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Across the Prairie

Never having been to the great Northwest, the girls soon learned that everything was an adventure. I wanted to give the girls a few days to acclimatize before going to the mountains, so our first day was spent on the prairie. We packed a lunch and extra water. Before heading out the door, I grabbed a roll of toilet paper. “What’s that for?” “You always have to be prepared.”

  • Weeds blowing across the prairie get caught in the fence

We headed out. The girls gasped and ooooed and aaahhhed at the scenery as views of the mountains and streams emerged. I turned off the dirt road onto a country lane, Sourdough Road. There had been several days of dry weather. Had there been rain, the road may have been impassable. That part of the country is nearly uninhabited except for cattle, deer and antelope that play, coyotes, prairie chickens, rattlesnakes and other critters. We saw spectacular views of three mountain ranges and prairie stretching for miles. Tall green and gold prairie grasses waved in the breeze. It looked like the tides of an ocean rushing toward the hills. We topped a hill, followed the road around a curve, and there before us was evidence of an old homestead. The old house with no doors or windows left intact and a few pieces of weathered wood from old barns, sheds and corrals are all that remain. We parked outside the fence and walked toward the house.

  • An abandoned house on the prairie

The stories of the those who once lived there seemed to come to life as I shared some of my family’s history. The old plaster beneath the yellow paint is riveted with bullet holes. The floor in the house is missing many of the wooden planks. Cow manure, old bed springs, bird nests, broken plaster, and bones of animals that sought refuge in the house are scattered among the years of accumulated dust and dirt. There is just something about the place that brings a somber comfort. As we left the old homestead, we all looked back until it disappeared out of sight.

  • The good section of the road less traveled

Our road was definitely the road less traveled. Four wheel drive in gear, we started up the dirt road that was eroded down to the jagged rocks. There was nothing smooth about that road. I straddled deep ruts remembering the words of my mother, “If you get in a rut you’ll stay there for miles.” If we would have gotten into some of those ruts, we wouldn’t have been seen for a month! We took our time going through the prairie, stopping in the middle of the road to look or take pictures or to point out something of interest along the skyline. We had the road to ourselves, or so we thought. All of a sudden, a truck was on my tail. Where did that come from? I pulled over so it could pass. Two guys were in the truck. They drove slowly so they could look to see who we were. I pulled out behind them. They drove a mile or two then slowed down until they saw us pull through a rough spot. I thought they had disappeared for good, but when we neared the bridge over the river, they were right in front of me. Though we never exchanged words, I knew they were waiting to see if we three girls in the middle of nowhere could get through. Just before the bridge was a stretch of mud – gumbo as my mother called it. Deep. The truck floored it and fishtailed all the way to edge of the crossing. It slowed and waited. I sure wasn’t going to be outdone. I knew if I stopped part way through, they’d have to pull me out. I floored the Suburban, and we followed right in their path. I’ll have to admit, I felt a bit smug when my tires hit dry ground. I said, “So there!” We drove on. For the next several miles there were other bad stretches in the road, and every time, the truck in front of us slowed and waited. When we neared one of the county roads, the truck went on its way leaving only a trail of dust. It wasn’t long before we made a stop at one of the places my mom had lived with her family about three miles from the little community where she attended school, having to make that walk daily.

  • Gibson community
  • Lunch time

At lunch time, I pulled off the side of the road. We kicked caked mud off the side of the Suburban and popped open the hatch with mud and dust falling to the ground. We divvied up the sandwiches, chips and cookies, sat in the back and had our lunch. Red and I needed our second bathroom break. I found a post to lean against and peed before God and anyone else, which was nobody. (We only saw two cars on our road across the prairie.) I should add that the Judge refused to use a fence post or to “squat.” So be it!

The next stop was the site of Cavill School where my mother taught in a one-room schoolhouse in the ‘40’s. A plaque commemorates the teachers and students that attended school there. A Giant Stride is all that is left of the school grounds. Our round trip through the prairie was around 100 miles in distance, but it took about eight hours. By the time we got back to town, we were ready for our evening meal.

