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Now that I find myself a real housewife of Huson, I join the ranks of those who n instead of appearing on reality TV shows to gripe about shoe-shopping, plastic surgery and wayward husbands n have actual work to do.



Watch a video of Kathleen Clary Miller reading her column.

As I drive along Nine Mile Road from Missoula, where we rented while David Edgell expertly crafted our home in the woods, I see it all around me n women doing the work of men n labor that is actuality, but realistically will never rate a prime-time television slot. One such homemaker beats rugs over the back porch rail; another tends her astonishing shock of lavender high above her front fence n grape-colored eye candy for anyone who comes to the corner at Conifer. A horse whisperer wipes her perspiring brow with the back of her hand; her ranch clothes are covered with dust as the mount circles its corral. The sun is high; there’s work to be done in the country.

These are purposeful women, like Eleanor, who co-ordinates the Ninemile Wildlife Workgroup; Linda, who tends to her grandchildren, this generosity enabling her daughter to pursue a degree at the university. Jane commutes to town, where she works at the newspaper, in between caring for her elderly mother and ailing brother. Such women, worthy of the highest esteem, are everywhere these days, I recognize. “Caretaker” has become Ms. Mid-life’s middle name. It’s not as glamorous as a Hollywood marquee, her starring role in lights, but it’s more rewarding when day is done.

My new route offers me scenic opportunities. In Missoula, I cherished the view from the “M” as I gasped to catch my breath not only from the climb, but also for the sheer scope of what lay at my feet. I could easily orchestrate a Clark Fork River crossing smack dab in the middle of mundane errands, drop by Bernice’s for a bakery reward or Hob Nob to nibble fresh sweet potato fries. Mid-afternoon, I confess, often found me at Posh Chocolat for a hit of the hard stuff n dark truffles and the accompanying French press coffee.

Now that I bundle and bustle through necessary stops on just one day a week to save gasoline guzzling trips to town, before I hit the highway east from Huson, I plan my labor-intensive itinerary at the breakfast table of Miller’s Outpost. That way, I can work swiftly and efficiently on the circuit. Successful and coming home, I exit at the 85 off-ramp, where I slow my pace.

These are a few of my favorite things: Who hasn’t dreamed of collecting daily mail at a place like the Huson Mercantile? Cowboy boots serve as vases to daisies and geraniums on the steps leading up to the screen door that swings then slams to a cheerful greeting from Betty, Karen, or Jo. Right out of a scene from “Little House on the Prairie,” local folks gather to purchase a staple or unlock their post office box. Anybody get a package today? I walk away with the weather prediction, fresh eggs, and an invitation to learn how to make Betty’s candy n much better, she reassures with pat on my shoulder, than what that See’s Candy catalogue addressed to me has to offer.

I turn left onto the frontage road to Nine Mile, round the bend, and I am at the sign that reads, “Bill’s Hill n Population 3.” Bill’s front yard is every childhood dream realized: an entire miniature town blankets the lawn. His lifelike main street begs to be strolled: a saloon, emporium, city hall, church with steeple n it appears that Bill built it all, and I have come, my eyes wide and reflective of the memory of every discarded dollhouse, train station, and make-believe village I once tinkered with. It’s all I can do to stop from parking the car and trespassing. Someday, I promise myself as I pass, I will be bold, take cookies, and present myself at his front door in introduction. For now, the drive-by vision is quite enough to carry me forward to adult responsibility.

Just before I turn right up Whitetail Ridge, the wishing well in the valley on my left brings to mind my youngest daughter who wore her Snow White dress until she was engaged-and has just learned that she will teach first grade in the fall. Turns out that Disneyland purchase will continue to come in handy. I miss my girls; sigh as I head up the hill to Spotted Fawn Road. One is in Arizona and the other, New York City n like a dandelion, God has blown us to scatter in all directions; nothing stays the same.

But some things never change: The valley is an enchantment that I always, each and every time I pass it, stop to inhale, breathe deeply. Born a city girl, but a country one at heart, I shall not take this glory for granted. My daughters will come soon and as often as they are able, just to see about what I gaze and tell. They will travel a little farther up my road to find it is also their home, the last and very best place for their mother, a real housewife of Huson, to reach for them and someday their children, with open arms.

Kathleen Clary Miller is a writer who lives in Huson. Her column appears every other Friday on the Missoulian’s Opinion page.

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