My journalism journey, part 3

Heading to Montana

Moving to Montana, so far from family and friends, was a big step for me. My dad always called me the family gypsy, in a loving way. I think I was doing things he always wanted to do. When I told him about the interview and possible job in Montana, he said that when he told his mother he was moving the family "all the way to Franklin Park" from Chicago, she was nearly hysterical. And that was about 15 miles. I knew my mom would be just as upset at my move, which is why I didn't tell her until I got the job.

When I got back Monday from Montana after the unplanned stopover in Denver, I called mom to tell her about the job. She said "how are you going to get there?" Well, drive, of course. I told her the employer was giving me some money once I got out there to help with moving expenses. I was told later she was very upset when I called her; I had called her at work.

I sold all my furniture and most of my other big stuff like my bike. The day I planned to leave, we had a big snowstorm with about a foot of snow. So I waited a day. While I waited, I thought about how I was going to pack my car. I lived in a second-floor apartment on Main Street in Algonquin, Ill., above Vito Buffalo's Butcher Shop. There were quite a few stairs to climb. I was 28 then but still didn't have great knees and I was quite overweight and out of shape. The next day, after the snow stopped, I called one of the photographers at the Cardunal Free Press Daily Herald (which is what our newspaper was now called) to help me. Kurt Butcher said he would, and came over at about 11 a.m. and helped me take stuff down to my car and load it. Kurt was one of the nicest guys at the paper; all of our crew was. We had a good bunch of people at that paper and I remember how much of a family we were: Ken Veloskey, Brenda Webb, Rich Klic****n Dunwoody, Tom Mulhern, Greg Ives, Steve Metsch, Sig Bokalders, Kathy Gorenz, Pat Bombard, Joe Kusek ... if I've forgotten someone, I'm sorry, but memory fades after all these years.

The car packed and the apartment emptied, I hit the road from Algonquin about 2 p.m. Later than I wanted, but I was on the way to Montana. My mom made me promise to call her along the way to tell her I was OK. We had a code: I would call collect every night and she wouldn't accept the charges until I got to Anaconda.

Snow followed me along the way and I had a headache most of the time. I'm sure it was stress. It was dark by the time I got to Austin, Minn., so I stopped for the night at a motel and let mom know I was OK.

The next morning, I hit the road on I-90 to continue on the road. Again, there was snow. The Ford Escort wagon I had bought that year wasn't happy climbing the small hills going into South Dakota. I got to Sturgis, S.D., that night by the time it was dark and stopped for the night. The 1,500-mile trip was taking longer than I expecting. When I went back later, it would only take two days.

From Sturgis, I continued onward to Anaconda into real mountains: the Rockies. When I had to go over the high passes, my little 4-cylinder car just groaned. I was a flatlander, a woman who grew up in the Chicago suburbs. I had never seen mountains before. What did I know about driving in them? When I got to Anaconda and told my new coworkers about this, they laughed and said, "Why didn't you gear down?" Gee, I wish I knew.

That final night, I came over the passes into Butte in the snow, over into Anaconda, with the big smelter smokestack in view. The stack no longer spewed smoke, but it was the sign of the city's heritage. I got to the town that night and stayed in a small motel before contacting my new employer the next day.

I was in Montana. It was a long trip, a big adventure. I was in a new space, away from everything I knew, everyone I knew. I was on my own for the first time in my life.

Now the fun really would begin.

Looking forward to reading Part4. I'm not on Facebook.

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