Traveling with my Tall Daughter

I have two daughters – a tall daughter and a short daughter. I gave birth to my short daughter. My tall daughter wears a wedding sapphire given to her by my son. I like traveling with both of my daughters.

Traveling with my tall daughter is always an adventure. In fact, my tall daughter adds extra adventure to our adventures. The last trip with my tall daughter was to Montana along with our spouses. We booked a room at a motel close to the airport since we had an early flight. It was rainy, cold, and dark when I got to the car early the next morning. My tall daughter stood at the back of the car with the hatch opened. She pointed to a pair of boots and said, “Do you notice anything?” “They don’t match.” They were different colors and it looked like they were different sizes, too. “Do you notice anything else?” “They are both for the same foot.” Well, I guess a new pair of boots would be the first order of business upon landing in Montana. That’s a great trick to get a new pair of boots! She makes the most of the opportunity.

A few years ago we went on a trip with some of the extended family and retraced the trail our ancestors took from New Mexico to Montana. We traveled down winding mountain roads, climbed through ancient cliff dwellings, and explored old family stomping grounds. Along Route 66, we stepped back into the ’50’s at the iconic Galaxy Diner. Before I could blink, my tall daughter was standing with the performing musician singing Rocky Top. She’s spontaneous.

My tall daughter is an Elementary School teacher. She is always seeking places of special interest that serve as teaching aids to her students. On the road through Utah, my tall daughter wanted to make such a side trip. As we wound up the road through the hills to Promontory Point, the white crusty Salt Flats in the valley below glistened like snow. On Promontory Summit we visited Golden Spike National Monument where the first transcontinental railroad was completed in 1869 when the Union and Central Pacific Railways met and opened up the west. After leaving that bit of history behind, we took back roads that led into Idaho and then into Montana. We met up with a newfound cousin, a fellow teacher who was quickly captured by the southern belle’s exuberance. She’s engaging.

There was one trip I took with both my tall daughter and my short daughter. We went to North Carolina to a conference. When we got to town, we went to the B & B we had booked. Upon arrival, we discovered that the hostess did not set us up in the rooms we had paid for. My tall daughter took charge and soon the hostess was moving out of the room that was supposed to be ours for the night. When my tall daughter is along, she speaks up for us all. She’s our champion.

I have been on various trips with my tall daughter. My husband and I have been “camping” with her and her groom in their motor home. We have visited various National and State Parks. We have traveled out west. We have traveled to Michigan. I have traveled with them in the winter across the frozen Northwest. We have hiked, picnicked, gone to weddings and family reunions or just gone out to dinner. She likes all kinds of adventures.

And – my tall daughter gives the best hugs!

Wild Hair

I get a wild hair on occasion. It’s like getting an itch that has to be scratched. I don’t know where these ideas come from. They just pop into my head from who-knows-where and bam! I have to scratch that itch.

A couple of years ago, I got a box in the mail that weighed about ten tons. Inside was an older model KitchenAid Mixer. It was sent as a gift, purchased for twenty dollars at an estate sale. One day I got it out of the pantry and decided to use it. Since that time, I’ve gotten kind of attached to it. 

The other day one of my wild hairs stood straight up on my head. What a good idea! “I’ll paint the mixer.” The old mixer was cream colored. In a few places the enamel was worn off. It had definitely been used through the years. Operation face lift!

I took a few videos as I removed the screws so I’d know how to put it back together. Then I taped up the places I didn’t want painted. That was a challenge! How do you put tape on those itty-bitty screws? Next I sanded the mixer with 100 grit and 320 grit sandpaper.

A normal person might get a less drastic color to use on a perfectly good appliance but if you have a wild hair to paint, why not go with the brightest color you can find? Candy Apple Red! It sure was bright. The next day I got Colonial Red. That toned it down a bit, so it was no longer fluorescent. Lastly, a clear coating was sprayed on.

