End of this blog

Well, as you may know, my time in Montana is ending soon. I will be moving to Kenai, Alaska to work as a local government reporter for a daily paper there. I will be blogging my time in Alaska just like I have blogged my time here. Here's the link to the Alaska blog. Thanks for reading. Any thoughts on how to make the Alaska blog even better than this one?

Comments welcome,
Andrew

Criticism

I received my first dose of real criticism last night.

I was listening to the Jets vs. Dolphins game when I heard that unmistakable sound coming from my police scanner. The fire units were being paged.

Crap. There’s never a fire when I’m slightly bored and in need of something to do. It’s always when my one true love is playing football. (I actually missed the second half of the Patriots game due to a different fire.)

Luckily, it was close to halftime and the fire wasn’t too far away, so I figured I wouldn’t have to miss much of the game.

When I got to the scene, I found a very small fire that had already been contained. It likely resulted from a burn pile that got away from the owner. I was snapping photos of the firefighters when I saw two women come out to observe the scene. Figuring they might be able to add color to the story, I approached them to find out what they knew or had seen.

“Hi, I’m from the Mineral Independent. I tend to follow these guys (referring to the firefighters) around. I was just wondering, would you be willing to talk about what you’ve seen?” I asked one of the women.

“Are you Andrew?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not talking to you. You screw up every story you write!”

I was a bit taken aback. First of all, that claim is entirely false. Maybe I've screwed 90 percent or even 99 percent of my stories, but every single one of them? Even the open letter to the county? Even the story about me shooting the gun?

I’ve actually received many calls, in-person compliments and have been told by my publisher that people have come up to him saying they are very pleased with the accurate and engaging coverage I have brought to the county.

I’m not saying I’ve been flawless. I made a pretty big gaff a while back when I said that Superior’s state legislator had retired. He is retiring but has not yet retired. To my knowledge, that’s the biggest mistake I have made. I’ve seen the legislator since, apologized, and we continue to be on good terms. He’s even fed me story ideas since the error.

“Who are you?” I asked the woman.

The only other person I have had accost me in any sort of way was a bar owner in the West End of the county. I have never met her, but she was pretty pissed that I published a story about bars failing compliance checks that tested their ability to stop minors from buying alcohol. When I called her for comment about Montana’s bars going smoke free, she let me know how she felt about the previous story.

I can’t be sure, but the woman’s voice and tone last night was strangely reminiscent of the bar owner on the phone. If it wasn’t her, I think it was a family member or friend. Then again, I screw up every story I write, so what do I know?

When I asked her who she was, she said: “I’m not telling you. You’d probably screw that up, too.”

Fair enough. I thanked her for her “honesty” and continued to stand next to her while I snapped more photos.

The funny thing about the incident was that the fire didn’t even merit a full story – just a photo and an extended caption, and that’s only because I took the time to go out there.

Oh well. And to put a damper on the night of frustration, the Jets lost in a heartbreaker.

(These photos are from my reporting.)

Comments welcome,
Andrew

De-plated

I lost part of my identity today.

I’ve been putting it off ever since I arrived in Montana. Blamed my delay on not having the proper documents. But, really, that was just a welcome excuse.

“When you going to get those plates changed?” The highway patrolman that I see when reporting car accidents on I-90 would always ask.

“I’m waiting for my dad,” I would say.

“What do you mean you’re waiting for your dad? No you’re not. You have to take care of this yourself.”

“No, you don’t understand. He has the title. I can’t do anything without it.”

Once the title to the car arrived in the mail, I knew I could no longer put it off. I had to get Montana plates.

When I first arrived here, one of the local bigwigs (who reminds me a lot of Michael Burns for those of you who know him) told me I should get rid of my New York plates immediately. He said people don’t like to see out-of-state plates. He said they wouldn’t be as apt to trust me. Essentially, he was saying I wouldn’t fit in.

Part of me likes not fitting in, especially here. This town is filled with gun-toting conservatives who swear on the Bible while they curse at their children. That’s obviously a gross hyperbole, but it accurately describes enough of the people I encounter.

I liked to be able to drive away from an event that I was covering and through my rearview mirror watch the person I had just interviewed stare in awe at my New York plate.

“I knew he was different,” I imagine them saying. I feel like it gave me a certain sense of legitimacy. It also excused me when I ran into things that I didn’t know. It gave me pardon when someone had to explain how to find Dry Creek, for instance.

“Oh, you’re not an idiot. You’re just not from here.”

Now my strongest sense of identity comes from my New Yorker magazine. I get a real kick out of picturing Liz, who works in the post office, saying something like “oh, the New Yorker is here.”

She’s not saying that the magazine is here, she’s simply reaffirming my presence in the town.

Now whenever I pull into a lot, my car will blend in. I might even have trouble finding it when I go to leave.

Eventually I’ll become one of those people who meets an easterner and says “I used to live in the East.”

Now I live in Montana. I’m here indefinitely and definitely here.

