So it was on that Saturday morning that I hauled all my belongings in the back of my brother’s truck, and headed for the Big Sky country. Any attempts at finding a new job led to not much in return. The job I had, while nice, was paying me about a grand a month – which left me enough money to pay my rent and the occasional graham cracker. Seattle was just getting way too expensive (or maybe I was just getting too poor). It was strangely lovely that way.īecause of those things, leaving Seattle was a sad affair, yes, but a necessary one. I left behind a place where you could find other gay couples in public, in grocery stores, in bars where you could find people making out on one corner, and then “bible thumpers” on the next. A place full of pride and “Safe Place” signs, a place that hosted gay pride parades and protested things I never thought could actually be protested. Not to mention, I was leaving behind a place I had grown to love. (OK, maybe my coffee collection was a bit excessive.) It was a sad affair – partially because I was leaving many of my closest friends behind, and partially because I was forced to part with some of my most valuable coffee-related memorabilia, which included two French presses, a drip coffee maker, an ice coffee maker, and about 37 mugs.
It was on an unusually sunny Saturday morning that I did the one thing I said I would never do… I moved back to Montana.
