In the past three years, passenger traffic has increased by 28% , according to the airport, which attributes much of the increase to non-stop service to Portland, OR, Los Angeles, Phoenix-Mesa and New York/Newark.

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Kathleen Clary Miller has written 300+ columns and stories for periodicals both local and national, and has authored three books (www.amazon.com/author/millerkathleenclary). She lives in the woods of the Ninemile Valley, thirty miles west of Missoula.

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       When I was a small child, what my father wanted was for me to dance with him. My mother was no dancer and so he would put a nickel in our very own Wurlitzer jukebox and ask me to “step out” with him to “Moonlight Serenade.” I was shy, awkward, and unable to keep track of his feet. By the time I reached six or seven, I declined his request in order to save myself from the uncomfortable moment.

       What my father wanted was to eat fruit while he stood at the kitchen sink without comment from my mother. He liked to lean over the drain with grapefruit juice dripping from his chin. “You’re making such a mess, Bill,” Mama would grumble. “Can’t you get a plate and eat it with a fork?”

“All I want is to save you having to do any dishes!” he would tease.

        For as long as I can remember, what my father wanted was for his children and grandchildren never to have to worry about the future. He set aside money for everyone’s education—preschool through college. It wasn’t until much later in adulthood that I learned from my mother of his coming home late in the evening, after we were safely tucked under the covers, to inform her of near bankruptcy disasters. Whatever part of financial and emotional security he could control he labored at so that we in every branch of this extensive, Irish-American family tree could grow up calm and unafraid in the face of life’s unwelcome windstorms.

            What my father wanted, and what he got, was to make my mother happy. He bought her the sofa we still have, shoes, and station wagons. He made sure she had seats at every Dodger game in Chavez Ravine. He gave her more love than I’ve ever seen a man shower on a woman. All he ever asked of her was forgiveness for some sin that he would never confess to me—not even after we had been living together as adults for twelve years after her death, and sat long hours at the dinner table talking about old times, old friends, and old foibles. All he would reveal, with a catch in his throat, is that she had forgiven him for something and consequently he had wanted for nothing.

            What my father wanted was his own woodshop so he wouldn’t have to pursue his passion for building furniture from the usual cluttered two-car garage. This dream he finally realized when he moved into the house with me and my daughters—a trade-off, however, for having been left a widower. What he’d wanted more than anything was for his true love to have lived forever. Her illness had been the first thing he could not fix.

            What my father wanted was for us all to have whatever furniture we needed for our homes. He would put out the word, “I’m ready for a project,” and the phone lines would buzz with requests for coffee tables, bed frames, lamps, or dining room sets. In record time, he would measure, hammer, and fashion stunning pieces he considered flawed. “Don’t look too closely,” he would always admonish as we gaped in awe at his artistry. Most of us in his family have never known the cost of a chair or a bedside table.

          What my father wanted was to understand why I had not confided in him about my fourteen years of unhappy marriage, another thing he could not mend. “I could have helped you,” he pleaded. He always wanted to repair the hopelessly broken, to epoxy what otherwise lay in pieces.

            What my father wanted was for his friends to live as long as he has. One by one, they all had passed away, the last one having been his childhood best one. When they were ten they terrorized West Hollywood. When they were twenty, they both fell in love with my mother. They celebrated my father’s twenty-first birthday in Paris, having bicycled across Europe—two lanky kids with bony knees. Zock took his own life last year, after telling my father that his dementia would drive him to do so. My father wanted him to do whatever it was he needed, even though that meant never seeing him again.

            What my father wanted was to take care of all of us. What he wanted more than anything was to be useful, always. Once he turned eighty-nine and began to realize he could no longer stand in his shop, instead he sat with medical experts, estate attorneys, and financial consultants. What he wanted was always to have the answers, or “at least the questions,” as he would say. Instead, the doctors told him that he had Alzheimer’s, took away his car keys, and prescribed more medications. What my father wanted then was for all those pills to obliterate the emotional pain.

            What my father wanted was never to have to go to “one of those places.” Then he was living in one, after I tried everything in my power to keep him at home with me. When I went to visit him, he thought we were on vacation and that I was down the hall in my own “accommodations.” A fleeting look of agony washed over his eyes and betrayed confusion—he was back!

            But no; all my father wanted to tell me was that he didn’t have enough money in his pocket to tip the help. One week later, he forgot who I was. I had, in a sense, offered him what he had once given me: a life, albeit one in a new world not of his choosing, but of his diseased mind’s making. It was a world in which he was sometimes relaxed, not agitated like he had been in this one. It was a world in which I could not join him.

             Before we left to drive there, as he struggled so painfully to stay rooted in this life that was growing less and less familiar with each passing moment, what my father wanted was to know that I would be the same without him. It was the only thing he had ever asked of me, and yet I could not give my father what he wanted.

The Rainbow Family Gatherins is taking place somewhere in Montana next month.

Four years ago, the trees on Larry Lipson’s property in western Montana began to die. Not just one or two, but 10,000 of them. The culprit was the mountain pine beetle, which has ravaged 23 million acres of forests in the United States since 2000.  More>>>

New York Times

In just two days, the Montana US Highway 2 Yard Sale begins. But you can hardly call it a "yard sale," seeing as it stretches nearly 90 miles from Happy's Inn, in Libby, all the way along Highway 2 to the Idaho border.

KBZK TV

 Brian D'Ambrosio is a writer/editor living in Missoula, Montana. D'Ambrosio is the author of more than 300 articles and five books related to Montana history, people, and travel.