  • plaque on the site of Cavill School
  • Giant Stride

Back at our cabin, we recounted our day’s adventures, complete with animation and a bit of exaggeration, to our host. The telling of tales is part of the adventure. It had been a great day of new sights for the girls, grand adventures and laughter. They even discovered why I carry toilet paper.

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Buffalo Jump

If I say, “Buffalo Jump,” you may not have a clue what I’m talking about or you may have a vision come to mind. This summer, Maud and I visited Madison Buffalo Jump State Park near Three Forks, Montana. The 638-acre park includes the limestone cliff that was used by Native Americans as a buffalo jump. Interpretive displays give detail descriptions of harvesting bison for food, clothing, and shelter. Visitors are given a glimpse of the culture of the Native Americans who used this jump site.

  • Madison Buffalo Jump State Park

My visits to Montana are not complete without passing another buffalo jump on the way to the mountain homeplace of my father. In his younger days, he explored along the edge of the river under the cliffs of the jump and found buffalo bones, arrowheads and other Indian artifacts. I was able to share that experience with my grandkids this summer. We had the privilege of exploring that very same area and even saw buffalo bones sticking out of the dirt and rocks on the other side of the river.

  • Cliffs at another buffalo jump
  • Cliffs along the edge of the butte

Rocky cliffs line the edge of the butte on two sides. Years ago, Indian braves wore buffalo or wolf skins to lure buffalo to the cliff. When in position, hunters came from behind and channeled the buffalo to the direction of the cliffs. Others waited to help with the harvest. In fear, the buffalo ran and plunged to their death. The river that followed the curvature of the butte ran red with blood. Not only were buffalo used for meat, but all parts of the animal were used. Skins were made into clothing and teepees. Sinews were used as bowstrings and thread. Tongue could be used as a hairbrush. Horns and hooves were made into cups and other utensils. Hair was used for rope and halters. A good harvest was vital to their survival. Located nearby was their village. Teepee rings are lingering evidence of those who lived there.

  • The stone circles are the remains of teepee locations aka teepee rings

Later after we visited the buffalo jump, we drove around the other side of the butte. My youngest granddaughter asked for a story. The story I told was of the buffalo hunt and the Crow Indians who lived on the prairie in view of the mountains. I asked, “Do you see the buffalo on the butte?” She looked and said, “Yes, I see them.” I put my hand to my ear, “Listen! Can you hear the stampede of buffalo and feel the ground shake?” She said, “Yes I can.” I pointed, “Can you see the teepees over there where we saw the teepee rings?” My desire was to paint a picture of teepees and fires burning within rings of rocks. Women were sewing garments out of skins with bone needles and sinew thread while others scraped hides, preparing them for tanning. Children ran and played with small bows and rattles made from horns. Young men fashioned knives and arrow heads out of bones and rocks from the riverbed.

As the little girl listened to my story, she formed pictures in her mind of the scene I described. Later when she asked me to tell the story again, I had her tell it to me instead as only a four-year-old can do. Hopefully the story will pass on to her children and grandchildren.

Note: Though we often use the terms interchangeably, the animals we know as buffalo in North America are bison

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Curtains of Lace

Growing up in a pastor’s family, we moved every few years and lived in church parsonages. The homes often contained discarded furniture and accessories no longer needed or wanted by some of the parishioners. It seems that in most congregations there was at least one person who claimed the right of ownership of the parsonage and its inhabitants.

One of the parsonages was next door to such a woman. She came in the back door unannounced and made herself at home. We never had to wonder what the woman thought because she freely offered her opinion and advice which included what was wrong and what we needed to do.

She quickly overstepped her bounds. It was obvious she didn’t approve of me. She thought girls were supposed to be girlish, which I wasn’t. I preferred being outdoors hiking, climbing, camping or rappelling. My attire included hiking boots, jeans and flannel shirts, and I climbed trees. 

One day she barged through the door and shoved a bag at my mother. In it was something for my room – ruffled white lace curtains. When I saw those curtains of lace, I was mad – more like livid. What right did she have to tell me how to decorate my room? My parents gave me no choice but to hang the curtains. Fine, I’d hang the curtains!