Impatience is not a good thing when you have to wait for all the various coats to dry. I managed to restrain myself before I yanked off the tape. Actually, I tried to do that gently, even taking the time to warm the tape and then I pulled gently – very gently. Once the tape was off, I had to put the mixer back together. Hmmm…. All the pieces went together. I held my breath when I plugged it into the outlet. It purred like a new kitten! I haven’t used it yet. I think I’ll put my “new mixer” back in the pantry so it doesn’t get dirty.

If the person who sent the mixer is reading this – thanks for the twenty-buck mixer – and I didn’t even get electrocuted.

Now, if I can just find where this extra screw goes. 

Autumn Rain

The Autumn morning rain peppered the earth. Trees adorned in the colors of Fall shivered as they cast off the last of their clothing. A cool breeze joined in the dance as the leaves twirled and floated gracefully to the ground. The wind tugged at the remaining stubborn leaves that clung to the branches. With the washing away of the colors of Fall came the song of life promising that the chorus of fall would be sung again next year. 

A moment of thoughtfulness washed over me just like the Autumn rain washes away memories of summer and ushers in the cold north winds. As each season comes to an end, another emerges to take its place. 

Life is brief. Seasons come and go. The cycle of life continues. New life bursts forth in the spring of our youth. Spring turns to summer when we run and play in the sun. Summer turns to fall when the earth prepares for the snows of winter. Winter brings its own beauty as it waits for the earth to awaken from slumber. Each season makes preparation for the next.

So it is in our lives. How quickly things change. Unexpected events take us by surprise. One season slips into another. We have experienced the new life of Spring and the joys of Summer. We have shared the falling leaves of Autumn and have felt the cold winds of Winter. Even in the season when our heroes, friends and family go to eternal rest, we can still be assured that life will be reborn in the Spring.

Masterpiece

The concertmaster drew the bow over the violin’s A string. The noise that followed may have sounded like chaos to those already in their seats awaiting the concert. To the conductor’s ear, it was a glorious melody for he knew every instrument in the orchestra would soon be as one. Horns, strings, woodwinds, tympani, all tuned to the same note. The instrumentalists, each oblivious to the others, warmed up with scales or last-minute practice on difficult sections. 

That all came to an abrupt stop as the conductor came out of the wings onto center stage. He walked toward the crowd, then stepped onto the podium and faced the orchestra. A curtain of silence fell over the whole auditorium. Not even a breath was heard. Every eye in the room was on him. He lifted his arms and instruments immediately responded by moving into playing position. With the downbeat, the music began. Every instrument played its part and made the black and white pages of the music score come to life. Countless hours of practice bathed with talent and a dose of opportunity transformed the notes on the pages to a lasting melody that echoed throughout the room.

When the last note of the concert ended, the conductor turned once again to face the audience who stood in applause. With a bow, he then directed their attention with a wave of his arm to the orchestra that had performed under his leadership. The musicians stood and applause erupted again. 

As everyone went their way, they took with them a sense of satisfaction. Individuals from all walks of life and different backgrounds had come together to perform – not as individuals but as an orchestra. There were many instruments, some expensive, some not so much, and different levels of talent and ability. It took each one playing their individual instrument in tune with the others to create a masterpiece that was the performance of a lifetime. 

GPS

A voice said, “Take the next left.” We took the next left. “Now turn right.” Hmmm. There was no right. We were in the middle of a graveyard. There was only a circle drive that went around the hill and back again. We got out of there! When we got back to the road the voice said, “Route (pronounced root) recalculation.” We drove a short distance and followed her directions around and around the round-about. After spinning around a few times I managed to break loose and head straight down the road. We found our turn-off and followed her directions. “You have arrived at your destination.” What? It was not even the right address! A man walking his dog confirmed our suspicions that the GPS girl was out to get us! We followed his directions and pulled right into the parking spot reserved for us. As soon as we got out of the car a sign warned, “Beware of bears!” Maybe the GPS girl was just steering us away from the bears.

