During my final semester at college 20 years ago, I created memories that remain so indelible I couldn’t forget them if I tried, while other details from that period elude me so completely that I question their veracity. But there’s one faithful narrative I like to recount every June, right around graduation day, and since it’s a story that witnesses have triple-corroborated, I’ll record it here for posterity.
On the morning of graduation day, when my family arrived at my home on the edge of the University of Montana campus to escort me to the commencement proceedings, I was running late. I’d dutifully donned my mortarboard cap, but its corresponding gown was still hanging in the hallway bathroom. The shower was on full blast, a vapor cloud of steam venting from beneath the door sill as I employed a de-wrinkling strategy my father had shared with me in a hushed whisper, as though it were a trade secret of slovenly young men. Tugging at the hem of the starched, accordion-shaped garment, I desperately hoped the shower hack would be a sufficient substitution for an iron, an appliance I’d never considered owning.
Waiting on a tattered couch in the living room, my father read aloud from the daily newspaper he’d snatched off the door mat, which featured a front-page story by yours truly.
“Unleashed Pooch Earns Governor a Warning from Missoula Police,” I heard my father say as he recited the headline above a news story about a former Montana dignitary who, while in town to deliver a commencement speech, had run afoul of the local leash ordinance. Not only had I, as the local newspaper’s newly minted cops-and-courts reporter, covered the minor offense, but we’d splashed the news across the front page under a mugshot of the offending pooch, a border collie called Jag. As I pulled my gown on over my head, I watched my father raise an eyebrow and shoot me a mischievous glance over the frames of his glasses.
With my phalanx of family members in tow, we’d hardly made it across The Oval’s emerald expanse when I heard the booming of a familiar voice. “Well, Mr. Scott, I suppose I’d rather have you going after my dog than going after me. Is this your family? I’d love to meet them.”
I’ve never seen my father prouder than when he shook the governor’s hand that morning, and I’ve never seen a brighter shade of red than the one I imagine my face registering as I followed the governor to the auditorium.
Since then, I’ve published thousands of stories, and I’ve forgotten hundreds of them. But the thrill of gathering the thread of information and then unspooling the narrative for readers has never diminished. Indeed, the excitement has only grown.
In the waning days of the Flathead Valley’s most recent school year, I attended a high school creative writing class as a guest speaker. It was delightful to visit with students who were preparing for their own exciting graduation days. As preparation for class, they’d all read the most recent edition of Flathead Living magazine, and they marveled at how many stories they didn’t know existed in their hometown. More importantly, as young people contemplating their futures, they wanted to know how I’d come to be a writer and editor, and what advice I had for young people with similar ambitions.
Staring back at the two-dozen shapes preparing to enter the real world, where they would defend our liberty and sustain our hope, I didn’t know what advice to impart.
So, I told them a story.
Many thanks for reading,
Tristan Scott | Managing Editor
Flathead Living
Editor’s note: The summer edition of Flathead Living magazine is now available on newsstands across the valley.