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Lost wax casting. Synclastic raising. Anticlasting raising. Hollow construction.  Haddon Hufford speaks the vernacular of the silversmith with a lexicon centuries old. Common terms: annealing, engraving, chasing, planishing, polishing, raising, repoussage, sinking and soldering. 

Spend a few hours with Hufford in his quiet, rustic Frenchtown home and studio and his encyclopedic knowledge of the craft makes you feel badly uninstructed. With a rough-hewn scholarliness, Hufford explains that ‘annealing’ is when metal is heated for altering. ‘Planishing’ is the act of using a highly polished hammering to refine metal surfaces. ‘Raising’ shapes a hollow form in the metal. 

Hufford is the consummate teacher, sharing definitions and histories with thoughtful regularity. One minute he could be discussing the colonial artistry of Paul Revere, and his “first copper rolling mill”. The next, he describes how to imprint and texture a design into metal.  From there, there is talk of sinking (hammering the metal to create a concave hemispherical shape), and soldering (connecting metal with a low temperature heat). Hufford’s sentences are not haphazard slivers of verbiage, but more like authoritative pronouncements.  

“Silversmithing in many ways is the forcing of metal into new directions, directions it may not wish to go,” says Hufford. Looking at Hufford’s work, you glimpse silversmithing’s ancient endearment, intense difficulty, and unique beauty in a single handsome piece. On one table stands a pair of sterling silver candlesticks, with a long tapered, hammered stem, and a spiked candle holder. Contemporary candelabras, its finish both hammered and polished, with a ball and jutting arms for tapered candles. Hufford’s craftsmanship articulates the flurry and force of a man who pays stout attention to details. 

Many of the tools used in ancient times are still used by modern silversmiths. Ancient tools Hufford finds familiar include tongs, hammer, anvil, engraving burins, small mallets, large scales, weights, and blow pipes. Hufford’s studio walls are lined and stacked with dozens of different shaped hammers and mallets, each with its own distinct impression. Also displayed in his shop are specialized hammers, anvils, and metal working stakes, many of which are hand-made. 

Tools alone are simply tools. It’s the craftsman who breathes creative life into them, who understands their purpose, perpetuates their methods. There is something revelatory in seeing the two together, an almost Pentecostal feeling of seeing in tongues. Hufford says that each hammer’s shape and style leaves its own distinction. Mental conditioning is important, too. Metal moves at such a leisurely pace; hammers slowly form their outcome.

Arms tire and the mind needs to be attentive to the body’s needs. It is written that sometime in the Middle Ages a rift between goldsmith and silversmith took place. Silver was plentiful, less costly than gold. Individuals starting out could not afford gold as their working medium. Goldsmiths became highly revered. They often served as the local banker, whereas the silversmith took the goldsmith’s training and began a new trade commodity.

Hufford’s art is the continuance of that split. Hufford has lived in the woodsy hills of Missoula Valley since 2006. He was born and raised in New York's Hudson River Valley, studied graphic design at Parsons School of Design in Manhattan, before serving in Vietnam as a combat cameraman in the Army's 1st Air Cavalry Division, from 1969-71. Hufford then trotted the globe in the subsequent twenty-eight years, working in the film industry as a dolly and crane grip and set builder (he worked on at least 75 films). 

His journey into metalsmithing began serendipitously on a trip through Argentina in 1996. In a tiny village on the Pampas, Hufford visited a silversmith's workshop and become fascinated. Wonder is a measure of what this world is all about. In that South American shop, Hufford learned that wonder could be an antidote to the chaos of the world.  

“There were three silversmiths in town,” says Hufford. “One of them invited me in to his studio. It was a powerful and exciting exhibition. I came home and I got started.” Sterling is his material of choice because of its inherent beauty and value; it requires Zen-like endurance forming and forging noble metal. Hufford says, "I know that the blow from the smith's hammer is directly related to the heart beat and rhythm of life itself. 

There are times in the solitude of my studio when hand and hammer become one and the repetition of the overlapping blows brings me to the point of meditation."

Techniques used to join silver together include welding, soldering and brazing. Hufford’s silversmithing incorporates the skills he obtained in the workshops and homes of craftsmen across the world, an Irish metalsmith, a Bulgarian silversmith, a New York jeweler. A desire to follow an abiding sense of curiosity opened up an entire new world of shape, form, and creation. Some of his forms are common finely metal-smithed forms: letter openers, candelabras, goblets, and vessels. Each hand-wrought piece that Hufford forms is original, masculine, and ordinarily geometric, and he is proud to have not once duplicated an object.  

All of Hufford's work is either created on commission or sent to Lauren Stanley American Silver gallery in New York City. No matter where they go from there, they will remain fragments of Hufford’s experience, accounts of his spiritual and artistic growth.

Silversmithing, like life, allows for the possibilities of transformation, a daily opportunity for Hufford to experience the vigor of the everyday. Its enduring link to man’s innate desire to shape and create something eye-catching isn’t lost on Hufford. “Silversmithing goes in and out of vogue,” says Hufford. “But I think that silver has, and always will, connect to people. Think about it, candlelight, a glass of wine, a great dinner, and silver, hand-wrought candleholders. That says it all.”

The Black Horse Shootists weren’t actually going after the Conrad Gang on Sunday morning. It was one of the many scenarios they used in their monthly single action shooting matches at the Great Falls Shooting Sports Complex. The eight shooters had their guns, their 1890 attire and their aliases, ready to compete.

Great Falls Tribune

A small earthquake was recorded near West Yellowstone this week.

The magnitude 3.3 quake was about 32 kilometers west/northwest of West Yellowstone, according to the USGS website. It happened at around midnight Wednesday.

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