Kathleen Clary Miller has written 300+ columns and stories for periodicals both local and national, and has authored three books. She lives in the woods of the Ninemile Valley, thirty miles west of Missoula.
Last Sunday the Missoula Symphony Orchestra performed their annual miracle at the free concert in Caras Park. Downtown Missoula is hopping every year on this particular occasion: Around 6,000 people blanket the knolls along the Clark Fork River. They languish in lawn chairs, picnic from their own baskets or local vendors provided.
I don’t wish to appear uncultured, but I go for the ice cream. Not to diminish the quality of the music; it is without fail stunning, every year. It’s just that my dinner every year is the Big Dipper’s flavor tailor made for the occasion, then gone forever…until next year: Bacch o’latte. I have dreams about it long after the music fades. I fast all afternoon in anticipation of my glutinous enterprise.
Last year I consumed six (yes, that number was 6) scoops, until my molars hurt and my husband was embarrassed for me when I walked up to the counter to order—again. This year I was far more censorious and stopped myself after two.
On our first night in Missoula, eight years ago, knowing not a single soul in the state of Montana, we spied a poster for the concert and having vowed to say yes to everything so we would meet people, took at seat. I wrote a column about the first experience in my retirement “home town” for the newspaper and in the story commented on a conversation I’d overheard between two lovely ladies behind me.
“I’m going to dream about him!” one of them whispered referring to the young European orchestra conductor who had recently been acquired.
Soon after the column appeared I was introduced as a writer to a tall, striking and very attractive woman at a gathering at the University of Montana theatre. My name sounded in Caryl’s ears and she recognized me as the same writer who had quoted her companion’s remarks. Since that time, eight years ago, Caryl and I have been not only friends, but also the kind of friends you think you’ll never find once you’ve left home and started fresh in an unfamiliar place.
We tell our “story” to anyone who will listen, since we both recognize and wish to herald that good fortune is always in the air—in this case, musical. Chance is an opportunity if you take it, and invisibly, events are falling like dominoes into a place you cannot yet imagine. While facing forward to watch the performance yet also listening to the soft voices behind me, sweet serendipity held my hand.
Seems that while an orchestra was busy making music, I was making from a complete stranger, a new best friend.
And then, there is the ice cream.