It was just a few days before she made another unannounced visit. You can guess why she came – to see those ruffled lace curtains in my room. I led her down the hall with a factitious sneer on my face. She walked into the room and saw the nice white lacy curtains waving gently in the breeze from the opened window. Then she saw the rest of the room. A small gasp escaped her lips. Hanging from the light in the middle of the room was “thing.” “Thing” was a contorted twisted clothes hanger dripped with multi-colored wax stalactites draped with various colors of string confetti. Big colorful posters and slogans hung on the walls. Rappelling off the green trunk was the big doll I got as a little girl. She was rigged up and partially suspended wearing a rappelling seat complete with carabiners. The bed was frameless, the mattresses on the floor, and covered with a purple and green tie-dyed bedspread. Other non-lady-like trinkets were scattered throughout the room. There was even a black light. Gasp! 

That’s the only time I saw that woman speechless. She huffed, turned on her heels and was gone. She never asked to see my room again. Since my bedroom window faced her house, somehow, I think seeing those curtains of lace blowing in the breeze brought her no satisfaction. 

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Sheep Drive

  • Uncle Buster

The rolling hills of Eastern Montana were laden with sage brush and prickly pear. The summer grasses were just as dry as the parched cracked ground in which it grew sporadically. Rocks sprouted up randomly in unlikely places. You could top a hill and have an unobstructed view for miles and miles. A clump of the trees marked where a spring bubbled out of the ground or the home place of a neighbor. A line of trees was indication of a creek or irrigation ditch. Fields in the distance looked like patchwork quilts. The sky was deep blue with occasional clouds casting long dark shadows on the barren hills below. A stand of weathered windblown willows stood close to a house barely protected by the wind on one side. A small wire fence separated the yard and house from the rest of the world. That is where Uncle Buster lived.

Uncle Buster said, “You girls want to go on a sheep drive?” My sister and I were ready and out the door in a flash. We headed to the barn to saddle up the horses. Uncle Buster followed us out and said, “We’re not taking the horses.” He grinned and pointed to the old beat up car, “We’re taking the car.” I couldn’t believe nor imagine driving sheep with a car, unless he was going to stuff them in the car with us. My imagination formed a picture of caricatures of sheep hanging out of the trunk, windows and hood of the car.

With Uncle Buster around, there was always an adventure. We jumped in the car, drove through the open gate and headed across the pasture. It was a scene from an animated cartoon. Uncle Buster was behind the wheel. There was no steering needed. He merely grabbed the wheel to keep it from jerking suddenly to the right or left when we hit a prairie dog hole or big rock. We girls hung out the windows whooping and hollering and slapping our knees just as if we were riding bucking broncs, sheep flying everywhere.

Uncle Buster had one speed – fast. We flew through the pasture leaving sage brush, dirt and rocks flying all around us. We’d hit a bump and were airborne until the car took a nosedive into the brush. It was obvious from the knocks, clanking and scraping sounds that the mud on the underside of the car was getting cleaned off. The sagebrush and prickly pear seemed to suffer no ill effects other than tire tracks. I knew then why that car was so dented and beaten up.

  • Sage brush hills
  • Prairie grass

At first, the sheep kept their heads to the ground pulling dry prairie grass with their teeth. They were oblivious to the approaching one car circus on wheels. The sheep scattered and ran toward safety. If some strayed during their flight from the flying maniacal car, Uncle Buster would move in that direction to get them back with the flock. I can’t say if they were in their right mind, but all the sheep made it to their destination unscathed. 

When we finally skidded to a stop, a trail of dust still lingered in the air. Uncle Buster got out, straightened his hat and walked off dragging his bad leg behind him. We girls got out, adrenaline still rushing, and managed to stay upright after the drunkening ride. We walked away, bowed legs and all. What an adventure! 

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Black Canvas of Oblivion

Today my Guest Author is my adventurous grandson.
The hidden world in the dark depths of the earth come to light
through his senses and his phenomenal photography.

