The fire was going in the wood cookstove and water was getting hot for tea and for a bath in the old washtub. Finally, the chill was gone from the air as flames licked the stone fireplace and heated the log cabin. It wouldn’t be long until the smells of a hot meal filled to room and welcomed the hikers yet to return from the mountains.
The steady rain eased up and rays of sunshine managed to squeeze through the clouds. It was then I noticed a rainbow. The arc was so close, I could see the colors of the prism between me and the trees just beyond the Ward and Parker gate. Had we been in Ireland, I am positive there would have been a leprechaun searching for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Never had I see such a sight. The colors were bright and vivid. I thought about walking toward the trees but was afraid the bow would disappear altogether. As if a magic wand painted the sky, another fainter rainbow appeared over the brighter one. Just as quickly as it came, they were both gone. When the hikers arrived a few minutes later, all evidence of the colorful phenomenon was erased.
Over forty years later just a few miles away, another rainbow appeared. Once again, the colors of the bow could be seen rising up from the prairie grass casting its hues on the trees behind. A second bow arced over the first.
at the edge of Porcupine Butte; the colors of the bow in front of the hill
Another rainbow looked like an arch holding up the sky, spanning across two corners of the earth. The second bow sent sparkling water particles upward until they faded from view. I think that was the biggest, most magnificent rainbow I have ever seen.
over Big Timber 2012
When rain has fallen and the sun magically appears, look to the east. You might just see a promise of a lifetime.
Autumn rainbow 2018 – it followed us all the way to Livingston
The little boy walked alone on the trail home. Shadows lengthened as the sun fell lower and lower in the sky. Even the long shadow of the little boy made him seem like a giant monster. Something lurked behind the trees. Large glowing yellow eyes peered between low hanging branches in the looming evening light. The boy’s pace hastened. No matter how fast he walked, he imagined a monstrous mountain lion matching his stride step for step.
A knot of fear rose in the little boy’s throat. He began to run. Swish. Swish. The noise got louder and louder. Something was after him. The little boy ran as fast as he could. The faster he ran, the faster and louder the noise of the chase. He didn’t dare look behind him, but only kept his eyes focused ahead. Soon he saw smoke from the chimney. He knew home was just over the rise.
He ran through the gate that clanged and clanked as it bounced shut. Just a few more steps and he would be safe. The screen door slammed behind him. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath. Perspiration beaded up on his forehead. He no longer heard the sound of the mountain lion that chased him. There was his mom, apron on, as she prepared supper for a hungry little imaginative boy. He knew he was safe!
The little boy & his Daddy
As he walked to the table, he heard a faint swishing noise. He stopped. Nothing. He took a few more steps. There was that sound again. The noise seemed to come from him. He looked down and realized that with every step he took, his corduroy britches rubbed together. His Daddy wore corduroy britches that went “Swosh, Swosh,” when he walked, but corduroy britches on a little boy sounded like a mountain lion ready to pounce.
After the long trip across the country, we pulled into my grandmother’s driveway. It was wonderful to be out of the car and stretch our legs. Traveling that long distance, skin on skin with the five sibs, we were ready to be free of the car and one another. Mama was probably the happiest! She might get some reprieve from all the noise and fussing that went on in the back seat.
Cousin Jim standing on horse
The first order of business after visiting with my Grandmother a bit was to go downtown to the post office to see Cousin Jim. Any day to see Cousin Jim was a good day! For one thing, he was a great storyteller. For another, Cousin Ruth was a great cook. He always invited us, the whole mess of us, to their house for supper, and believe me, that was something we didn’t want to miss!
I had a snack in my Grandmother’s crabapple tree the afternoon before going to their house for supper. By the time we were seated and the food was being passed around the table, my stomach churned and burned and started to boil. I had to leave. My sister ran with me back to the house. I barely made it before exploding. My Grandmother had told me not to eat too many, but I didn’t listen. I had no idea those tiny little tart apples that made my mouth water were actually ticking time bombs ready to explode.