Traveling with GPS as your guide can sometimes be dangerous. That girl that speaks through the car stereo will lead you astray. We’ve used her several times when we have roamed the back roads on our girl’s adventures. She has taken us miles from our destination and told us to turn where there was no road. We have stopped to try to figure out where we’re supposed to be and heard dueling banjos in “them thar hills.” The other day, we were on an outing and the GPS girl said, “Take the next left.” “Turn left now.” We were in the middle of a forest with a steep bank on the left. There was no road. There wasn’t even a deer trail. To top it off, it seems like every adventure we take, the GPS girl leads us to a graveyard. That’s very suspicious.

One weekend some of our family went to a wedding several hours away. Daddy was with us that trip. On the way home, my tall daughter turned on her GPS and gave us the directions home. Daddy piped up, “If you’ll turn left up here at the red light, go about 5 miles, turn right and drive awhile you’ll come back out on our road.” My tall daughter said, “We don’t need GPS when we have Granddad.” I commented, “We do have GPS – Granddad Positioning System.” He was the king of shortcuts, but he always said he knew where we were, “We’re right here.”

Where’s Granddad when you need him?

Four Letter Words

My mother did not like four-letter words. There were some offensive words that warranted a kid getting their mouth washed out with soap. There was another four-letter word that was really a bad word, “CAN’T”. It was not allowed in our household. In fact, it was not even in Mama’s dictionary.

She taught us kids some valuable lessons. She believed that if something needed to be done or you wanted something done, “Do it yourself.” Her motto was, “just do it.” My mother coined that phrase LONG before Nike. Sometimes that was quite an exasperating answer, but it actually taught all of us kids independence, maybe even to a fault at times. No limitations! That was just one of many nuggets of gold she dropped along our path.

Remember, “CAN’T never could!” per my mother…..

Sacred Spirit Village

I have visited many interesting places around the country, each with its own characteristics and culture. One such place was what some have classified as a hippie commune located in the Santa Ynez Mountains above Santa Barbara, California. The compound at one time was a sacred spirit village of the Chumash people.

It was later known as the Sunburst Community but is now called Flores Flats. “Flores” is a Spanish word that means “flowers.” That gives you an idea of the beauty of the area. My cousin has a lovely and unique home nestled there in the mountains among the Manzanita trees and other beautiful vegetation and foliage.

The residents there work together as a community. Their homes are made out of whatever is available. The homes without bathroom facilities share a community bath house. They often pool their resources and provide for one another. When I was there, we all gathered to share our evening meal. Someone grilled steaks, while others prepared fresh produce and bread. They rely on their gardens for food as well as a means to generate income. Many use solar power and live very simply. They have a connection to nature. Because of the age-old lingering spirit felt there in the mountains it is said, “the ancient people continue to nurture us all with contributions from their rich heritage and culture.” And so the ancient people continue to live on.

Uncle Joe

Joseph Brannin. When I hear his name I see a handsome young man with thick black coarse curly hair, black eyes, with prominent Spanish features. I see a man of confidence and compassion with a sense of justice. I see someone who is dedicated to family, an overseer, and one who gives unconditionally. 

When the family made their exodus to Montana, Joe is the one who kept the record of their trip. He is the one who made sure the family was cared for. He helped his oldest sister buy a farm. He made arrangements for his younger sisters to get their education. He made sure they had music lessons. He gave his baby sister her beloved doll. Joe brought life and a touch of refinement to the mountains. He was the musician in the family, playing the violin.

Joseph S Brannin

Though I think of all those things, the name Joe Brannin means something else. The name speaks of death, sorrow, and injustice. Joe, the sheriff’s deputy, was killed in the line of duty. Mel Jowell, who led a life of thievery and rustling, had just been released from prison for his crime of rustling and altering brands. He quickly broke probation. When Mel Jowell came to town, you can bet there was trouble brewing. Joe was sent to pick up Mel for questioning about some stolen stock. Joe went to the bar to get Jowell but Deputy Brannin didn’t leave alive.

Jowell was on the run. Many of his steps can be retraced through eyewitness accounts, court records and various documents. He died in Texas at the age of 85, having fathered at least 5 children. Joe Brannin, provider and caregiver of the family, full of life, hopes and dreams, died at the tender age of 27. 

