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Hotcakes

We ate hotcakes growing up. Some folks eat pancakes. Mama cooked hotcakes three at a time in a big skillet. We sat at the table, plate ready, with fork in hand, waiting for our stack. By the time we all got our hotcakes, the ones to get theirs first were ready for their next stack. I don’t know how many hotcakes she ended up flipping at one meal, but I imagine there were enough to construct a couple of tall towers.

Mama often made sugar syrup to pour over the hotcakes. She put sugar in a pan and heated it to golden brown. Then she poured in a bit of boiling water. The mixture would spit and sputter until it all melted together. With a bit of vanilla or maple flavoring, it was ready to slather over the stack of hotcakes. I would pour mine on each individual hotcake and let it soak in on top of the melted butter. Yum! If there was no sugar syrup, I liked buttered hotcakes with sugar sprinkled on top.  When my Mom was a little girl, she took leftover hotcakes for lunch. She would put butter on them, sprinkle with sugar, roll them up like a cigar, and wrap them up to carry to school. 

My grandfather told a tale about when he was “batching” and made hotcakes. His were made with “starter” that was kept to the back on the wood cookstove. A single hotcake was made first to test the heat of the skillet. That one was for the cat. One day, my grandfather had kitchen duty while his batching partner, John, was doing the outside chores. When John came in from doing chores, his stack of hotcakes was ready. He poured syrup over the top of the stack, started to take a bite, and saw something hanging out of the middle of the stack. He lifted the hotcake and there was a dead mouse that my grandfather had found that morning. I’m not sure, but I don’t think John ate that stack of hotcakes that morning, unless it was the ones on top.

Here is a recipe for Sourdough Starter & Hotcakes. I think it was my Great Grandmother’s recipe:

Sourdough Starter
3 ½ c. all-purpose flour
1 package yeast
2 c. warm water

Combine flour and yeast.  Add warm water and beat until smooth.  Cover and let stand for 2-4 days.  To store, cover and refrigerate.  Once a week, stir in equal amounts of all-purpose flour and warm water.   Cover and let stand 12-24 hours. Use or cover and refrigerate until ready to use.

Sourdough Buttermilk Pancakes
2 c. flour
1 ½ tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. soda
½ tsp. salt
2 T. sugar
1 1/3 c. buttermilk
1 c. sourdough starter
1 egg, beaten
2 T. vegetable oil

Combine first 5 ingredients in a non-metal bowl.  Add milk, starter and egg.  Stir in oil. Cook on hot griddle.

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Wonder in an Old Man’s Eyes

The Old Man reached out and picked up the rose that lay on the table. His eyes softened as he placed it in his big rough hand and gently caressed the petals of the red rose. As he stroked the petals, he was in awe of the softness of the rose. He marveled at that work of creation – how every petal was shaped and arranged in delicate layers and of the sweet smell that tickled his nose. The color amazed him along with every little detail. It was perfect. 

This man, who saw beauty all around him said, “Feel this rose. It feels like velvet. It’s almost as soft as a baby chick.” His face became solemn and suddenly he was overwhelmed with sorrow at the thought of one who never had the privilege of holding a baby chick.

What a joy to live life and see the beauty of God’s creation. A drive through the countryside brought the Old Man to life on days when it was clear his time was coming to an end. He didn’t miss a detail as he looked across fields of grazing cattle, passed over streams, or rode by a tall stand of trees. Those sights always brought a story, maybe of his “batching days” or his time working on the Long X Ranch, playing his fiddle for harvest dances, or snapping the heads off rattlesnakes on the prairie. Thinking of all he did in his life, and everything he saw, he still was in wonder of the perfection of a rose or the softness of a baby chick. 

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Poppy

My Guest Author today is my sister. She is older than me so she has memories that I don’t have. My grandfather, Poppy, died just a month before I was born. I rely on my sister’s memories, photos and family stories to know him.
(I would have been his favorite!)

Sister Margaret texted me recently to ask what I remembered about Poppy. (I was 8 and she was 3 months when we left Montana and living next to Gommy and Poppy.) From an 8 year old’s perspective, and some things I’ve thought about since, here’s Poppy.

Times at Gommy and Poppy’s were always special. There was a cheerful, calm hum to the log house.

