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The Logger’s Cabin

My Guest Author today is my Dad
in his recounting of the Logger’s Cabin

Ours was the last place on the Sweet Grass, and then a logger’s cabin was built on the Forest Section about three-quarters of a mile west of Gommie’s Lake and maybe a quarter of a mile beyond Ward and Parkers’ boundary fence. The cabin was located down under the hill below the road. It was put up in the fall or late summer and was right next to the steep bank that led up to the road. Billy Briner and two Reynolds boys from Melville were the first residents. They had a log contract for two dollars a thousand feet. That would give them more than a dollar a day for each one, which was a dollar more than they could make any place else in those depression days. 

There hadn’t been much rain or snow for two years, but after they moved in snow started falling. The wind blasted out of the northwest, and the snow blowing out of the trees made it so a person couldn’t see more than fifty yards. The temperature dropped below zero and the Reynolds brothers got homesick for downtown Melville and home cooking, and besides, they knew that when October came, they could get some really bad weather. They moved back to town and Riley Doore became their replacement.

Riley was a good worker, a good storyteller, and a passable cook. He had anti-freeze in his veins and wasn’t afraid of bad weather. Besides that, he needed a job. The round-roofed cabin was well protected from the wind, and it faced the south. This suited the needs of Briner and Doore as they reduced forest service trees to ten, twelve, fourteen, and sixteen-foot logs.  They were allowed to scatter the tree limbs, but the top of the tree stumps had to be no more that fourteen inches from the ground.  This caused trouble because the snow lay about two feet deep. But like Mother asked, “What can you expect if you work all winter back in the wilderness?” 

Riley Doore and Billy Briner batched all winter in the cabin.  Sometimes they hiked the mile and a half down to the sawmill or the next two miles to the Brannin Ranch where Anna Doore hung out. They seemed to enjoy a woman cooked meal. 

Winter wore the lumberjacks down, but, worse luck, that year spring came. The water in the Sweet Grass rose, and a fresh water spring creek sprung up beside the bank. The hole, which was dug under the cabin floor for potato storage, became filled with water. They had to wade to get to the cabins’ front door. And it was worse on the outside. The cabin had to be moved to higher ground about thirty feet away. 

 Another set-back, when the snow melted those fourteen inch stumps were two or three feet high and had to be cut off again. It was like sawing the trees down twice. You couldn’t blame Riley for deciding that Van Cleve’s Lazy K Bar offered a better way to make a living.

That summer the Forest Ranger marked more trees. Another logging crew was needed.  Two young Swedes came down from Canada. They were tree cutting dynamos who thought that the severest winter was like a Canadian spring. 

When Pearl Harbor was bombed, the available log cutters went into the army – all but one. He became known as Bunyon. He worked alone with a Swede bow saw. Suspicion had it that he was dodging the draft. Some time, in the warring forties, he left for parts unknown. Barney Brannin built a cabin for Bunyon. It is the one between Brannins and our place.

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New Clothes

Some kids looked through the Sears Catalog when they wanted new clothes. Not us. Our clothes where homemade. 

We went to the fabric store. Us girls made a beeline to the specially designed table that had a slanted top with a lip on it to keep the books from sliding onto the floor. There on the table were the dream catalogues. Simplicity. McCalls. Butterick. Vogue. We scanned the pages of the pattern books, keeping our fingers between the pages we liked most until we ran out of fingers. Our eyes looked all the way from matching short and top sets, to pants with lots of pockets, pretty dresses, skirts, blouses, and ball gowns. We even looked in the Vogue pattern book though Mama couldn’t afford one of those.

If we found a pattern Mama approved of, we would be allowed to thumb through the big cabinet drawers and pull out the pattern. Mama always read the back of the envelope to see what notions were suggested and the amount of fabric needed for our selection. I don’t think any of the garments Mama made were sewn just like the pattern and instructions given. We often liked the sleeves of one pattern, the neckline of another, the collar of another, extra pockets, etc. 

My Grandmother made us girls some of our summer play clothes. She made matching shorts and tops and put some kind of trim on it. I think my favorite outfit was made with black and white fabric and trimmed with red rickrack. It was special to get clothes that she made just for me because it meant I didn’t have to wear hand-me-downs. I sometimes got hand-me-downs from my brother as well as my sister. 

Even today when I walk into the fabric department, I find myself glancing over at the pattern books. Sometimes I even sit a spell and look though the patterns. By the time I’m done, all my fingers are stuck between the pages.

