A Tribute to Wilma

Missoula in Spring is lovely. Our caged wintered souls, who scoffed at the idea of sun returning now bask in the long days, dainty rain showers, and sunny picnic dinners. Only a few weeks ago I was literally counting the days until we headed back East. All has changed after two long weekend trips to beautiful places. With the return of the Montana sun my heart aches with nostalgia for a place we've lived less than a year. 

My desk mate Hattie, who since Fall has daily remarked

“What would I do without you Abigail?! You’re the best desk mate!”

now daily chimes

 “She’s leaving soon.”

We ARE leaving soon. In fifty-five short days we will pack our Subaru, Tri Tran, to the gills and lumber across the country to a new season of life. With this future moment nudged lovingly to the side I want to soak in every detail I love about this place.

Last night we went to see the Tallest Man on Earth at the Wilma Theater. Our apartment here is tiny, so many times I’ve considered that home here for us is made up of the small nooks and crannies of Missoula. The Wilma is part of our “home” that I will always treasure. 

This historical, not quite restored theater is the best music venue I’ve ever been to. Every time we see a show here the musicians marvel at the intimacy and energy of the space. We usually sit in the balcony because it boasts good views and less hipster noise pollution. Even above the crowd, we are close enough to see even the subtle facial expressions of people on stage. The creaky old red faux leather seats, peeling satin wall paper, and huge creepy cherub light sconces all add to the unique feel of casual interaction and intimate experiences.

In December we went to the Wilma to take part in the Sufjan Steven Christmas Sing A Long Extravaganza. More performance art than concert, the band members wore extravagant costumes and sang social commentary about the commercialization of the Christian Holiday as they passed out plastic Christmas kitschy inflatable reindeer and spun the wheel of Christmas songs. It was an indescribable delight.

In March we saw Josh Ritter. He magically wooed the crowd into quiet listening, unplugged his guitar, asked for the lights to be turned down and sang acoustically. It was beautiful. 

Last night was Mr. Kristian Matsson. He pranced onto stage on his skinny little legs and produced big sound for a man by himself with only a guitar.  I love concerts that encompass poetic truth, varied rhythms, and performance art. We will miss good ‘ol Wilma.