Poppy and Ernest (his ranching/sawmill partner of Ward and Parker) would come in from evening chores, hang their coats and hats on the hat tree by the front door (stomping the snow off their boots if it was cold outside), and put another log on the fire. The stone fireplace was one they’d built from round stones from the Sweet Grass River that ran through the ranch. On either side of the living room, there were big picture windows where Poppy had red geraniums blooming year-round.

They’d turn on the radio that sat on its own special shelf in the kitchen, next to the doorway to the music room – where Poppy had his desk and Gommy had her piano and china. They always listened to the news evenings, and at lunch they’d listen to the farm report and stock market.

Then we’d have supper (cooked on the green and cream-colored wood range), sitting on benches around the long oak table with everyone’s brands carved in the corners. (Each person had registered their own brand for cows and horses, whether they had any yet or not.) Supper might be roast beef (from our own cattle), potatoes and gravy, homemade bread, fresh churned butter, jams, pickles, a vegetable, dessert, and hot tea. As an Englishman, Poppy liked his tea.  But he didn’t understand why someone would add lemon to make it sour and sugar to make it sweet. He thought almost every meal should have meat and potatoes. 

After supper, Poppy and Ernest would go sit by the fireplace in big oak rockers on either side of the warm fire. Poppy had a ritual of putting on his slippers, taking his pipe out of his pocket, cleaning it out with his pocketknife, nocking the loose tobacco out by banging it upside down on one of the rocks sticking out from the fireplace. He’d fill his pipe with tobacco, tapping it out from his red Prince Albert tin. He’d light it, puff a couple of times to get it going, and then lean back in his big rocker and relax. Ernest might light a cigarette (he smoked Camels) and read one of his National Geographics. There was a shelf, or two, or more on the yellow National Geos on Ernest’s side of the fireplace. Poppy might read. I imagine Gommy read when we kids weren’t around, setting down on the brown wicker sofa in front of the fire. The fireplace was lit year-round, too.  It gets cool even in summers back in the mountains at a mile above sea level.

Sometimes Poppy would sit and bounce kids on his knee, especially the boys. He’d sing, “Bozo, Bozo, you’re no good. I’m going to chop you up for wood.” And they’d laugh and laugh.

  • Guest Author on the right

Poppy was a medium-sized man. He liked to stand with his feet spread apart and his thumbs tucked in his belt. (Brother Bee stands that way.) He liked to look good when he went to town. He’d wear a good jacket, shirt and tie, nice slacks, and his hat. (His rancher’s white forehead showed when he took his hat off.) I thought he was very good looking. One of the earliest pictures of him shows a young man very fashionably dressed in a 3-piece suit shortly after he left England and went to Canada. He was a dandy, full of youthful confidence! 

Poppy’s desk was in the middle room. That’s where he kept track of his ledgers and maybe where he wrote his poems (or so I’ve heard. I don’t have any of his poems.). It was a mysterious place, one we kids weren’t allowed near.

Outside, on days the men worked in the shop welding and fixing things, his poetry came out in a blue streak. Mama would always whistle when she walked by, so the blue streak would stop for a minute. (Is it any wonder that Daddy Buck had learned to cuss in English, Spanish and Norwegian by the time he was 5 or 6? English from Poppy, Spanish from The Uncles, Norwegian because we lived in a Norwegian community.)

Poppy was pleasant, kind of quiet, smart. He was so proud when David was born! He had 3 granddaughters by then, but David was the first boy.  Poppy wanted the Ward name carried on! I think he would be amused that out of all his 20 grandkids, 46 or so great-grands and 50+ great-great-grands, the ones with his initials (for Robert Carrington Ward) came through his second oldest granddaughter.

I know he would be proud of the whole crew! With a twinkle in his eye, he would bounce them on his knee and sing to them. 

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Party Crashers

You may have crashed a party before, but have you ever crashed a whole town?

I wanted the girls to have a full Montana experience. Included in that were small towns that are scattered around the state. I love going through the little towns, some of which only have a Post Office, maybe a bar, and possibly a general store of sorts.

