Bison Burgers and Balsamroot
Mom loved to garden and had belonged to a garden club in her home town. Each year she made a point of taking the garden tour to view members’ horticultural wonders, so last spring Juan and I thought we’d take Mom to Butchart Gardens in Victoria, BC. We got online and showed Mom the lush flowers there, fully planning on going until it became apparent that Mom could not make such a long trip. By then she was easily confused and had trouble piecing together anything but simple thoughts. We felt the confusion generated by travel would be too hard on her.
So in lieu of going to Butchart, we decided to drive an hour and a half to the National Bison Range near Moiese, Montana, so she could see the Spring balsamroot bloom. When we heard the flowers were peaking we packed Mom up and headed out. On our way through Missoula we stopped to buy some garden fencing and the store kindly offered us complimentary bison burgers, an annual thank you to their customers. Juan wanted to decline but I thought it would be poetic for Mom to eat a bison burger on our way to the Bison Range. The irony of eating bison while going to a preserve whose intended mission was to prevent them from going extinct was lost on me...
We got burgers for Juan and Mom then drove on. While Juan fueled up the truck Mom sat in the front seat and started eating. I had forgotten that we had been cutting Mom’s food into small pieces because she had trouble swallowing but I was quickly reminded of that fact when I heard something drop on the floor up front, then a splash and thud and a strangling sound coming from Mom.
I jumped out of the truck, opened Mom’s door, saw her red face and nose running and her lunch spewed on the floor. I asked Mom if she could breath and when she shook her head “no,” I unlatched her seatbelt and tried to pull her out of the truck but couldn’t budge her. I hollered for Juan and he darted around the truck, hauled Mom out with one swoop, and did the Heimlich maneuver on her. Mom’s face was pinched and panic stricken. Finally after Juan had pulled his fist up and under her sternum several times she started breathing, at which point she told Juan to “just stop!” then she sank into his big-armed embrace. I wheeled Mom into the gas station bathroom and she threw up for an hour as her body continued purging the last bits of burger. When I rolled her out we turned tail and headed back home. Poor thing! We had sure provided her with a memorable Montana experience!
But several days later some friends called to tell us the balsamroot were spectacular. Juan and I exchanged looks – “do we really want to go through that again?” But we knew this might be Mom's last opportunity to see this phenomenon so we packed ourselves up and headed to the Bison Range. This time we made no stops along the way.
The land glowed with huge clusters of flowers. No matter which direction we looked the hills were laden with blossoms. We wheeled Mom along a path to give her the full effect and she just sat there looking uphill and then downhill, every curve of the earth cloaked in yellow. No matter how much I was moved by the scene before me, I realized there was a chance Mom would not be inspired.
She was from New England where plants crawl up and over each other with abandon, unhindered by the need to conserve water or energy for hot, dry summer months ahead. She might not get the beauty of this arid, yet prolific, land cloaked with brilliant sun-colored flowers interlaced with inky blue delphinium, pink prairie stars, lacy yellow lomatium, and the ever-present bunchgrass bundled into its deep-rooted, water-efficient clumps.
But several days later some friends called to tell us the balsamroot were spectacular. Juan and I exchanged looks – “do we really want to go through that again?” But we knew this might be Mom's last opportunity to see this phenomenon so we packed ourselves up and headed to the Bison Range. This time we made no stops along the way.
The land glowed with huge clusters of flowers. No matter which direction we looked the hills were laden with blossoms. We wheeled Mom along a path to give her the full effect and she just sat there looking uphill and then downhill, every curve of the earth cloaked in yellow. No matter how much I was moved by the scene before me, I realized there was a chance Mom would not be inspired.
She was from New England where plants crawl up and over each other with abandon, unhindered by the need to conserve water or energy for hot, dry summer months ahead. She might not get the beauty of this arid, yet prolific, land cloaked with brilliant sun-colored flowers interlaced with inky blue delphinium, pink prairie stars, lacy yellow lomatium, and the ever-present bunchgrass bundled into its deep-rooted, water-efficient clumps.
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But that evening when I tucked Mom in bed she grabbed my hand and thanked me saying, “I loved the balsamroot more than I would have ever loved the Butchart Gardens because they are wild. I have never seen the earth create so many flowers! It was hard to believe. I am so happy to have seen that.”
I was shocked that Mom could muster up such clarity and was delighted that she was able to express it. Relieved that our “Montana experience” had given her the joy we had hoped it would, I kissed Mom goodnight. http://bigguys.zenfolio.com/p786714363 |
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