Moriah's Valley: A Place of Healing in a Time of Mourning

By Paul Krebill

A sociologist on research assignment, comes to southcentral Montana, to examine population changes in rural Montana, and to observe the social effects of such transitions. Thus begins the odyssey which will radically change his life. While observing the emotional impacts of these population changes, Jim Alden finds healing for his own personal sorrow in the valley to which Sister Moriah had brought healing of body and soul years earlier. He not only finds himself caught up in the human stories of Moriahs Valley, but also in a growing relationship with a woman whose home is in Moriahs Valley.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 12, 2003
• ISBN: 9781453582978

Paul Krebill

Paul Krebill grew up on the west side of Chicago and in the adjoining suburb of Oak Park. He was educated in the Chicago area, obtaining degrees from Elmhurst College and McCormick Theological Seminary. He served as a pastor of churches in Wyoming, Montana, and New Zealand, as well as on the campus of Montana State University and in hospital chaplaincy in Billings, Montana. In retirement he has been writing for publication as well as designing and creating stained glass. He and his wife, Doris, live in Bozeman, Montana.

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PROLOGUE

Traffic had thinned out by the time Jim Alden reached his exit off of I-90. He’d left the campus at Pullman, Washington in the early morning hours, and now it was supper time as he made his way southward toward the nearby mountains following the curves of a narrow state road.

This excursion to south-central Montana certainly had not been in Dr. Alden’s summer plans when he had walked into the office of his department chair. He’d much rather have remained on the Palouse in eastern Washington, his home.

I’ve asked you in, Jim, to have you consider a research assignment, as part of your work toward tenure, he began. As you know the Rural Sociology Department has an ongoing interest in population trends in rural communities. With my most recent grant I am studying population trends in rural Montana. But with a recent expansion of administrative duties in connection with my work as chair of the department, I could surely use some help in the on-site data collection needed this year. Most of the work on this has been done, but there is one on-site study I need, and I believe you could be of great help if you were to travel to one particular region to conduct interviews. This would be in Sweet Grass county. I should think it would take you a couple of weeks at the most. As an afterthought he explained. There aren’t that many people there.

Jim Alden accepted this assignment which his department chair then explained in more detail. As a sociologist Alden was well aware of the history of declining population in rural areas of the West, and aware also of a recent reversal of that trend in the more scenic mountain regions. People were moving into small towns in the West-retirees, well-to-do persons seeking second homes, or professionals with the technology to work wherever they please and yet to be in contact with their home offices elsewhere. Many individuals were coming without jobs hoping to find work, often with little success—people who had pulled up stakes to move into western areas because they were drawn to the scenery or to recreation opportunities. Some because life had not been good to them back home in New Jersey or Ohio—or wherever. Jim was also aware that because the racial make-up of Montana did not as yet include a significant black or Asian population, he himself as a person of northern European descent would fit in as the locals would probably say. Native American and Hispanic segments of the population in Montana he knew to be mainly in certain areas of the state some distance from the county in which he would be working.

Jim was advised that both the out-migration and the in-migration would be the focus of the proposed study. After explaining in some detail the assignment, Dr. Alden’s boss added, And I think this trip would do you good, Jim, considering … .

He was reluctant to say more, but he knew Jim would understand what he meant. This was more than just another assignment. It was an attempt on his part to do something helpful for his new faculty member. How could Jim have answered otherwise than positively?

And so here it was a month later and Dr. James Alden of the Rural Sociology Department of Washington State University found himself driving across southern Montana. He would find that his department chair’s hidden agenda would emerge as a most personally significant result of Jim Alden’s Montana odyssey.

The two lane state highway was dappled with asphalt patches making the ride rough. The condition of the pavement slowed Jim down considerably as his university car twisted and turned along the Boulder River to his destination: Wylton, Montana. Beside the Boulder, this little berg, as Jim thought of it, lay nestled in the valley which the river had carved into the mountains millions of years ago. Jim would learn as his study progressed that Wylton and the region south of it had been lovingly dubbed Moriah’s Valley.