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A Matter of Perspective

I work in the financial arena. Working with the public is a unique, sometimes rewarding, sometimes frustrating experience. Some days it’s rewarding and completely satisfying, other days, not so much. Believe me – I’ve seen a lot in my many years of public service.

One day I had a customer who wanted to purchase an investment certificate. I showed her a rate sheet and gave explanation of the various interest terms. She groaned a bit and in the shakiest voice she could muster said, “Honey, I’m sixty-three years old. I probably won’t live four more years, so I’d better take the six-month certificate.”

A few days later, on the other end of the spectrum, I had a customer who inquired about the rates. I gave her a rate sheet to compare rates and terms. She said, “Honey, I’ll take the four-year certificate.” She was in her mid-nineties. I smiled, nodded and fixed it up for her. She didn’t know why I smiled. Immediately I thought of the lady I deemed as young in comparison to the 95ish year old “young” lady.

It’a all a matter or perspective!

  • Some people hide from the storm
  • Some people look for the rainbow
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Don’t Judge a Lens by Its Cover

We peered through the nursery window and scanned the names on the bassinettes until we found the newborn baby boy who belonged to my friend. The cute little guy was all bundled up in blankets and wore a little hat on his head. Daddy snapped a few pictures with his 35 mm camera. We visited my friend for a bit and stopped to take one last peek at the baby before heading out.

We went back to the waiting room where Daddy had left the beat-up old purse he used for a camera bag. When we got there, we looked around. There was no beat-up old purse. Had it only been a beat-up old purse, it wouldn’t have made much difference. It wasn’t worth anything. But there was something else inside the purse – a 200 mm lens. We went to the nurse’s station and asked if someone on staff had picked it up. They didn’t think so but called Lost and Found to check. No, nothing had been turned in. We made a stolen beat-up old purse report.

A couple of days later, I got a call from the hospital. One of the cleaning staff employees found the purse in the trash can in the ladies’ bathroom. 

  • fiber bottle

The lady on the phone said, “All that is in the purse is a bottle of fiber.”

I asked, “Is the bottle empty?”

She said, “I don’t know.” Well, she had not looked. Why would she have looked in a bottle of fiber?

I giggled and said, “Will you open it, please?”

Then she giggled, “Oh my! There’s a camera lens in here.”

“Yep, I’ll come get it.”

Never underestimate a beat-up old purse or fiber bottle. It might just hold a treasure.

Moral of the story:  Don’t judge a lens by its cover. (Things are not always as they appear).

  • Lens that was in the fiber bottle
  • Coffee mug
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The Palouse

One of the most fascinating landscapes I have witnessed is the Palouse region of Southeastern Washington. Green and gold waves roll gently across the open countryside. The smooth rolling hills take on even more characteristics as day washes away the night and when long evening shadows are consumed by darkness. 

  • Yellow fields on the edge of the Palouse

When I travel, I don’t just look for places with gorgeous scenery, but places ripe with history and unique geology. The rolling hills of the Palouse is one of those places. 

  • Green fields on the Palouse
  • Farm on the Palouse

Historically, the Mullan Road ran through this area. In fact, a section of the original road can still be seen. That might not mean anything to most, but for me, it gives a better insight of those who traveled that road from Ft. Benton, Montana to Walla Walla, Washington. It was the first wagon road to cross the Rocky Mountains to the Inland of the Pacific Northwest. The road ran through Prickly Pear valley near Gates of the Mountains where the Gibson brothers, who married a couple of Brannin cousins, ran the toll gate for King & Gillette. The road went through Silver City (where my Grandmother was born) and crossed the pass near Helena before continuing west. My Great Grandfather Brannin traveled that same road when he worked for King & Gillette as a cook and sometimes as a driver of the team that pulled the supply wagon. It doesn’t take much for me to imagine seeing him with the team as he traveled the same area I was in.

  • Events that formed the Palouse region

Geologically, this area is a unique jewel. Years ago, a glacial ice dam rose to 2000 feet high at the Montana Idaho border. The dam failed and flood waters rushed toward the Pacific Ocean. It left behind canyons and carved the Columbia River Gorge. Also, in its wake were a series of lakes. As the glaciers and flood waters advanced from Canada, the bedrock was crushed, creating a fine dust known as glacial flour. The lakes drained and left behind monumental quantities of silt. Southwestern winds blew. Loess dunes formed when windblown glacial flour, dust and silt settled in Southeastern Washington, Western Idaho, and Northeastern Oregon.