Comments welcome,
Andrew

Loss of Ignorance

Before this weekend, I had never shot a gun. If this weekend had gone as scheduled, I probably still would never have shot a gun. I’d still be “ignorant,” as Jay Bailey likes to say of people who don’t know about firearms. I’d still be like the 12-year-old version of myself – the boy who couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger all those years ago.

I first met Jay Bailey a couple of weeks ago after his wife’s antique store was broken into. When I walked into the store, Jay stared me down, giving me a steady, angry look like I didn’t belong. But I realized later that he gives everyone that look. He needs to stare people down as they enter the store in order to identify them. Bailey is legally blind.

We got to talking after I had done some reporting on the break in, and he somehow found out that I had never shot a gun. Being a well-trained expert, Jay offered to take me shooting. I was less willing to go shooting and more interested in watching a blind hunter. He said he is a seasoned bow and rifle marksman. I couldn’t help but think I had a great story on my hands, so I asked if he would ever allow me to accompany him on a hunt. To my surprise, he obliged. I always assumed hunters were more secretive and unwilling to let near-strangers tag along.

Unfortunately, my instincts were correct. When it came time to set up a day to go hunting, things kept being pushed back. Then Jay told me I wouldn’t actually be able to go hunting, but I could come up and hang around the hunters’ camp for a night. Still thinking that could be a decent way to fill the outdoors page, I accepted the half-hearted offer.

When I showed up to his store Saturday afternoon to head to the camp, Jay told me I was no longer invited. Some of the other hunters did not want me tagging along. I protested a little, but there was really nothing I could do. That’s when Jay re-extended his offer to take me target shooting. In need of a story, I agreed.

A few days earlier when we were trying to plan the hunting trip, Jay pulled out a couple of the guns that he thought would be good for me to fire my first shots with. He had me sling a small silver one over my shoulder. It felt foreign and unnatural, so I took it off immediately. My face must have given away my nervousness, because Jay told me it was scary seeing how frightened I seemed to be while holding an unloaded weapon.

“Did something happen when you were little?” he asked.

I was in the Boy Scouts when I was 12 and attended a week-long summer camp. At that time, a week was probably the longest period I had spent without a family member near by. The camp had several stations that you could visit to begin working on merit badges. One of the stations was a rifle range. My friends and I decided to try it out.

After some of my friends did their best to hit the plastic discs that flew across the range, my turn came. I picked up the rifle, which I remember being much too big for me, and attempted to aim it down the range. I didn’t feel prepared to fire it. It was bulky and long, and I couldn’t see clearly through the scope. So I turned to ask the instructor for some assistance.

“You can’t turn and point that at me,” the instructor yelled. “These are loaded weapons.”
A lot went through my mind then. Most instinctually, I was upset at being yelled at. I had turned to him innocently asking for help. But at the same time, the instructor was obviously right. I was holding a loaded weapon – pointing it, be it ever so briefly, at him. It had the power to kill, and I didn’t feel qualified to be in control of such device.

Overwhelmed with the realization of what supreme power the gun gave me, I dropped the rifle on the ground and ran out of the range.

“Where are you going?” asked the instructor.

“I’m not going to shoot,” I mumbled through sobs

I avoided the rifle station for the rest of the week. Looking back at that incident that happened more than 10 years ago, I’ve been able to assign somewhat of a higher purpose to it.

I equate shooting a gun to a person losing his virginity. Before it happens, one can imagine what it will feel like. One can imagine gripping the gun’s barrel for dear life. One can imagine the beauty of the exposed landscape as witnessed with clarity through the scope. But one can also imagine it going terribly wrong. Are the hands in the right position on the gun? Should they be higher, lower? Is it possible to pull the trigger too quickly? Too hard?

A boy’s dream can often trump reality. So can a boy’s nightmare. When it came to shooting, I was happy to let it be but an idea in my head. Happy to be ignorant.

That’s why I was nervous when Jay brought a rifle into the passenger seat of my car on Saturday. It wasn’t loaded, rendering it essentially a paperweight, but still.

On the drive up Flat Creek, where we went shooting, I thanked Jay for agreeing to teach me.

“Anything to keep people from being ignorant,” he said.

When we pulled into the shooting site, Jay set everything up. He first demonstrated his own skills. With the help of the magnifying lens on the top of the gun, he can move a can across the dirt the way some people can drag a yo-yo over cement.

He had to show me how to load the clip, how to pull off the safety – things that most people reading this can likely do with their eyes closed.

Jay handed me the gun and my sweaty hands gripped it weakly. I awkwardly turned to the side and held the weapon up the way Jay instructed. I cocked the gun, pushed down the safety, and suddenly there was nothing left to do but shoot.

I eyed the water bottle, my intended target, through the scope and pulled the trigger when it looked like the crosshairs were on the bottle.

The shell skidded across the distant dirt before I realized that I had just shot my first bullet. It felt nothing like things I had conjured up in my sleep. It didn’t feel like anything. As a pacifist, that scares me a little.