Once a sacred place of healing to which nearby native inhabitants for centuries had come to gain physical and spiritual renewal, the valley was now becoming prime real estate for modern day refugees from urban America seeking a second chance—healing of sorts. Prior to this modern land rush, however—since the earliest decades of the twentieth century—this region was home for a few descendants of pioneers who had come west to take up homesteads here in this verdant valley in the high country during the late nineteenth century.

Jim Alden had planned his arrival in time for the annual multi-class high school reunion. The honored class this year would be the class of 1970, celebrating its twentieth anniversary. Coincidentally 1970 was Jim Alden’s graduating year as well. Former students from a wide assortment of other classes would return as well. His plan was to visit with the returned alumni during the reunion, and later to interview other members of their families who had continued to live in Wylton. However, it would soon become clear to this researcher that if he wanted to do justice to the lives of the people he had come to study, much more time would be needed. He came to realize that he would need to live among the folk to get to know them personally.

As it turned out, Alden spent the entire summer in Wylton, though he had not intended or wanted to. But he would become as much a part of the community as any outsider could. And to his surprise, when it came time to leave, it would be with regret, and his departure would be only temporary. He would come back to Moriah’s Valley—more than once.

As a sociologist Jim Alden was interested in what was happening to people whose family members and friends were moving away, and who at the same time were having to adjust to strange new neighbors moving into Wylton from other places across the country. Before his project was over the stories of real people in the real world of Wylton, Montana and the valley beyond it would emerge.

Dr. Alden’s research would surely yield a significant contribution to a report which would be carried in an appropriate professional journal. As for romanticizing country life—such a journal article would not! However, as Jim became acquainted with the people of Wylton, and as he grew to know their stories, a narrative would begin to take shape in his mind which would give a living account of this valley, more personal than what the research report could provide. This narrative would become a feature article for the popular press, most likely carried by one of those cozy country magazines which boosts old fashioned rural values even though Alden’s article would most likely show that such a scene is fading.

Furthermore, without his anticipating it, two stories would emerge side by side during his summer research project in Wylton, Montana. One, of course, was the account of the people of Moriah’s Valley. The other was Jim’s own story—the story of his healing after mourning. These personal reflections he would be recording on the pages of his own journal. Among his entries was this explanation:

The more I pondered my own life as well as the lives of people in Moriah’s Valley, the more I realized that my own personal story was what my department chair most wanted me to pursue. For he is a kindly man, an elder in his church in Pullman. Near retirement, he was loved by generations of students, and highly respected by those of us who are faculty members in his department. While he is an excellent teacher and researcher in his specialty of demographics, as well as a fair and effective administrator, what really sets him apart is his soft side. He cares deeply about the well being of those around him. It was my unconscious response to his sensitive caring that I am feeling as I try to record something of my own story on these pages.

Thus, Jim Alden’s Montana odyssey began—and the saga he would write began to emerge. These were the stories of the people of Wylton and of Moriah’s Valley, some in mourning—and others who were being healed. Jim himself would be one of those to find healing in the isolation of an otherwise unknown town in Montana nestled in a river valley between the mountains on the northern edge of the Yellowstone plateau. A valley in which there was mourning over the loss of neighbors and loved ones. A valley which had been a sacred place of healing for the ancient people who had roamed the continent in centuries past, and a place of healing for people today as well—and healing for Dr. James Alden.

Jim Alden would return to Pullman some months later in September. When Alden drove north out of Wylton, for what he feared would be the last time, it was as if he too were leaving the place of his origin as had countless numbers of others who had mournfully been forced to leave Wylton and Moriah’s Valley over the years. Moriah’s Valley—a place of healing in a time of mourning.

CHAPTER 1

For everything there is a season … a time to mourn … and a time to heal… .

(From Ecclesiastes 3)

The drive southward brought me into an area known to those who live there as Moriah’s Valley. At the end of another day in the valley the sun would soon descend behind the valley’s western mountain wall. Thus dusk would come to Wylton, deepening the isolation of its residents. Nightfall and the town would be buttoning up, rolling up its sidewalks for its inhabitants to sleep until another morning. This was the time of day many active young teenagers became most impatient with the town’s slow pace. Some would decide to escape the limited opportunities they found there as soon as they could. Spokane—Seattle—Missoula, or even Billings. These were places of perceived excitement and promise always beckoning, their seduction increasing at dusk.