  • Two Dot Bar & Grill

We took the back roads that wound behind Porcupine Butte and along Lebo Lake. As we came into the town of Two Dot, the street was blocked. I stopped, then whipped onto a side street (the only choice), took a left, and another left, and back onto the main highway. Two Dot is a big town. It has a population of 67. There is Two Dot Hwy., Main St., Second Ave., Third Ave. and Park St. I parked in front of Two Dot Bar and Grill. That’s where we planned to grab a bite to eat. We walked in and noticed the place was relatively empty, but the street life was hopping. I struck up a conversation with the girl behind the bar. They weren’t serving lunch because of the street dance and fund raiser for the Fire Department. About that time, a guy walked in, heard the conversation, and invited us to go to the Fire Hall. They were serving burgers as their fundraiser. The music had started and soon the dance would be underway. The girls weren’t too sure about crashing a dance and fundraiser and the whole town of Two Dot.

  • Lebo Lake

I was hungry and didn’t have any misgivings about being party crashers. As I accepted his invitation, the girls looked hesitant. Their eyes said, “no,” but their bellies said, “yes.” From our accents, it was obvious we weren’t from there or from anywhere close. The guy was kind and volunteered to buy our lunch. We must have really looked like damsels in distress. “That’s okay. We’re good. But thanks anyway.”

  • An old place in Two Dot

We got our plates and drinks and found a seat at the long tables in the fire hall. The guy kept eying us. It was clear he was a bit confused. How did three southern belles (as was obvious from our accents) end up in Two Dot? You only end up there on purpose or because you’re lost. It wasn’t long before he made his way to our table and said, “Do you girls know where you are?” “Yep. We’re in Two Dot.” “Do you know where you’re going? Do you need directions?” He assumed we were lost or had car trouble.  “Nope. I know where we’ve been and I know where we’re going. We just came from Melville and will eventually go back to our little cabin on the Boulder.” He was still puzzled. I questioned him about where he was from and asked if he had family in the area. His grandfather was the mail carrier for years and drove that same road we had taken through the countryside. I asked his grandfather’s name. Ahhhh… Olson … “Was he the one who had a piece of property up Melville Lane?” It was. He was surprised when I told him that my grandfather had a piece of property in the same area, but he and Olson had swapped properties many years before. The guy’s eyes got real big. He finally understood that I really did know where we were, where we were going and a bit of his family’s history to boot! Small world!

Be careful about assumptions and beware of party crashers – especially those with an accent.

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One Hitching Post Town

note: so titled because I remember when there was a sign that read “Population 1” as you entered this little town with a big heart

Red (the official bear bait) and the Judge, were up and ready to go at the appointed time. We were going to explore Boulder country. The plan was to hike a bit, visit the waterfalls and drive deeper into the mountains. We might even eat at the Road Kill Café if it was opened that day. Our first stop would be the Post Office so we could mail our postcards back home.

The girls had not experienced a one hitching post town before. I don’t think they believed me when I told them the little town at one time had a population of one, not counting the dogs. The town hasn’t been included in the past few census records, but there is one teacher and seven students, probably not all residents of the town proper, that attend the little schoolhouse by the river.

It seems the Judge was fairly concerned about the eating part of our journey. She had enough cell signal to search her phone for “eating places in McLeod.” I told her there were no other places unless we stopped at a ranch house and joined them for lunch. She finally conceded and said, “The only place listed is the Road Kill. Why are there no other restaurants?” I told her, “Just wait and you’ll understand when we get to town.” About that time, I pulled off the road into an area where there was a house, a building that read, “United States Post Office”, with a flag flying in front, another building, and a camper or two behind the buildings. “We’re here.” “Where?” “This is McLeod.”

They giggled as we got out of the car. I think the Judge finally understood. It didn’t take long to explore the town. We chatted with the Postmaster and enjoyed the historical photos and items on the walls of the Post Office. An old wagon on tracks sat in the front of the building beside the Post Office. We walked down the lane and crossed over the bridge. A cool breeze blew through the cottonwoods that stood close to the stream. The white schoolhouse trimmed in green sat to the left of the lane. It almost made me want to be kid again, able to grow up in a one hitching post town.

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Go West Young Man

“Go west young man.” When the West was expanding, pioneers looked to make their way in a new land. They were full of hope for the prospects that lay ahead in a land of opportunity. Some went west in hopes of striking it rich in the gold fields. Others looked to a world where land was plentiful. There is a certain fascination with the American Western culture that creates a romantic appeal in spite of the hardships of life in the rough and tumbling west.