When I finished the clip, I turned to put the gun down and accidentally swept the barrel across Jay’s body.

He yelled just like that camp instructor yelled. Justifiably so, but I couldn’t help feel a little defensive – the way anyone does when they are scolded. Jay insisted I shoot a few more rounds, and I reluctantly agreed. Had I swept the gun across his body before ever firing a bullet, I might still be a gun virgin.

After we finished, I thanked Jay for teaching me how to shoot.

“You’re not taught yet,” he said. “Not even close.”

Not taught, but not ignorant.

How connected?

I went to see Dave Matthews Band at the Gorge Amphitheater in Quincy, Wash., this weekend with my friend Kyle and his girlfriend. I’ve dreamed about going to this venue ever since falling in love with the band at SPAC (in Saratoga, NY) in high school.

The Gorge is everything I ever could have thought. It looks down into this wide open canyon and the stage seems entirely out of place. In a DVD, Dave Matthews actually says something to the effect of “I feel bad making noise in such a beautiful place.”

I wish I had pictures, but I forgot to put the battery back in my camera after charging it. I’m an idiot when it comes to that kind of stuff. Sorry. (These pictures from the Web will have to suffice.)

We went for two nights and sat on the lawn on Saturday and in the orchestra on Sunday. From the lawn, you can’t really see the band all that well. You can make out the figures on the stage, but mostly you just watch the big screens if you want to see what’s going on.

That got me thinking: How close are you to the band when sitting on the lawn? I don’t mean physically. I mean, how connected are you to them? Sure, they are in the same proximity and you can tell that they are standing there. But you couldn’t even be 100 percent positive that Dave Matthews is in fact the man at the center of the stage.

I started to compare this sensation of doubt to Twittering. Dave Matthews has a Twitter account and fans can send messages to him, which he actually responds to. I tried this a few weeks ago. No response. Still, he responds sometimes. Obviously, Dave might not actually be the one Twittering on his account. But if I believe he is, which I do, and if I were to receive a response from him, how connected to Dave would I be after getting the response? Would I be more connected to him by exchanging messages on a Web site or looking at a shadowy version of him from atop some hill in Washington state? I’m really not sure.

A few weeks ago, USA Today released a poll saying people use social networking sites for narcissistic purposes. Duh! Social networking is a form of constant communication and isn’t most communication somewhat narcissistic? Someone is usually sharing something about themselves when communicating, which focuses the attention on that person.

The question really is how connected do you feel to someone you communicate with via social networking? Obsessive tweeters are dubbed over-sharers for a reason, aren’t they? What do status updates and bulletins reveal? Sometimes the connection feels really personal. But then you realize that a million people could be reading that same message, even if it is directed toward you.

So what about that connection from the lawn? How connected can you be to the dark figure playing his music under the night sky? Even when you hear the intro to the song, the one you’ve always wanted to hear live, start and feel like it is being played for your benefit, the rest of the crowd screams, too. All connected? Or all equally distant?

Friendly visit

I was taking a break from writing when I saw these guys munching on some apples outside my back window. Also, you should now be able to access some stuff I have written recently for the paper. I got my admin powers back on the Web site. Some of you have been wondering about those football pictures. You can read the story on the Web site. It's called "Only bees play football."

Weathering the storm

I was sitting by the river the other night reading when I was startled by my neighbor climbing up the steep bank.

“I didn’t know you could get down to the river that way,” I yelled.

“Jeeze. You startled the old man. Shit I almost rolled right back down this sumbitch.”

Surprisingly, this started a conversation. He grew up in Missoula and considers it the “big city.” (It has a population of about 50,000.) He said he wanted to get away from the “big city” because he doesn’t like being around so many people. Then I asked him what he likes about Superior.

“People are friendly.”

That’s what I find so odd. So many people in Superior claim to like the small town because it allows them to escape people. But then they say they enjoy the small town because the people are so nice.

Cities do present an interesting dynamic. It’s amazing how much easier it is to feel lonely in a big city. You’re surrounded by everyone but connected to no one. In Superior, I wave to everyone I see whether I know them or not. That’s just the way it is. I have to do it. It’s bad enough that I still have New York plates.

But I don’t quite get why these people in Superior, who claim they like not having to be around people, love the fact that they have nice interactions with people. Can anyone explain this? It fascinates me.

In other interaction news, I met a woman in a laundry mat. Not like it sounds. She was gray haired. We started to have a nice conversation, though. That is, until it turned to politics.

She started bashing Obama’s healthcare plan. I didn’t ask her if she relies on Medicare, but I was prepared to. I’m so sick of the misinformation that is out there and I was absolutely prepared to try to give her some of the facts. But as soon as I started to do so, she started talking about the weather.

I’m aware that people use weather as a neutral topic of conversation, but I’ve never been in a conversation that turned so benign so quickly. I guess some people just aren’t looking for storms.

Comments welcome,
Andrew