Let me tell you, I didn’t make that mistake the next time we were invited for supper! I didn’t want to miss a bite!
Living on the prairies was all the young girl had known. Though the automobile had brought changes to much of the country, life on the prairie remained much the same. She and her sister had to walk to school. The three miles to Knob Hill School was a lot closer than town which was only thirty miles away. Some days in the wintertime as the girls walked to school, a coyote trailed behind them in the snow. In spring and fall, they had to watch for rattlesnakes.
They lived in rattlesnake country. One of the chores the young girl had was to sweep the snakes off the porch and keep the fiery serpents out of the small fenced in yard as well as off the path that led to the outhouse. One day she went to bring the cows in and found a snake that filled the water bucket.
Rattlesnake country
To those who lived on the prairie, a prairie rattler was part of life. It was as common as the angry green clouds that hurled stones of ice to the ground and the winds that caused the golden prairie grass to ripple like waves of the ocean. Rattlers gave a warning signal if an unsuspecting passerby got too close. The hailstorms also gave a warning, as seen in the color of the clouds ready to unleash their heavy load.
The girl’s father grew up on the prairies, too, from the plains of Nebraska and Oklahoma to Montana. He knew how to handle snakes. *He claimed he could grab a rattler by the tail, crack it like a rawhide whip, and snap its head off. His youngest sister verified his story and said she saw him do it on more than one occasion. Had he been able to lasso the hail clouds and cast them back to where they came from, he might have done that, too.
The young girl grew up. She taught at Cavill School, a one room schoolhouse on the prairie. Though she eventually moved from the prairie, the prairie never completely left her.
You might think this is just some tall tale, but I can assure you this is a true story. I’m as sure as I am my mother’s daughter, these events are true accounts in the life of my mother and grandfather.
Though I have never seen a snake on the prairie, I am cautious. I jump at the sound of those little insects or birds that make rattling noises, and I always wear a pair of boots when walking in the tall prairie grass or an abandoned homestead.
When I was a kid, I collected frogs, live frogs, and I didn’t even get warts. There was a muddy Georgia creek close by and it was prime frog habitat. Sometimes we’d go to the creek and dip a scoop of tadpole water into a pot, take it the front yard, and check daily on their progress.
My frogs were special. They had names. I named all my frogs “George.” That’s a good name for a frog because they all like being called “George.”
One day my sister said, “Let me name this frog.” I said, “Okay, but if you name it anything other than George, it will hop away.” She pondered a minute, then said, “I’m going to name him James.” That was not a good idea. She sat him on the ground and immediately he hopped away. Frogs do not like to be called “James.”
My Guest Author today is my Grandfather, as he recounted his tales to my Dad. He lived on the prairies in homestead days. He was born in Nebraska, lived in Oklahoma for a period of time, then the family traveled by covered wagons to the prairies of Montana. He told many a tale of his prairie wanderings, including stories from when he worked at the Long X situated along the Montana Hi-Line.
The Long X outfit moved up from Texas with a big herd of cattle. They ran cattle all over the country and had a number of cowhands working for them. Buster worked for the Long X. Every year there would be a celebration on the Second of May. It was a May Day celebration with people coming one afternoon and not leaving until the next day. Some of them stayed in the new ranch and some stayed a few miles away in the old log ranch buildings. That was where they had their dance. All the young bachelors were supposed to get a gal to bring to the dance. Reynolds Jones didn’t find one. Fred Shoemaker knew someone across the Missouri on the mouth of the Musselshell and swam his horse across. Maybe used a boat to get her back and left her horse on the lower side and had a Long X horse stationed on the other side for her to ride on to the dance.
Buster decided to take a young schoolteacher to the dance. He had to ride 35 miles to get her and escort her back. He had a horse called Skookie Sturgeon because of the way he acted in the water. He sank to the bottom most of the time.