A few years ago, someone mentioned the Booth Western Art Museum to me. I had no idea there was such a place here in the South. It wasn’t long before I visited the museum and couldn’t wait to take Daddy there on a day trip. After all, he was part of the Western culture.

We soon made the trip. The museum is fascinating! There are works of legendary artists. Permanent collections include the works of Remington and Russell. There is a Presidential Gallery which has portraits of every United States President that are accompanied by signed letters of each, and other memorabilia. The tribal cultures of Native American Indians are brought to life in paintings and sculptures. There are even sculptures made out of paper. 

Temporary galleries have rotating exhibitions, from ten to twelve a year. We had the privilege of being there when Ansel Adams’ phenomenal photography was on display. He was a highly gifted unparalleled photographer and environmentalist. On my last visit, the photography of Bob Kolbrener was on exhibit. Kolbrener continues in the pattern of Adams’ traditional “straight photography.” His artistic eye captured the western scenery and culture over a 50-year period. The purity of the black and white photos of both artists gives dimensional depth and detail.  I stood before both exhibits in wonder. 

The best part of the day was being with Daddy. Every exhibit we looked at brought a story of some kind. His love of history and love for the land of his birth made his face glow and his eyes water. He stood a long time in front of one of the statues of a cowboy outside the building. The accompanying plaque read, “Here, the rancher pauses for a moment of gratitude for having the basic necessities he needs to maintain his way of life.” Leaning on his cane, Daddy looked up at the rider on horseback, understanding that way of life. A moment of reverence was shared – one old cowboy to another.

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My Sidekick

My Daddy was my sidekick for several years. Often, when I was off from work, we would go on an adventure. I got out my map, drew a circle with a hundred-mile radius from our town, and searched for interesting places within that radius that we had never visited. 

  • Scenic overlook after getting apples
  • lunch at Poole’s BBQ

We took many day trips. Sometimes we would just go to lunch and take a ride through the countryside. Sometimes, others were able to join us. At least once a year in the fall, we would drive through the mountains to apple country to stock up on apples. We stopped at scenic overlooks and took in the gorgeous views. A few times a year, we went to “the Pocket” and hiked through the wildflower trails, and visited the falls. State Parks were a favorite place to hike a bit and have a picnic. (I think a picnic is an adventure all by itself.) We visited waterfalls and parks in Georgia, Alabama and Tennessee. We visited historic sites depicting the rich Indian history of the area, military parks, museums, the Planetarium, the bat cave, Reflection Riding, toured replicas of the Nina & Pinta, and had other fun excursions.  

Shortly before Daddy died, he said, “We’ve been lots of places together, haven’t we?” “Yes, we have.” “And I’ve enjoyed every one of them.”  “Me, too, Daddy, me too.”

  • visiting New Echota
  • at New Echota
  • Resaca Confederate Cemetery
  • atop Pigeon Mountain
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Walking Dictionary

My mother was a walking dictionary. She knew how to spell everything. If any of us kids asked her how to spell something, her response was ALWAYS the same, “Look it up in the dictionary.” Well, if I knew how to spell it, I wouldn’t need to look it up in the dictionary!

“Hey, mom, how do you spell foneeshun?”

“Look it up in the dictionary.”

Like how would I find Phoenician? Or fuhzishun? Who knew!

Now a mom tells her kid, “Google it.”

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Visiting with the Preacher

“Preacher, you go back and get that little girl.” The old lady wouldn’t let him stay and visit until he returned home and got that little girl.

  • The little girl

Granny, as she was called by most, was an old Southern lady who lived in our small community. If Daddy had the sniffles or coughed in front of her, she would go off into the back room and come back with a dose of some magic tonic to cure his ailments. She would send a little bit home with him to finish the job. Apparently, the magic tonic contained moonshine or some other home brew. I imagine it was straight moonshine with a shot of honey.

There were moonshiners in that part of country who had stills hidden in the woods. The Sheriff received a tip about one in operation nearby. He stopped at the neighbor’s house up the road and asked the neighbor to go with him to check it out. They searched through the woods and finally uncovered the still. There among the bottles and tubes were some tools the Sheriff confiscated before he busted up the still. Maybe that evidence would identify the moonshiner.

  • The Preacher

The Sheriff didn’t know who the still belonged to, but our neighbor figured it out! Just a few days before, unbeknown to him, he lent his tools to the owner of the still. Needless to say, our neighbor did not claim ownership but instead went and bought new tools.