  • Fields of gold and green

The Palouse is one of the seven wonders of Washington State, and I can tell you, it is a wonder. Soft rolling fertile hills are covered with wheat and legume fields. Combines and other farm equipment follow the contour of the hills as they comb the slopes, cutting up to 100 acres of grain in a single day. The Palouse has the highest lentil production in the US and has increased its production of vineyards and wineries. 

  • Community on the Palouse
  • Shadows add definition and depth to the loess hills

Steptoe Butte, at 3,612 feet, rises like an island out of the loess hills. From its height, it offers panoramic views of the productive sea of farmland. Depending on the season, lush shades of green fields or shades of brown and gold roll like ocean waves in the valley below. Riparian areas attract a diversity of species of birds and provide the perfect breeding habitat.

  • Steptoe Butte
  • View from the ascent to Steptoe Butte

There are various areas of basalt formations in the region. The Palouse River drops 200 feet and moves quickly through the winding basalt gorge and makes its way to the Snake River. Beside the falls is a series of broken basalt pipes that look like the workings of a pipe organ. 

  • Basalt formations along the road
  • Broken basalt pipes that look like a pipe organ. See the trail around
    the base of the pipes at the top of the falls?
  • The Palouse Falls (note the basalt pipe formation just to the left at the top of the falls).

The Palouse is peaceful and serene. Soft rolling hills and muted blended colors give a sense of pastoral perfection to this verdant landscape. Just looking out over the loess dunes brings a calmness over my soul and renews my spirit. I believe our paths will cross again.

  • Long shadows of evening
  • Sunset over the Palouse
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Scratched It Right Out of the Box

One day a girl at work asked for my Angel Food Cake recipe. I wrote down the ingredients and instructions and emphasized that it was very important that she hang the cake upside down on a bottle after she took it from the oven to cool. A couple of days later she said she had made the cake and didn’t know what happened because it was flat. I asked, “Did you hang it upside down on a bottle?” “No. I thought that sounded strange.” “Well, that’s your problem. I told you what would happen if you didn’t.” 

My Grandmother made good Angel Food Cakes. As she got older, she often cheated and made it from a mix. Cousin Toni made good Angel Food Cakes. My Mother told me that my Great Grandmother was a master Angel Food Cake baker. She used a utensil with coiled wire to whip the egg whites, on a plate no less. I haven’t tried to whip it on a plate yet. Instead I use a big stainless-steel bowl.

My Mother made Angel Food Cakes on occasion. She had bouts with Meniere’s Disease that put her to bed for days. For a time, it was so severe she couldn’t even get out of bed. Even at her best, there were some duties she could no longer manage. One of those was running a mixer. Daddy took over the cooking. That really was severe and quite interesting!

One day, when my daughter-in-law was having lunch with them, Daddy served Angel Food Cake for dessert. She asked, “Daddy Buck, did you make this from scratch?” He answered, “Yep! I scratched it right out of the box.”

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The Last Leg

Cross Country (Part sixteen)

What a trip! I cringe when I think of my mother as her two youngest kids pulled out of the yard three months earlier. I don’t remember how often we called home, but I venture a guess that it was not often enough for her. After all, there was no such thing as a cell phone so we had to rely on pay phones. Our journey had passed all too quickly as far as I was concerned. Our hearts were sad as we left the land I had come to love as a small child. Instead of looking back, I decided to look forward. to the last leg of our journey.

As I have relayed our story to you, I think of things that I left out, mostly by accident. Just last night I thought about visiting other cousins as well somewhere in California, Townsend, and Hysham. I also left out picking buffalo berries with Babs, picking gooseberries at Olson Field, and chokecherries with ElVera. Buffalo berries are vicious little critters to pick. Long, long thorns protect the berries tucked up at the base of the thorn. You have to be serious about jelly to pick very many of those salmon colored berries. Our gooseberry jelly had little stems in it, otherwise we would still be trying to separate those little woodsy slivers of stem from the much too small berry. But, boy, was it good! Chokecherries make the best syrup and the jelly’s not too bad. We managed to make room for jars of jelly to go home with us. I picked stems out of my teeth for quite some time.