It took the better part of the week to get the school marm to the two-day celebration and back to the ranch. The weather was cloudy. It began to rain, and the rain was mixed with snow. Most of the crowd hung around a couple of days longer so it was a three or four day affair at the best.
One of the party goers was One Eyed Stuart (Young Granville) whose sister issued him an allowance on a monthly basis to keep him from blowing it all at one time. One Eye wore a patch where a horse had kicked his eye out. He had a college education but was a real roper and cowhand who always caught branding calves by two hind feet at the same time. He liked to drink and gamble. At the celebration Buster counted his losses, but One Eye lost two hundred dollars at the poker part of the party.
Buster was due to lose more ‑ after the celebration. He had to leave early. The teacher just had to get back. Buster hesitated when the snow was flying, but decided it was getting safe weather to travel. He tied his new suit on behind his saddle and started back with the teacher. When they got to Telegraph Creek, it was running high and wide.
Buster put the teacher on the best horse and slapped his saddle on Skookie Sturgeon. The teacher crossed fine, but the Sturgeon got halfway and went to the bottom. Buster ended up swimming. The horse drowned and floated down the creek. The new suit and saddle were later retrieved from an island where the horse washed ashore.
A replacement horse rammed something in his foot and the teacher and Buster had to finish their journey riding double and towing a lame horse.
The teacher said, “Buster, you’re not safe to go out with,” and she didn’t go with him again.
The celebration was sort of a washout. Buster said he lost a week’s work, his horse, a new suit of clothes, and one of the best girls he had dated.
Daddy puttered off to the computer room. After about 15 minutes he returned. He was looking for something and couldn’t find it. “What were you looking for?” “A song book.” “What does it look like?” “It is kind of torn apart. It’s the old Cokesbury book. Well, I’m headed to bed.” He puttered on his way. A few minutes later he blew past me with his rolling walker. “I’m going to look someplace else.” He soon returned, book in hand. When I went in to tickle his feet, put in his eye drops and tuck him in for the night, he was looking through the songbook. “What are you looking for?” “The song that Leroy liked to sing.” He couldn’t remember the name of it. I flipped through the pages and stopped on page 153, unbeknown that was the song.
That’s when I remembered his story about Leroy. After Mama and Daddy moved to the South they became acquainted with Leroy and his family. Leroy was a bit slow – just like his folks. When it came plowing time, Leroy’s daddy hooked the plow up to Leroy and Leroy’s mom. They were the work mules. At church on Sunday Leroy would holler out, “Let’s sing One Fifty Three.” That was 153 in the Cokesbury Hymnal, “Love, Mercy and Grace.” I guess that song was sung every time Leroy was in the congregation.
Leroy’s folks would send him down the road to one of the neighbors to get their milk. He strolled down the red dirt road and got his bottle of milk. The poor guy got thirsty on the way home and drank some of it. His mom would kill him if he didn’t return with a full bottle of milk, so he veered off the road, headed to the creek, and filled the bottle before taking it home to his mom.
Family taking in the sights. Maybe Leroy passed by that day.
When my mother set up a burial fund through the funeral home, my daddy didn’t. I figure he thought he’d live forever. Not long after that, my mother’s fund was cashed in. Daddy became my sidekick – for almost twelve years.
Even though I suggested he change his will and make final arrangements, he kept putting it off. He finally decided it was a good idea when he understood his procrastination would put an extra burden on me.
When I asked who he would like to preach his funeral, this man, who had preached for 50+ years, said, “I don’t want a preacher.” Okay – well – that didn’t help much. “Whatever you decide will be fine.” I really didn’t like that burden of responsibility so let it slide for the time being.
The Man of the Mountains with his two oldest kids
One morning in January 2018, I gave the Man of the Mountains an assignment. I said, “Daddy, I’ve decided on a preacher for your funeral.” He looked at me a bit puzzled since he had already told me more than once that he didn’t want a preacher. “Who is it?” I paused a second and said, “You.” His eyes lit up, he got a great big smile and he chuckled that chuckle of his.
