Oh Gee My Feet Are Cold

 

I spent a considerable measure of my childhood in the early 1960s riding in the backseat of various Chevy sedans from one critical place to another. We primarily lived in Anaconda, but my father's parents lived outside Wisdom, where my grandmother taught in a one-room schoolhouse close to the North Fork of the Big Hole. My paternal grandmother's brother operated the family ranch that was consolidated after my grandfather suffered a disabling stroke. The ranch was on the Big Hole River outside Twin Bridges. 

My sister is 6 years younger than me, so I was essentially alone in the backseat of the car, which was usually so tightly packed that our yellow Labrador was forced to ride on the floor before me. It was typically okay, but sometimes, I wanted to stretch my legs. Badly. Sometimes achingly badly.

I spent hours looking out the car window at the landscape as we traveled from Anaconda to Wisdom, Twin Bridges, or even Dillon, where more of the family lived. The world I saw was rural, open ranch land in broad valleys bordered by impressive mountains. Most of the roads we traveled were along the path of rivers, so they were also an expected part of the landscape of my life. Both sides of the highway were fenced off to keep livestock in place, so every trip was essentially hemmed in by miles of wooden buck and rail fence, which even then was being replaced by posts and barbed wire nearly everywhere. 

My mother and father tended to talk mother-and-father stuff that was usually uninteresting to an early-grade school-aged boy. Even if what they were discussing was interesting, I could not hear much if the windows were open to make summer day travel more comfortable. 

Sometimes, I was excited when my mother would point out the window and say, "Oh, look at the Meadowlark." She believed seeing a Meadowlark perched on a fence post to be a good omen and a reason for a smile. Of course, we could not hear the song, so my mother frequently chirped, "Oh gee, my feet are cold," to mimic the melody. I learned to keep a sharp eye out for meadowlarks so that, even if just for a moment, I could join in the conversation. Giving my mother a reason to smile and be happy was pretty cool, even if she tended to often be happy and smiling. It was just fine to be the reason she became joyful. 

It was no surprise when Meadowlarks became one of my favorite birds. Of course, everything about a meadowlark is delightful. The jaunty bill often pointed up in the air, the vivid yellow plumage along the wings, and their stuttering flying all provoked and still provoke a sense of awe in me. The best thing, however, is the melody. "O,h gee my feet are cold" doesn't much resemble the song, certainly not in the way "hoot" sounds like an owl. To hear a meadowlark sing is to experience the moment when time stops, and the place becomes unstuck so a nearly 70-year-old man can remember she who gave him life and taught him to love the song of a simple little bird that is anything but ordinary. 

My mother lived in the Meadowlark subdivision across the street from Meadowlark Country Club in her last years. My sister went to Meadowlark School on the corner of Fox Farm Road and Meadowlark Drive. Today's prize possession is an 8x10 watercolor painting of a meadowlark sitting on a wooden fence post with its head tipped back and the beak wide open. The work was painted by the famed artist O.C Seltzer and was gifted to my mother by his son Steve because she often cared for Steve's daughter after school for a time when Steve's wife was ill. 

The painting hangs on the wall beside our bed. It is the first thing I see in the morning and the last at night. I wish it were not hanging there, but, instead, it was still in the family room of my mother's house. It is strange to wildly love something I own yet desperately wish it was still hanging in a now-sold house.  

To see the meadowlark brings forth the song. It is still a little sad to hear because it is the song that connects mothers, sons and ages of life. I trust the joy will return in time. She told me not to let the painting make me sad, but how can I avoid that? 

Just sit with me for a minute and listen. I hear the song that tells a life story in a 6-word melody. Can you?