The road into Wylton from the north approaches the town from the crest of a hill, after which it curves its way downward onto the valley floor. From there it approaches Wylton and passes buildings on the north edge of town—the Ford garage on the right and the McDowell Lumber yard on the left. A 35 MPH speed limit is posted at the foot of the hill, changing to 25 MPH just beyond the lumber yard and remaining in force for the three block length of Wylton’s Main Street.

The first block on Main Street is lined with store fronts, some of which by this time were obviously vacant and abandoned. One had been a dry goods store. The name, ANTHONY’S was still on its facade above the empty and dusty display windows. Across the street had been a bank, next to which had been a GAMBLE’S appliance and house ware store, with its sign still in place. On this, my first drive through town, I noticed a drug store and a grocery which were still in business. I also noticed an old fashioned five and dime store which appeared to have been permanently closed. The next block south on Main Street was residential with a few small houses on each side of the street. Unkempt vacant lots were interspersed. On the south east corner of the second block stood an abandoned gas station of an older style, the way such places were before the dawn of self service and 7-11’s. Two dusty slender pumps stood idle with their glass tanks empty. The gas station was now closed—permanently. There remained, however, an obsolete and weathered sign offering regular gasoline for 39.9 cents per gallon.

I discovered later that parallel to Main Street to the east ran two residential streets, with the Community Church on one of the corners. Occupying much of the block north of the church was a large Victorian house. The other residences east of Main Street, though not as large and impressive, were substantial and seemed to be fairly well kept up. These two streets were paved for two blocks and provided curbs and sidewalks. A block further east is the location of the two school buildings for elementary and high school students.

To the west of Main street there was one unpaved street with a few small houses and a couple of house trailers. There were no curbs, thus allowing vehicles in various states of repair to be parked helter-skelter on the dirt or on the weedy lawns. Children’s trikes, wagons and other toys were strewn around most of the houses and older model mobile homes.

Later when I surveyed the town I smiled to myself as I observed the economic and class difference so clearly mapped out in this little town. Upper class business and professional folk to the east on paved streets with curbs. Lower class laborers to the west on gravel and dirt.

On the third and final block of Main, the street divides to accommodate a grassy median. An abandoned building occupies the median. On the west side are houses of moderate size. But on the east nothing remains. Only grass gone to weeds. It wasn’t evident at the time, but this empty block had once been the location of The Wylton Inn. Across from the inn on the median had been a small but bustling railroad station. The empty shell of a building remained—boarded up and surrounded by weeds. On later inspection up close I found a sign on the unused station with painted lettering almost washed away. It read Moriah Valley Line.

At the very south end of the median at a location before the lanes rejoined I saw a bronze statue still illuminated at night with a flood light. I saw that it depicted an army nurse attending a wounded soldier. Apparently World War I era. On a later visit I read the subscription at the base of the stature:

NURSE MORIAH OESTENER—THE BATTLE OF MEUSE—ARGONNE FRANCE—OCTOBER 1918

At the south end of Main beyond the divided portion of the street, one immediately passes the Mint Bar on the right. It was obviously still in business—typically thriving. Beyond that point one can return to 35 MPH until one passes the Conoco station a little further south where a country road turns to the east off of the main road. At that point there is a Resume Speed sign. Thus, those going on south to the mountains need only five minutes to hurry through town.

So much for Wylton’s three block business district and its two varied residential neighborhoods. When I first arrived that night I thought of this place as very small—of little account in the national scheme of things—known only to very few beyond this isolated valley in the northern Rockies. Nothing much to distinguish itself from countless other small towns across the country. Except perhaps that World War I statue. Yet here in this town and along this valley called Moriah’s Valley, I would discover, was the place in which the entire life spans of real people were being spent, each with its own particular and very personal story. This was home, the womb from which babies were born; the playground for children, and the corridor of reality through which teenagers struggle on their hazardous paths to adulthood. This was the town from which many had departed, some tearfully, others happily and hopefully. And strangely this was the place to which others had come in recent years in quest of a new life for themselves and for their families. Perhaps even for healing. I was to discover later that Moriah’s Valley had indeed been a place to which people from some distance had traveled—on pilgrimages, so to speak, with the hope of finding healing for body and soul. As had native tribes in bygone eras!

