Remembering a Western Gentleman

For the longest time, he was Mr. Fryer.

We had yet to find suitable housing but were nonetheless determined to make our move to Livingston in the fall of 1993. I had made a trip here in a rental truck filled with material goods we wanted to keep but knew we could do without if a residence couldn’t be found by our October deadline.

I had discovered the Owl during that trip. Libby, the bartender that evening, made me promise that I wouldn’t write anything that would give cause to somebody moving here. He was a migrant from California, that most despised state that was dumping its excess of rich folks here to buy twenty or more acres to build those 6,000 square feet of a dream log cabin.

We had no such ambitions. A house in town was what we wanted.

Cindy tended the horseshoe bar at the Guest House most nights. It was a place that attracted a crowd of a banker or two, some attorneys and one judge to watch “Jeopardy” on the television above the rows of liquor on the back bar. During the day she ran the various businesses the painter Russell Chatham had started. My visit the next morning was to the offices of those businesses. She sat at the top of the stairs. To her left and right were cubicles with transom windows and finely chiseled woodwork. It was mindful of any number of Raymond Chandler novels turned into noir films.

I asked her if she knew if any of the spaces might be available to rent. She didn’t know, but I should ask John Fryer, who owned the building and ran the bookstore on its main floor. Laden with Clark City t-shirts and an armful of promotional materials, I visited the store. Mr. Fryer was not there. One of the ladies who worked there wrote out his telephone number, still listed as Frank Fryer in the local phone book.

A week or so had gone by when I finally reached Mr. Fryer. He was exacting in his words and voice, telling me that Chatham rented the entire floor. He advised me to ask the painter if he had any spaces to sublet. He also gave me the name of an optometrist who might have office spaces to rent. (He didn’t.)

A house that met most of our desires came up for sale. Our realtor over-nighted some photos of the hundred-year-old, two-story frame house on South Third Street. It looked just fine, and we bought it on the spot.

I got to know Mr. Fryer in the early weeks of our residency. It never occurred to me to call him John.

Then there was Tim’s 50th birthday. We knew only a handful of his guests. Geri and I settled onto the floor of the sun room spanning the front of the Craftsman style house. A man Outside magazine had named the smartest man in America was there on the floor with his wife at the time. We were joined by Mr. Fryer, just in time for David, the smartest man, to tell us that if we loved the land, we’d live in town.

We had passed that litmus test, having bought the 100-year-old house just a block down the street from Mr. Fryer.

His house, we would learn, had been the house he was born in. The main floor, minus the kitchen, had been converted into an open space so his parents, Frank and Suzanne, could host dance parties.

Our corner of the party was being entertained by John Fryer’s stories. Tales of the trains that would stop near the family’s ranch at Springdale to deliver fresh seafood from both coasts were told, his eyes flashing a twinkling blue as he told them. He then got down to the business of telling us how his grandfather, for whom he was named, changed the world of retail business by making a square store. The long and narrow store was inefficient: there was too much walking and shoplifting was hard to monitor.

That store is still operating, though nobody knows for how long. My daughter used to collect coins, which she’d bring to the store for her layaway purchases of Breyer horses. John would give her a hand-written receipt in a beautiful script that beckoned to a long-ago time. I don’t know if he knew that cursive writing was no longer being taught in public schools. It would have displeased him.

Frank Fryer kept a wad of cash in the safe on his store’s balcony. It was for the writers and artists who had come to populate this part of Montana and might have run into hard times. No interest. No notes. Just some cash to help out. Pay it back when you can. John kept that noble tradition alive.

He was a horseman, a hunter and an advocate for the indigenous Americans we would learn. He was a gentleman in a flannel vest, a hitch in his walk from a gunshot wound. He informed us that late-November afternoon that his parents thought of themselves as jazz babies. Dancing to the pop music of the time, interpreted by local musicians was high on their list of must-dos.

It was time to leave. In those couple of hours on the sun room floor, John had fallen in love with my wife. I wasn’t surprised.

He leaned over to kiss her farewell on her cheek.

“Geri, I will always love you,” John said. “You bring me back to being a little boy. Before my mom left to go dancing, she would come to tuck me in. When she kissed me good night, she smelled of cigarettes, whiskey and expensive perfume, just like you.”

For the longest time, he was John.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Coquilles St. Jacques a l’Orange

This is a favorite dish of mine, ideally suited as an appetizer before a grilled steak or lamb chop.

12 large fresh scallops
3 large cloves garlic (minced)
1 tsp. olive oil
1 tsp. butter
1/4 cup dry vermouth (or dry white wine)
juice of 1 large orange
1 tsp. honey

Heat oil and butter in a skillet over medium heat. add garlic. When bubbling slightly, add scallops, turning gently until done (about 6 min.) remove scallops from skillet and keep them warm while finishing the sauce. This should be done very quickly over a high heat. Add the vermouth to the juice from the scallops and reduce by half, stirring constantly. Add the juice from the orange and reduce by half or until thickened. Stir in the honey and turn off the heat. Serve scallops over basmati rice, spooning a generous portion of orange sauce over each. Tender asparagus spears, a crisp dry white burgundy, and a Bill Evans solo piano recording will set this dish off nicely.