I told him I’d keep it a secret. Not even the family would know who was to speak at his funeral. He laughed. “I can say, ‘Hey, I’ve been asked to do a funeral for this old man and I know him better than anybody else.” He jiggled as he laughed, “He got old in a hurry and it was because of the company he kept. He had sisters to bring him up – his older sister,” he paused, “and his younger sister made a contribution towards bringing him up because she’d kick his slats in if he got out of line. He respected her!’”
One of these girls “kicked his slats in”
After a period of several weeks, in between many days when he could barely breathe, I recorded him telling stories of his life, his family and his ministry. Little did I know at the time that in three short months his family and a congregation of friends would be watching and listening to him preach his own funeral.
This morning as I rocked on the front porch and listened to the recording of the above conversation, I couldn’t help but chuckle a bit myself. Hearing his voice again brought back many remembrances of the sheer joy of spending time with him. We shared one last secret.
His words brought laughter and tears. He didn’t need a preacher.
A bit of history from the writings of my Guest Author, my Dad
“The good are always merry, Save by evil chance, And the merry love to frolic, And the merry love to dance.”
The earliest Melville I knew had a store, an old hotel, a tin barn, saloon, blacksmith shop and some 6-8 dwellings. The tin barn served as a dance hall and service center. Its basement was used for the dance supper. I remember it only faintly. When Stanley Hansen’s tin shed saloon burned down, he built a regular dance hall. It was a log building in the Northeast corner of town, just north of where the hotel had stood. A Delco light plant furnished the power for the lights in the saloon and dance hall. A gasoline explosion beside the Delco burned this building to the ground. Sometime, before this, two different Melville stores had burned down. One was next to the Allman home. It had a sizeable basement and Victor Allman bought the burned building. He used the basement to hold the trucking equipment for his hauling business. Then he built a dance hall on the upper part of the burned-out building.
This photo of Melville had the date of 1910 written on it
The Melville dances I remember were held in the Allman Hall. Admission was a dollar. In my first high school years, music was furnished by George Tronrud, Sr. on a fiddle; his daughter Bernice, on the piano; young George or Morris on the drums; and sometimes young Adolph with a clarinet. Later Beans Tronrud (Morris, Jr.) took over the Tronrud orchestra. Beans was a great pianist and could have done well in the music profession.
the last Melville dance hallthe dance hall is no longer standing
Melville dances were promoted by the Melville dude ranchers – especially the Harts, Van Cleves, and Donalds. The dude ranchers shared in dance promotion but not the clean up after a dance. When Janice Allman got tired of fixing dance suppers and listening to the noise of the dances, Vic Allman closed the dance hall. Then, Bob Hart held some dances on the Hart Ranch. At one of them, the youngest son of the United States Secretary of Army swam the length of the Hart swimming pool with his “go to dance” clothes on.
My father called the dances “Melville Hops.” Sometimes he hopped too much, and Mother drove home. One time Jimmy Hicks celebrated too much and sang, “Kimono, Kimono, the wind is blowing round my knees. Kimono, Kimono, if you don’t find me soon, I’ll freeze.” (This was an adoption of a song entitled, “Ramona.”) When he said, “Kiss me Virginia,” to my cousin it was time to go home. He opened the pole gate above Rein’s house, fell down, and lost the change in his pocket. The next day Mama found 57 cents and kept it for driving him home.
When I reached high school age, a Melville Hop on Saturday in the Dude season was a good social endeavor. I learned to dance “Put your Little Foot” – not as good as my uncle and aunt – Ed Brannin and Julia Cannon – but passable for a Melville Hop. I also liked Schottisches, Square Dances, Circle Two Steps, and Tags.