For some the road out of Wylton to the north was an escape route, the way out of the shackles of a small town and into the world beyond with its freedom and promise. This road had been taken by generations of Wylton’s sons and daughters. And it had been the way of mourning for those who had given up and moved away.

Ironically in the past few years these escapees as they had traveled north out of town had unknowingly been meeting an oncoming stream of refugees coming south into Wylton, individuals and families coming in the hopes of beginning again, people who had escaped the frustrations of their former lives elsewhere, sometimes from places very far away. They were coming, hoping to make a new start in life here in Moriah’s Valley.

However, so far as I was concerned when I first arrived in this valley, I was neither coming as an escapee nor as a refugee. I was coming to study a small town in the American West, a town whose original population had been declining, but which was now in transition as new people were moving in. Or, so it was described in the segment of the research grant I’d been asked to explore for my department chair. I thought I was coming as an objective and dispassionate observer, only to find an emotional attachment to Moriah’s Valley which would grow in my life.

But, on a much more personal level my contact with the people of Wylton would give to me something far more important than data for a research assignment or stories for cozy scenes in the popular press. For, had I recognized it at the time, I too, was a refugee mourning my past, seeking the healing of a new beginning. A need my department chair had perceived when I had not.

By early evening when I reached Wylton the only places open were the Mint Bar and Conoco service station with a café. Three mud spattered pickups were parked in front of the Mint. The service station seemed to have no business at this late hour. Fortunately there was a small café attached to the Conoco station, appropriately named Conoco Diner. Two cars were parked in front of the café. I pulled up my WSU car next to them, knowing it would be noticed with curiosity. When I entered the plain, bright flourescent lit café with its smudged ivory walls and worn green linoleum covered floor, the two customers at the counter, obviously local, turned on their stools to check out who was coming in. Each had well worn and scuffed cowboy boots, faded work-wrinkled jeans, western shirts and cowboy hats, which they had not removed after coming inside to eat. The three small white oil-cloth covered tables between the counter and the plate glass window were empty. I took a seat at one of them, as the two locals returned to their coffee and talk.

A waitress—most likely in her late thirties—came to my table, poured me a glass of water and said, Hello, sir. Tonight we have meat loaf with mashed potatoes and string beans for $4.95. That includes coffee and rice pudding for desert. She already had a mug and a coffee pot with her.

When I said, That’ll be fine, She poured me the coffee and asked if I wanted cream.

No, thank you.

She returned to the kitchen behind the counter. I became aware of the sound of country music coming from a radio, apparently for the benefit of the cook who took the order from my waitress across the high serving window. He wore a baseball hat backwards with his curly black hair protruding from under it and reaching almost to the collar of his blue denim western-cut shirt. While he started to prepare my dinner my waitress went around the counter to return to a stool next to the two customers, where she had left her own mug of coffee. She seemed to be well acquainted with the two men sitting next to her. I saw that she entered with ease into whatever their topic of talk was.

The food was excellent and the place itself imparted a warm, clean and friendly atmosphere. After my waitress took my money at the cash register next to the door, I asked her for directions to the Wylton House.

It’s on the next street east over and back toward town about a block.

The office assistant in my department had arranged for me to stay in a bed and breakfast, known as the Wylton House. The nearest motel was some twenty-five. miles north at the junction to I-90. I found the B&B to be a charming Victorian style three storied house occupying the better part of a town block. It was surrounded by what in former times had been a fenced yard filled with flower gardens. For the most part the wrought iron fence still stood in place. Two large cottonwood trees in the front yard framed the entrance to the mansion. Here and there around the perimeter of the house were large mature lilac bushes. I would discover that these ample bushes usually burst forth with blooms each year around Memorial Day, providing garlands of blossoms for decorating graves in the local cemetery. The house was a rust colored brick structure on a massive stone foundation which extended in height a foot above the basement windows. It was situated in the center of a grounds appearing to be five or six lots deep and at least two or more wide. A tall caragana hedge inside the wrought iron fence marked off the property. Behind the house there appeared to have been numerous perennial gardens, now overgrown with brambles and in need of upkeep. Beyond the gardens was an ancient carriage house which had been made into a three car garage. Above the garage there was a vacant apartment, most likely once used by a gardener, I surmised.