For some reason, the neighbor felt the need to tell his story to someone. Maybe he wanted to clear himself in case he was somehow linked to the “evidence” in the Sheriff’s office. He recounted the story to the preacher who was known to hold confessions in confidence. I guess his conscience was clear and he was satisfied someone knew the truth.

Hmmm…. I wonder if Granny was shy a batch of shine that year. Naaaaa, she had her own tools.

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Dr. Grace Goes on a Grand Adventure

I received word that my friend, Dr. Grace (so dubbed by my sister and I), recently left on a grand adventure. She stepped out of a worn and fragile body lacking strength, vision and hearing, and must have danced into the realm of heaven shouting with joy as she went. I imagine she met up with my parents shortly after her arrival, bragging about getting there after 99 years. I can assure you, she livened the place up!

This lady was a precious gem. She was one of those rare few people who found something good in everyone. She was a voice for those who were separated by barriers created by status, poverty, race, philosophies of life, creed or religion.

Dr. Grace was aptly named, for grace is what she extended to others. She was a champion to the abandoned, a savior to the rejected, a teacher to those deemed unteachable, a friend to the untouchable, an advocate for those without a voice, a hero of many. She was not conformed to this world nor swayed by popular vote. She dared take a stand at a time when women hid behind apron strings and were told what their opinion should be. She associated with those shunned by poverty, race or even “sin”, offering them a hug of friendship, love and hope.

This special lady was a Doctor of Psychology at the University of Georgia, a theologian, artist, author, counselor, teacher of all ages, tutor, mother, and wife, among other things. She did not walk the halls of tradition, but instead opened doors of opportunity and change. She was wise, kind and non-judgmental. Even as a child, she peered from behind walls and around corners and rightly repelled the injustices she witnessed that society deemed as permissible.

Dr. Grace loved children. That deep love stemmed from a childhood of often feeling unloved and knowing from the start that she was different than other children and the society that surrounded her. She wrote a short book called, “The Child.” A quote from her book reads,


“Thou shalt not kill was not spoken of the body alone.
It also meant thou shalt not kill a child’s dream.”

Dr. Grace was a giver of dreams. Every child she met was valuable and she encouraged them to dare to aspire to reach for their dreams. Her tolerance, acceptance and compassion reached beyond the visible to chisel away the roughness to reveal diamonds of great worth. She knew hidden inside of each child was a treasure.

I was able to take my daughter and grandchildren to visit her a few months ago. We had a blast! She laughed and told them stories of my early years and of their mom when she was young. My life is much richer because of her years of friendship. I attribute surviving my teenage years to Dr. Grace. There is not space on these pages to express my admiration for Dr. Grace, but here are a couple of excerpts from one of her books that might help to understand why she was so special.

“My two boys, ages six and four, were playing in the sandbox with three other little boys. The sandbox was in the back yard not too far from the kitchen window so I could know what went on in their play area. I heard one little boy, not one of mine, say, “I’ve got the prettiest mama in Winterville.” Neither of my boys said a word. “I got the smartest mama in Winterville,” said another. Neither of mine said a word. “My mama can talk more than any-body anywhere,” the third said. I thought surely my boys would contest that! Not a word. There was a brief silence, then my oldest declared with great pride and triumph in my defense, “That’s all right; we got the only crazy mama in Winterville.” I smiled, no, I grinned, because I knew what he meant. He did not have the vocabulary to express his thoughts, but he knew his mama was different; his mama was fun; his mama did things the other mamas would not do, like camping out in the back yard, and looking for elves in the woods. Their mama was crazy and we liked it that way.”

“One of the children was watching the puppy eat his dinner out of his bowl on the kitchen floor. “Mama, what’s it like to eat on the kitchen floor instead of at the table?” “Why don’t we see?” So the child put his bowl of cereal on the kitchen floor close to the puppy and proceeded to try to eat without a spoon. He didn’t get much cereal, but made a serious mess. “O.K. Mama, now I know.” He was content to eat like a person. Only a crazy mama would let her child eat off the kitchen floor with a puppy. It was fun!”

Dr. Grace, thanks for the memories, the acceptance, love, and the joy you brought to me and so many others. May you have the time of your life! Well done!

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute; Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy.” “Give her the reward she has earned, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.”