  • Old Faithful

We still had a couple more stops to make. Though we had been to Yellowstone National Park on more than one occasion (and have since then, too), that was our destination, if only just to pass through. There had been an earthquake there about six weeks previously. I don’t remember seeing any effects of the quake. We were only two of 2,239,500 people to visit Yellowstone that year, but we didn’t stay there long. Our road took us through Yellowstone into the Tetons. Those mountains are fascinating. In the geological world of mountains, the Tetons are a relatively young range. They are sharp and jagged and absolutely breathtaking, not worn away by age. We visited the Chapel of Transfiguration with its big picture window that has a picture-perfect view of the Grand Tetons. I remember the mountains looking like “purple mountains majesty.”

  • Chapel of Transfiguration

When we got to Rock Springs, Wyoming, the road was wide open. By that time, knowing that our journey was coming to an end, we just drove. I was surprised that I had about forgotten what trees looked like. The further east and south, the more trees. The landscape changed from being virtually treeless to seeing as many trees on one acre of land as we had seen in five hundred miles. Thick foliage became lush, dense and green on trees that seemed to grow like magic bean stalks. It was then that I thought maybe I had missed the green trees just a bit.

By the time we got to Kentucky, the end was almost in sight. We drove down a country road that wandered through farmland. Fields of tobacco, some freshly cut, reached for miles, separated by trees along the edge of the fields. A thick “fog” hovered over the valley. We came near an old barn that had smoke billowing out of cracks and seams and  under the doors. I thought it was on fire until I saw part of the barn opened up. It was then I saw the barn was filled with tobacco hung upside down as it was smoke curing. I was once again reminded that each part of the country has its own culture and personality.

After that, it was only a matter of hours before we turned into the driveway. I’m sure when we got home, we had many stories to tell. Surely our faces reflected the grand adventures we experienced. We unpacked and took special care with the treasures we brought home. By far, the greatest treasure we returned with was a whole passel of memories of places and people who had crossed our paths. Priceless.

I hope you enjoyed our grand adventure. Thanks for taking the journey with us!

  • Grand Tetons

Part Fifteen

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Perfect Pitch

I had never seen anyone like him. His skin was white as a sheet and it looked as if new fallen snow rested on his white hair and frosted eyebrows. Pale blue eyes were shadowed by thick coke-bottle-lensed glasses. Those appearances of the Albino man were a stark contrast to anyone I knew. Yet, it wasn’t so much his appearance that struck me, but rather his quintessential skill.

The Albino piano tuner entered the parsonage. I’m confident that he could have found the piano just by sensing the unstruck keys that ached to break out in song at the master’s command. He removed the front panel of the piano to reveal the workings that consisted of a labyrinth of over two hundred strings, pins, and felt. Soon he laid out his tools. He treated the piano as he would a newborn baby, handling each instrument with care as he tuned every note.

There was magic in his fingers. He used the tuning hammer, turning each pin slightly left to relax the string, then right to tighten. As he turned the pin, he struck the key to make sure the string was in tune, then moved to the other strings that created the “unison” of that note before proceeding to the others. He listened as he played 3rds and 5ths and octaves. What made such an impression was the fact that he did not need a tuning fork or an electronic chromatic tuner. He merely listened and sensed with his ears. He had perfect pitch.

Every hammer, damper, and piece of felt was gently caressed. He sat on the bench, lifted his hands and placed his fingers gently on the keys. Music flowed from the strings as his fingers glided over the keys. The tune that rang from the strings was a pure unadulterated melody. The musical masterpiece filled the room and echoed from the hallway.

The master tuner may have been considered legally blind, but what seemed a hindrance to some may be a blessing to others. His vision was impaired, but his other senses were enhanced. As his fingers tickled the ivories, he became one with the piano. There was mutual respect between the two. He needed no assistance to know if the piano was in tune. His sense of hearing was all he needed along with the skill of tuning.

And I wonder, we rely so much on vision we miss what our other senses want to show us. Our eyes often become the hindrance that narrows our vision. What if we allowed all our senses to work together in perfect pitch? What melody could we unlock?

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Memory Lane

Cross Country (Part Fifteen)

Uncle Buster and Aunt Viola wanted us to stay a few more days, but our time was quickly passing like sands through the hourglass. Our cross-country adventure had taken us many extraordinary places – oceans, canyons, deserts, waterfalls, trees, mountains, caverns, prairies and rainforests, and we met many extraordinary people including relatives. But there were still a few places to go and we wanted more time to spend with our grandmother before heading south.