I noticed that the set-back of the building added to the impressive appearance of the Wylton House.

I could not have known it then but the Wylton House would become the focal point of the new life into which I was about to enter. The massive quiet dignity of the Wylton House imparted a sense of ease and stability to Wylton. I drove into the driveway next to the house to a covered entry way which apparently had once served as a side entrance. After parking my car in the drive way, I chose to walk around to the front of the house to step up onto the front porch. I twisted the handle of the door bell, the old fashioned kind which is mounted in the center of the door. Above it were three vertical panels of leaded beveled glass lending an elegance as only such crafted glass can. I was greeted by a slender fifty-year old woman in a plain brown and gray cotton dress, buttoned to the neck where she wore a dark silver brooch, antique in appearance. In fact, she herself appeared to be antique. She wore flesh-toned plastic rimmed glasses. Her hair was drawn tightly to the back where it was tied into a bun.

How do you do, sir. I am Mrs. Paladini. Can I help you?

Her response when I introduced myself was surprisingly warm. Yes, Dr. Alden, we have your room ready. We have given you the front bedroom upstairs. I’m told that it is the room which had been Mr. Wylton’s when they were still here. A fully equipped bathroom is in the hall next to your room.

You mean this was the home of the Wyltons after whom the town is named?

Oh, yes, he built it when the town was in it’s hey-day, and he reigned here as one of the town fathers.

No wonder it’s such a fine old dwelling, I replied, hoping my admiration would match her obvious pride.

Thank you, Dr. Alden She seemed proud to present the Wylton House to me as a stranger. The house was built by Mr. Wylton’s father, Edmund Wylton, in 1890 as a gift to his wife, Penelope. He employed an architect from Philadelphia who had a distinguished reputation for his Victorian style homes.

I nodded my appreciation for what my hostess was telling me, which had the effect of urging her on.

"In private papers which Edmund left to the County Historical Society before his death, there are some references to this house and its architect. It is very interesting that in describing the Victorian ideal for residences, the architect explained that the Wylton House would be ‘substantial but not excessive, spacious and artfully decorated but not ostentatious, and that it would emphasize the manliness of its owner and occupant, while at the same time enhance the womanly position of his wife.’ And I always am amused at the architect’s concluding remark: ‘A proper Victorian dwelling should serve as an example of Christian values to tradesmen and others in the community.’

How quaint! I responded.

Yes, wasn’t it.

I signed the registration card she provided, picked up my bag and started up the stairs which ascended grandly from the entry way. My ascent was accompanied by some comfortable sounding squeaks in the stairway.

Mrs. Paladini called after me: If you need anything, Dr. Alden, just ring me on the phone. My number is 23.

I found my room to be in the front of the house and to be cheery and spacious with a high ceiling. I felt the bed and found it to be very firm. After putting my bag down I sank into an overstuffed chair in front of the bay window, from which I looked out through the cottonwoods onto the quiet street. I was tired from the day’s drive, but eager to begin my research.

The all-class reunion was to begin the next afternoon at the local high school. By Sunday evening all would be over and I would be on my way back to Washington. Or so I thought. Already I looked forward to returning to Washington—to civilization. I was city born and bred, and it was to the city that I already longed to return. Pullman isn’t all that big, but with the presence of the university it provides a cultural dimension which belies its size. The feel of Wylton is decidedly rural. But maybe that difference was part of what my department chair was trying to give me when he said the trip would do me good. He seemed to think I need a new lease on life. Maybe I do.