Some of the dancers built reputations that led to unofficial nick-names. One was “The Galloping Swede.” He was a speedy dancer that galloped his partner around the perimeter of the dance floor. He pumped out the rhythm with his left arm like he was manning a pump for a fire brigade. My wife, Jean, was one of his favorite dancing partners.
Dancing the Schottische in the kitchen
Another, a younger fellow of barely High School age, was “Backing Up McClure.” He danced all over the floor, backing up and bumping into people. He liked to navigate with my little sister, Mary Jane. Maybe he danced with his eyes closed.
World War II took me away from the Melville Hops. Shortly after that the American Legion built a Hall in Big Timber which is still a social center for community activities. None-the-less, the Melville Hops might still be going on if Bob Hart had not lost his life. After that people went to Big Timber, Harlowton, the Wild Rose School House, and the Legion Hall.
(P. S. I don’t know how wild Rose was, but I heard that her school house was a good place for Saturday night’s fist fights.)
Cousin Benny was kind of fun to have around. He was always good for entertainment and maybe even a bit of harmless trouble. My oldest sister might not agree with that.
We were headed to the mountains for a day of tromping around the old home place, wading in freezing creeks, hiking to the lake and beyond, and, of course, a picnic. Mama stayed back in town. I just can’t figure out why she didn’t want to go to the heart of the mountains with her husband and a car full of kids stacked on top of one another. One of those kids was Cousin Benny. When his face wore that cheesy smile that turned up at the corners, his eyes danced with mischief.
All went well. No one fell and busted a limb. No one got cut jumping from rock to rock in the creek. No one froze to death in the ice cold water. No one drowned in the lake. We had our picnic with no incident, and we all drank a belly full of fresh spring water. Back then, we could even belly flop and drink straight from the fast-flowing stream. Cousin Babs once said that the water ran so fast it purified itself every few feet. I believed her! Our bellies believed it, too, and we never got sick.
Little green non-poisonous snakes were sometimes found at Gommie’s Lake.
As the sun gave its warning that it had to rest soon, we all piled into the car for the return trip to town. Big Sis got to sit in the front seat because she was the oldest kid with us – and the most reserved and refined. She was a no-nonsense teenager. There may have been another kid or two crammed in the front, but the rest of us scrawny, wet, dirty kids climbed in the back seat, including Cousin Benny.
Those old cars could go anywhere. It didn’t matter if it was a smooth paved road or two parallel dirt trails with tall grass growing in between. There was no trouble fording the creeks. If we hit a rock, that old car just bounced up onto another and off we’d go, the crunching sound of river rocks beneath as they spit out from under the tires. Hitting the rocks and bumps in the road was like riding a bucking bronc.
We hit a deep hole and catapulted out. Cousin Benny let out a shriek. Daddy stopped the car, “What’s the matter?” He didn’t see any blood and no one was missing. Cousin Benny said, “My snake got loose.” My refined, reserved big sister let out a scream. We all stumbled over one another getting out of the car. Well – all but my big sister. She was glued to her seat but threw her feet up on the dashboard quicker than greased lightning.
We looked under the seats. We looked in cracks. We called, “Here snake.” That poor snake was scared to death and he buried himself where no hand could reach. There was no choice but for us to pile back into the car and continue our journey. I will have to admit that my feet were pulled up on my seat, too.
It was quiet on the trip to town. Well, I take that back. My sister complained all the way back. She released her arsenal of fiery darts at Cousin Benny as she muttered threats under her breath, casting backward glances as often as she could without getting a crick in her neck. Her feet never touched the floorboard. The snake didn’t show his little green head or any other part of him. We pulled into the driveway and big sis shot out of the car like a rocket, even before the car came to a complete stop. The search for the snake continued. With sis out of the way, he thought it was safe to emerge from his hiding place. He was released from his prison with a stack of kids and an angry teenager. He slithered away to find a peaceful refuge. And so ends my story of Snake in the Car!!!!
Cousin Benny with his snake friend and his brother
