rather more formally dressed than we (I recall a string of pearls)—met us, took our house present (a twelve-pack of domestic beer), and deposited it, unceremoniously, in the mud room.

Her smile well-practiced, she asked us to remove our shoes, reminded us the house was smoke-free, and directed us to a table busy with soft cheeses, delicate pastries, and expensive wines from other continents.

We two were veterans of the Garden City’s literary scene and had, between us, logged more than a half-century as residents there, attended scores of post-reading parties. We knew the drill, may have, in fact, invented some of it: cigarette smoke, beer, whiskey, loud voices, disarray, good gossip, tall—very tall—tales and, with any luck at all, indiscreet behavior on somebody-or-other’s part. In other words, an atmosphere of lusty, well-cultivated irreverence and buckaroo bohemianism.

Instead, we stood, polite and politely ignored, as a coterie of admirers listened to the poet expound with hushed, precise importance on Eastern European postmodernist literature. After a time, suddenly, rudely—How dare it!—a large spider emerged from behind a flagon of Chilean white. Seizing the moment, my friend grabbed a napkin to crush the ugly bugger into eternity.

“NO!” cried our shocked hostess.

“NO!” cried the sensitive poet. “It’s. A. Living. Thing!”

The execution halted, we made hasty apologies, assured the hostess we could see our own way out—she didn’t argue—grabbed our disgraceful beer, and drove away in silence.

As I got out of the car at my house, I said, “Uh, any clue what happened back there?”

“Near as I can tell,” my friend said, “we brought old Missoula sensibilities to a new Missoula party.”

We had, in fact, been made to feel like a pair of oversized brigands misdirected to a cotillion. But was that party, in fact, a metaphor, a signifier, for some irrevocable societal shift in old Missoula town?

Bryan Di Salvatore

I first fetched up in Missoula about thirty years ago, a long-haired, bachelor blade who could fit all his belongings in the trunk of a ’63 Ford Fairlane. I was full of my own half-baked self and ready to tell you all about it. Now I’m married, a fifty-three-year-old butter knife with a home and a storage shed who almost knows how little he knows. In short, I see things differently. I am different. And so is my town. I loved the old place. I love the new place.

Take it to the bank: Nothing doesn’t never change. Not a granite outcropping on a distant peak; not the air we breathe; not the face staring back in the mirror, and certainly not Missoula.

And whether you think this change or that good or bad is entirely your business. But—trust me here—an education, at least a true and lasting one, the kind we received at UM if we were paying attention, does nothing if not help us balance the imbalanceable. Forge an alloy made of bedrock and quicksilver. Accept the contradictory.

See the forest and the trees.

II. In Which We Consider the Trees

Missoula was half the size it is now.

Missoula is twice the size it was then.

There was no traffic.

Traffic is a word hissed by every Missoulian every day.

People’s first question upon meeting a stranger was “So, where you from originally?”

People’s first question upon meeting a stranger is “So, where you from originally?”

Missoula’s sky was often corrupt and redolent, its river’s water metallic. The nation was at war; the town was seriously divided in its attitude toward the conflict. Walk into the wrong place, say the wrong thing in the right place, you could find yourself in a world of serious hurt.

Missoula’s air is quantitatively cleaner, brighter; the river water is still metallic. The nation is at war. People agree to disagree, enroll in anger management therapy.

The saddest paper was Monday’s, with its reports of post-closing-time fatal accidents, stupid ends to ordinary lives.

The saddest paper is Monday’s, for the same reason.

Downtown—this was before most Montanans could spell “mall”—was bustling, proud, unimaginative, generic. The southern reaches of Highway 93 were mostly vacant, home to a mill, a roadhouse, fields. Reserve Street split farmland.

Downtown is now bustling, proud and unique—spicy, even. Highway 93 and Reserve Street are bustling, unimaginative, generic—the former a down-in-the-heels strip, the latter a line of huge retail boxes. Look hard for a farm out Reserve way, you might find one.

Then, passenger trains ran and, for a song, you could take one to Butte to see a nurse from Plentywood you were dating.

Now, planes fly, and you can’t take one to Butte to see a nurse from Plentywood for much less than an opera.

Basketball ruled. Grizzlies were reared in Montana, mostly.

Football rules. Grizzlies grow up in all sorts of places.

You could smoke anywhere but the altar rail and the ICU.