I slept very well—one of those nights which make you wonder where you are when you awaken. I was glad I brought a bathrobe, for even though I was sure I was the only guest, I used it to walk over the squeaky dark brown linoleum covered hall to the bathroom. As I left my room the enticing aroma of bacon and coffee coming from down stairs made me think about breakfast. After my shower I dressed and went downstairs to the dining room where a place had been set for me.

The high ceiling, the massive china closet with a mirror mounted over it in rich mahogany trim, together with the period wall paper revealed the grandeur of the room as it must have been in former times. After a delicious breakfast of bacon and eggs, hash browns and muffins, Mrs. Paladini gave me directions to the high school where I would begin my project.

The reunion celebrations at the high school held over the next three days presented me with an excellent introduction to almost all the families who had been in Wylton for any length of time. I was readily accepted and considered by most of the folk to be some sort of reporter. They seemed to feel that Wylton needed all the publicity it could gain for itself, by whatever means. Thus, my intrusion would be not only tolerated, but welcomed.

The high point of the reunion week end was the banquet held in the school gymnasium on Saturday evening. The Class of 1970 was seated at the head table which was long enough to accommodate not only the returned class members but their spouses as well. The men wore suits and ties and the women were in dresses for the occasion. In the final portion of the program following the dinner the class of 1970 was honored with special words of introduction for each alum. These were given by the high school principal, Thelma Rhodes.

It gives me great pleasure to introduce the members of one of our finest classes … .

The gym resounded with applause.

There were twelve pupils in the graduating class that year. A remarkable percentage of these have returned to Wylton this year—eight. Regrettably one of that group has passed away, Amy Taggert Ms Rhodes paused briefly before going on. Two of that group have come from Seattle, Washington. Bob Lawrence, and Richard Collins, would you stand along with your spouses?

After the two couples were on their feet the principal told about them. Both Bob and Richard earned their bachelor’s degrees from Montana State University in Bozeman and each stayed on for the Master of Science degree in electrical engineering. Bob has worked for Boeing since that time, and Richard has been an engineer for Microsoft. Each met their future wives in Bozeman. Would each of you introduce them?

The two men introduced their wives and the crowd applauded as they returned to their seats.

Three class members have careers in teaching. Barbara and Scott Flemming both have been teachers at West High in Billings after receiving their degrees at Eastern in Billings. High School sweethearts, they married while in college. Mark Hostetter got his PHD from the University of Montana and now is on the history faculty of the University of Wyoming in Laramie. Would you three stand?

Once again the crowd applauded.

Mark is not married, but I’m sure there are some eligible single alumni here this weekend, Mark! Thelma Rhodes seemed pleased with her remark.

Everyone laughed. Mark smiled mechanically.

Ray Sorenson and his wife, Judy, have not had to come far for this celebration! Any of you who have driven back to Wylton and who might have a bit of car trouble, see Ray. He is a mechanic here in our own Ford garage. And if you need a snack for your trip home, see Judy, Class of 1973, She works at the local grocery. Would you three stand? And while they are standing I want Loren and Gerry Eisenach to stand also. As many of you know Loren and Gerry live in Wylton—out on their ranch, actually. It is the ranch on which Gerry grew up. When her father passed away a few years ago Loren took over the ranch. Gerry was a member of the Class of 1969.

After the applause and the three were seated, Thelma Rhodes continued. And finally, Eric Nelson is here from Wolf Point where he is the County Agent for Roosevelt County. Eric, would you and your wife stand? Eric got his degree in agriculture at Montana State and joined the Cooperative Extension Service after graduating. Doris, his wife has her degree in Home Economics from Bozeman and is also in the extension office for Roosevelt County. She graduated from Wylton High in 1971.

They stood long enough to receive the applause.

And finally, I have letters from thee of your classmates who could not attend tonight’s banquet. Jack Spears is a career Naval officer and is presently on board ship in the Mediterranean. Deborah Smith was unable to get time off from her nursing duties at St. Patrick’s Hospital in Missoula, and Linda O’Niel is a full time care giver for her mother. They live in Spokane. That concludes the roll call of honoree—the Class of 1970—Wylton High!

A round of applause followed.

"Now let us stand and sing