Joe Brannin “was a young man of exceptional character, clean and upright.” Uncle Joe remains endeared to many as his legacy passes to us and demands that his story be retold to future generations. 

Joseph Brannin

Buckhorn II

Anytime we meet up with Cousin Scottie, it’s a good day. He is a walking family historian with a genealogical chart as an appendage. I asked him once if he would will me his brain – or at least the family history it contains. He has been our fearless leader on more than one occasion, leading us through the trails of stories and history. 

The trip of 2012 was the first time I remember meeting any of my Wagoner cousins, though I had seen their folks several times. We met at Sapillo Creek, New Mexico. The plan was to meet there at the old site of the Brannin Ranch, explore the area, and then follow the route of the family exodus to Montana in 1895-96. Some of us had retraced that trail before.

After meeting, we all went to the Buckhorn Saloon in Pinos Altos for supper. We walked in the door and felt an immediate connection to the past. The dim lights, the long dark toned bar, the wall lined with bottles, the brick wall at the back of the room, the décor, and the wooden ceiling created an atmosphere characteristic of the old west era. Some of the family had already gathered. The young folks sat together and soon the cousins were well acquainted. We talked about our proposed route and got brushed up on some of the family history. Our food was wonderful, and the company was the same. It was open mic night and we got a rare treat. One of the cousins, only 13 years old, sang and played the guitar. His fingers danced across the strings and impressed everyone in the bar. 

decor to represent days past

We all enjoyed staying on the same piece of property where the old Ranch once stood. Sapillo Creek still runs through the property. One of the apple trees planted by my Great Grandfather also stands as a testimony to time. The old tree is twisted and weathered. I wish there was a magic camera on the tree that would replay all the events that took place over 125 years. We would see the uncles all covered in mud when they scared the Sunday wagon drivers; we would get a glimpse of Indians coming off Apache Hill into the Brannin yard asking for something to eat; we would see children playing in the yard; we would hear Stanton talk of the neighboring rancher’s threats; we would see the shingle maker in action; we would hear the one lie Guadalupe told of her heritage. Instead we must rely on the oral and written history that has been passed on to us.

Daddy beside one of the apple trees Grandfather Brannin planted

Our time in the area was much too short. One day, I hope to go back and stay longer to explore the area. Would you like to join me? I’ll meet you at the Buckhorn!

The Bugle Call

The elderly man stopped at the door of the classroom. He placed the cane on his shoulder and marched into the room singing cadence followed by a wartime song. 

The infantry, the infantry with dirt behind their ears
Can whip their weight in wildcats and drink their weight in beers.
The cavalry, the artillery, and the corps of engineers
Can never whoop the infantry in a hundred thousand years.

As he stopped in front of the room, he turned to face the students. “Before I was born,” were his first words. Isn’t that where all our stories begin? As with most of his stories, they took him back to the mountains of Montana. Well they should have because he was “the man of the mountains.” “Before he was born,” a family in Melville bought old Cavalry horses for the kids to ride. One day the kids were out riding when some soldiers rode by on their mounts. One of the riders sounded his bugle. The Cavalry horses the kids were riding answered the call. The horses ran off to join the others. Horses were soldiers too, you know. They went quite a distance before they turned for home. As the “man of the mountains” told his story, he said, “old soldiers answered the call of the bugle and I answered the call.”

The bugle sounded and a young man went into battle in World War II. He recalled the stories of war to the students. Though the ninety-year-old man was small of stature, his presence demanded attention and respect. All eyes were on him. He stretched to his full frame of just over five feet yet he was larger than life. His World War II army jacket was held closed by the bottom button. Somehow, his presence and the recounting of his experiences in the European theater brought history to life. The stories and places the students had read about became real.

Though the old soldier is no longer with us, his story continues to be told and his memories still live on. Always a soldier, when the final bugle sounded, the old soldier answered the call.

Bill Maxner, Beloit Joyal, Buck Ward