You need two forms of identification to buy an ashtray.

Cops patrolled the weekend downtown streets on foot, emptied open-containers, and sent you home.

Cops patrol in cars and pour pepper spray on fans who dare to pull down goal posts after the Grizzlies win again.

Students had too many dogs. Never bothered with leashes. Lived in over-priced rentals. Dressed frightfully. Didn’t mow or water the lawn. Played their music too loud too late. Had too much time on their hands and were prima facie evidence pointing to the collapse of Western civilization.

Students have too many dogs. Don’t bother with leashes. Live in over-priced rentals. Dress frightfully. Never mow or water the lawn. Play their music too loud too late. Have too much time on their hands and are prima facie evidence pointing to the collapse of Western civilization.

Half the vehicles were pickup trucks with gun racks. Half the vehicles had cracked windshields. Half the vehicles had one working headlight. Half the vehicles needed new rings, a new muffler, new tires.

Half the vehicles are SUVs with cell phones. Half the vehicles have cracked windshields. Half the vehicles have one working headlight. Half the vehicles need new rings, a new muffler, new tires.

You might have driven a Chevy on Saturday; put the feedbag on for steak.

You might drive a Saab on Sunday; put the feedbag on for sushi.

There was no speed limit so as you’d notice.

There is no speed limit so as you’d notice.

There were a lot of poor people.

There are a lot of poor people.

Californians were evil, treacherous invaders not much good for anything but raising house prices beyond reach.

Californians are evil, treacherous invaders not much good for anything but raising house prices beyond reach.

If you didn’t like it, why didn’t you go back to where you came from?

If you don’t like it, why don’t you go back to where you came from?

Amateur strip shows. Hubba-hubba.

A gay bar. Big deal.

Got your elk yet?

Got your elk yet?

Coffee so weak it would have fallen over without a cup.

Coffee so strong the second cup turns you into Reddy Kilowatt.

A vegetarian anti-nuclear kegger on the North Side.

A vegetarian anti-hate-crime kegger on the North Side.

That greasy spoon—you remember the one—has become an upscale bistro. The stately house at the end of the block? A rundown rental. That eyesore at the other end of the block? A renovated showpiece. Those quivering pheasant fields? Parking lots for Target, Home Depot. That old brownfield? A new city park. The hipster reeking of patchouli oil next to you in Psychology 101? A Methodist minister in Billings. The two-bedroom with an enclosed yard close to downtown going for $150 a month? A two-bedroom with an enclosed yard close to downtown going for $1,500 a month.

Three a.m. Sunday morning at the Oxford?

Three a.m. Sunday morning at the Oxford.

III. In Which We Consider the Forest

Missoula was a working class town when working class meant swing shift at the mill, long days in the forest, 2 a.m. calls for an eastbound freight. Missoula is still a working class town, and people still work at the mill, in the forest, on the railroad, but, lurking in the shadows these days is a sort of ill-defined shame associated with the old ways—the roll-up-your-sleeves, greasy-elbow, skinned-knuckle ways.

I remember many drifters, old-timers—grizzled, sad-eyed, broken, perhaps, by a hard life, an accident, a war, heartbreak. They were not always savory characters, but they were part of life, left alone, understood. Us.

Many of the old-timers are gone, or in homes. The drifters are still here—still grizzled, sad-eyed, broken and not always savory. Now, though, good citizens and city fathers consider them embarrassments. Liabilities to commerce. Out of place in Pleasantville. They are not left alone, not understood, not Us.

Our once-quiet summers—broken only by the mighty fun of the fair—have become hysterical, a pounding surf of various wholesome festivals. We are on every other “Best Small Town” list in the country and hungry to be on more, which means we are spending our days endlessly changing the sheets, dusting the mantel, preparing for the next wave of guests.

Missoula has become terminally self-conscious.

Missoula used to be along the highway. Now it is on the map. And it will never again not be on the map.

And yet, these yearly, seasonal, daily inpourings—sweet and otherwise—keep us from stagnation, on our toes. Teach us the ways of the rest of the world—for better or worse. Deliver the new; help us appreciate the old.

These days the forest is wider, the trees taller. That’s all.

Missoula is dead.

Long live Missoula.

Bryan Di Salvatore, MFA ’76, is the author of A Clever Base-Ballist, a biography of John Montgomery Ward.