I didn’t grow up near my Montana Grandmother but every time we went to visit, we just picked up where we had left off. The best place in the house to sit was right beside her on the sofa. She wore a cotton dress with a narrow little belt, thick stockings, lace up shoes, and a sweater. An afghan or two was draped over the sofa to be used for her afternoon nap.  She always had a story to tell about family or friends and neighbors. She would talk a while, then click her teeth together, blink her eyes, and smile.

Our cross-country trip would not be complete without going “up the canyon.” Our aunt did the driving. We all piled into her truck and headed to the mountains to the old homeplace. Sis and I rode in the back of the truck and held on as we hit bumps and rocks and forded creeks.  As always, we were in awe of the mountains, streams, wildflowers, antelope and deer, and the fresh air. We pulled into the yard and hopped out of the truck. As my grandmother went into the log house, I could imagine her living there with kids under foot and cooking on the old wood cookstove for whoever showed up at her door. Living in the mountains were for people who were tough as nails. They had to be able to survive long winters and make do with what they had. I had great admiration for her. In fact, everyone I knew had the highest regard and respect for her. She was kind, hospitable, giving, loving, feisty, adventurous and forgiving. Plus, she was soft and squishy and cuddly, and had arms long enough to wrap around a kid or two..

The old cookstove was fed some kindling and a match lit to get the fire going, Sis and I hauled water from the horse trough where the best water in the world flowed out of the pipe that led from the spring. Soon the tea kettle was whistling, and a pan of water was heating for washing dishes. We had our lunch and hot tea at the long handmade wooden table where the family had eaten for years along with lumberjacks, sawmillers, neighbors and friends. After a day in the mountains, we headed back to town. I never tired of going to the mountains. There was always an adventure, even if it were only bumping up and down in the back of the truck or hopping out to open and shut the gates. I don’t recall any time when I didn’t leave the mountains without an ache in my chest. 

My Daddy grew up in the mountains, but my Mother grew up on the prairies. She loved the wide-open spaces where you could see for miles. We couldn’t leave until we visited the house on Tin Can Hill where my grandparents lived for several years. We never knew how the road would be. Sourdough Road is definitely the road less traveled, riddled with deep ruts and stretches of gumbo when it rains.

There was nothing to obstruct the view while driving through the prairie. Prairie grass swayed in the breeze and eagles rode on the wind. After cresting a hill at the curve in the road, a house that looked like a miniature was seen in the distance. There was an old barn that was a work of art. An old willow grew behind the house, indicating that there may have been spring. On one side of the house was a row of Russian Olive trees my Grandfather planted as a wind break. The old house, not so regal, still stands, at least on the outside. It has been used for a shooting range, but the old walls of the house still manage to stand erect. Some of the wooden shingles seem to hang on for life while others are held precariously by one little nail. There’s just something special about that place. I can visualize my Granddad’s old truck sitting beside the house and my mom, aunt and uncle on their horses, clothes blowing sideways on the line. 

The trip down memory lane was over. We drank one last milkshake at the old soda fountain in town.  One more night and then we would head home. The night ended too quickly. With one final look at the mountains, our car turned the opposite direction and headed south. 

Part Fourteen

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I Wouldn’t Eat That at Home

Waves gently rocked the cruise ship. It had been a gorgeous day and we were able to share some of the culture of Mexico before heading out to sea again. We were dressed in our finest as we were seated at the table for dinner. The waiter shook out each napkin to lay them in our laps – all fifteen of us. The table was set with a clean, neatly pressed tablecloth, glasses and silverware lined up just so. 

The menu seemed endless. If you have ever been on a cruise, you know there are lots of cuisines and food choices available. You can find almost anything to satisfy your taste buds from pizza and ice cream to filet mignon and fresh lobster and everything in between. The waiter gave us ample time to decide what we would like before he came back to take our orders. 

When the waiter came to Daddy and asked what he would like, Daddy said, “I’ll have the escargot.” 

“What? Why? You know that’s snails.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t eat that at home.”

  • Sister Ellen

He learned that little trick from Sister Ellen when they went to the Holy Land together along with Cousin Kitty and Cousin Beth. When they got home from that trip, Daddy laughed as he told about Sister Ellen ordering things she would never eat at home. I guess that’s a pretty good philosophy and one that I adopt when traveling. 

Though I’ve never had escargot, and don’t intend to, I did suck it up, literally, and had raw oysters that taste like the salty ocean breeze. Actually, I had them more than once. I have also had squid, which is something else I never intended to eat. 

Sometimes you just have to step out of the box and expand your horizons and your senses.