Montana makes me feel like I'm home

We are staying at the Ponderosa motel in Missoula, MT. The woman that rented us the room had a slight mumble that reminded me of how close to home I really am. This part of the rockies is less impressive than the part that I am used to seeing but the sky is just as big here as it is in Wyoming. I guess that's why both states claim to be in "big sky country" as corny as that sounds. And it does, but it's true, so whatever. I'm just happy to feel like I recognize some of the landscape.

It's been difficult feeling so far away from home lately. My Yia Yia (grandmother) died on March 13th, while we were in Seattle. She has been in poor health since I was an adolescent, but it is still really hard to think of her being gone, especially since I haven't lived in the same town as her for so long. I moved, with my mom and gary (my other Dad), from Cheyenne when I was about 16 and I have only lived there "long term" for one summer since then.



My Yia Yia was such a great person. She moved to Wyoming from a fishing village in Greece in the 1940's when she was in her 20's. She moved with her new 60 year old husband, my grandfather, Blackie Kallas. I can't imagine the transition she must have gone through. But she went through it and became a strong woman in the Greek community of Cheyenne, WY. She ran the front counter of my family's restaurant, "Sto Cafe" as she still called it, for 40 years. Here are some pictures of what The Albany looks like now:







She raised my Uncles, Gus & Tasos, and my Dad, George, and encouraged and facilitated them going on to college, and kept her house full of good food--cooking and raising a garden and sometimes chickens. She taught my dad how to cook and he taught my sister, Maren, and me. She would take us to church and sneak us candy as we squirmed around during the services.



I remember her laughing at us as we layed under the benches and dropped hymnal and liturgy books. All the other Yia Yia's shook their heads in disapproval, but she didn't really care. She'd just handed us extra communion bread or tootsie rolls. I look a lot like her and, now, when I look in the mirror I think about that. I guess she's closer than I thought. I mean we have lots of the same DNA. Maybe that's weird to say.



More than DNA, though, obviously, my Yia Yia is a woman that I will always be able to relate to. While we both have had very different experiences with our family, our family is still the same. Our family happened because of her. We grew up in Cheyenne, WY, whether we started our lives there as children or young adults. It's home and the restaurant is still there. My family still owns the restaurant and her house. My uncle still lives in her house above the garage even though the rest of it is rented out to another family. I joke that I'm a "prarie pirate" and that I'm a "High Plains Lady"--but I'm not really joking. I'm really connected to the slightly undulating, mostly brown or gold plains that stretch out from any side of the small town I grew up in.



I'm connected to the train tracks that come into the yard right next to The Albany and to the over pass that crosses them to get to the south side of Cheyenne. I'm connected to Holiday Park, Alta Vista Elementary, 1815 Seymour Ave, Hawthorne Drive, and Gardenia Drive. I'm connected to them in lots of ways, not only because I've stared at them so many times from different angles and at different times in my life, but also because my family has too. I suppose I shouldn't be so nostalgic about this stuff, but it's hard not to when I'm listening to a train pass by our hotel and out the window I can see a bare, golden hill looking out across the big sky.