  • Beginning the descent

Lights danced in the dark. There was one light and infinite darkness. It was as if every metaphor for good and evil was set before searching eyes. In and out, the beams twinkled off dusty haze- hundreds of feet off the deck. Silhouettes of steep walls massed like phantom cathedrals coming together and falling again by some consuming darkness. I yelled, and it rang through; sound was bouncing where light could not. My eyes were fixated on the hazy beam of a headlamp, and then it disappeared. The sun went out, and I was suspended, fooled by the dream of weightlessness. My mind, searching for shapes, cast phantasmal images on the blank canvas called oblivion. I locked off the rappelling rack and let my arms fall, fingers outstretched. I let my head fall back and hang, spinning slowly, eyes open. I related to the astronaut who had lost their cosmic directions, as if all of a sudden the moon, the earth, and sun had been extinguished. How often, I wondered, had I seen what Nothing looked like? It was against the intricate pulse of my senses that oblivion should be so apparent. I wanted to realize that my mind was not the only piece of me which doted on fantasy, which reveled in the of summoning of façades.

There is a corner of America called ‘TAG’, where ancient limestone has been slowly eaten by time and water. Where the ghosts in the darkness are the ghosts which we carry with us. This is where fear plays tricks on you; this is where Time’s fickle, delicate pulse whispers. It is flailing its arms at us always, but in the overwhelming emptiness of endless night, there is little choice but to listen to the pulse– to the whisper. For me, the voices cause my chest to tighten. But only because they are at first unfamiliar. Soon I will be lost in the oblivion, fixed only by the polyester highway, the vertical lifeline which is a caver’s messiah. “Trust your Tools, trust your Mind, trust your Body.” I repeat in slow cadence for hours below the earth until these thoughts are like breathing. When the lights have come back on, I wish that I might bask in the infinite a little longer, yet, mankind is not tempered like the translucent troglobites underneath, and we must breach the surface once in a while to take in the breath of sunlight. It is the deal we make to navigate these many worlds: balance.  

TAG stands for the tri-state area where Tennessee, Alabama, and Georgia meet

JBA September 2019

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Cotton Picking

Jump down turn around pick a bale of cotton
Gonna jump down turn around pick a bale a day

Reluctantly, I tied my sunbonnet securely under my chin. It promised to be another hot humid day. I wore loose fitting clothes and long sleeves to help protect me from the sun and to keep me from getting scratched. A big burlap bag hung under one armpit with the strap over my opposite shoulder. Mama tied a knot in the strap to lift the bag higher, but it still dragged the ground.

  • Cotton growing in the field
  • Cotton plant flower

Cotton fields ready for picking were a familiar scene along those back country Southern roads. From the car windows we saw snowy fields ready for harvest. Rows and rows of stalks with fluffy balls of white seemed to go on forever. People of all ages were in the fields filling their bags. For a little kid standing in between those rows, it took on a different perspective. It all looked rather ominous when seeing the task that lay ahead. 

I was seven or eight years old. Daddy knew some of the country farmers. I don’t know how it all came about that we were taken to pick cotton. Beads of sweat were already forming even before I picked the first boll. The cotton was certainly soft and fluffy, but the husks that held the cotton weren’t. The sharp hard corners of the calyx jabbed into my fingers as I pulled and twisted off a ball of cotton and stuffed it in my bag. Down the row I went, grabbing and stuffing my bag. It left a trail in the red dirt as it followed me down the row. The sun and heat were relentless. I no longer objected to wearing the big rimmed sunbonnet that protected me from the fiery rays of the sun.

  • Cotton flower
  • Just about ready to pick

I don’t remember how long it took to fill my bag. Well, my “full” bag wasn’t as full as others. A real cotton picker can be in the field for twelve hours a day or more. Their bags weigh about sixty to seventy pounds when filled. My bag wasn’t stuffed that much, but it did get heavy for me to drag down the row. When we were done for the day, I peeked in the bag filled with fluffy white cotton with little brown specks from the husks. We deposited our bags of cotton and held out our hands for the few coins we earned for our labors. I can assure you it wasn’t enough. 

Our day was done. When we passed the fields going back home, I had a greater appreciation for the people who worked the fields. I looked at the cotton boll I had in my hand and put it in my bonnet on my lap. I would sleep good that night!