MTPR

student response

'Things We Hold On To'

Jan 20, 2017
National Geographic

by Mari Hall

When I was a child, my mom never understood why I seldom played with the toys she bought.

“Why don’t you play with that Bratz swimming pool I bought you?”

I always tried to make it seem like I played with it more than she thought, or that the times I did play with it, she wasn’t in the room. But that wasn’t true. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the toys my parents bought me; I was just often seen with a pencil in hand and paper sprawled out in front of me. In my stories, there were boxy figures, exaggerated clouds, smiling suns, and clashing colors of reds, blues and purples. My handwriting looked just like it does now, but larger and shakier. I would staple papers together to make small booklets and my mom would buy me bound journals from the dollar store. She always said that was one of the gifts I was the most excited about. At a young age, I wanted to be a writer.

'Beer and Poetry'

Dec 6, 2016
Beer: Paul Downey

by Maddy Irwin

Poetry reminds me of beer. More specifically it reminds me of Cold Smoke, a favorite of Missoula brew enthusiasts. I always pick up the cold pint glass thinking this will be the time I finally gain appreciation for the dark ale that my friends consume generously on our nightly excursions. However, my response is found to be the same puckering of lips and slight crinkling of my nose in an unattractive grimace, immediately followed by a mouthful of my usual vodka-cran to wash down the taste of the dark ale.

http://missoulanews.bigskypress.com/

by  Kristy Bixler

Ten minutes from my house in any direction I can climb a mountain, or catch a fish, play a round of folf, or cross country ski. I live in a world of adventure and life that I never want to leave. There is nothing better than living in a place that is so rich in its beauty, a natural theme park. I have been unbelievably fortunate with a good secure life in Missoula, Montana, that allows me to take part in all of my favorite activities.

However, another ten minutes from my house lay the ruin of the Mill. Not everyone in my town has been as lucky as my family. Even though I was fairly young when the mill shut its doors forever, I remember it vividly. It played out just the way it did in Melissa Mylchreest’s poem “Frenchtown.” All of a sudden the mill was gone. When I would drive to Frenchtown to swim in the pond or play a game of softball, everything seemed different, quieter, as though the life had gone out of the previously bustling little area.

'Learning the Name of a River is Just the Beginning'

Dec 1, 2016

by Noah Belanger

I moved to Missoula two years ago without a solid plan. I knew that, eventually, I would attend the University of Montana, but I couldn’t begin to tell you what I would study or when that would be. I wasn’t even sure this was the real reason I was here. What I did know is that when I drove over Lost Trail Pass and headed down the Bitterroot towards Missoula, when I saw impossibly hard and beautiful mountains butt up against soft green valley, I was in love.

On December 16, 2011, I was one of a couple hundred history-conscious Missoulians who walked onto a snow-covered bluff above the Milltown Dam abutment to see something you almost never get to see: a river tangibly restored. Below us, the Clark Fork began to spill down its reconstructed stream bed, joining the also-undamned Blackfoot River in free flow for the first time since the dam was built in 1908.

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