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The Apple Trees of Sapillo Creek

The Apache Scout looked down on the Brannin Ranch where Sapillo Creek wandered through the valley.  From that vantage point, the scout had a clear view of one of the Brannin boys on horseback who watched the stock grazing. Across the field, Guadalupe and some of the kids were busy with household chores and other projects. Smaller children played in the yard around the log cabin. The corral, barn and other buildings were in clear view. That wasn’t the first time Apache scouts made their way to the Brannin Ranch. They visited from time to time, often unseen. For the most part, except for an occasional cow taken for their livelihood, the family and stock were left alone, maybe because the Brannins allowed them food on occasion, maybe because Guadalupe could have passed as one of their kin, or because they believed she might just be the daughter of their revered Chief Victorio.

the ranch – notice the cabin on the left

The ranch along Sapillo Creek was thirty miles from Silver City, New Mexico. In 1876, Stanton Brannin left the mining town of Georgetown and set up a sawmill on the property on the Sapillo. A log house, corral and barn were constructed. Later, a shingle machine was added. Stanton also planted an orchard of apple trees.  Eleven kids grew up in sight of those trees. If only trees could talk, they would have informed the family of more than just the presence of Indians and strong-armed land hungry ranchers who passed through the property.

Part of the apple orchard planted circa 1880
Remains of the orchard in 1996

The boys were always looking for adventures and didn’t have to go far to find them. On a lazy Sunday afternoon, they offered great entertainment at the astonishment of neighbors out for a Sunday drive in their wagons. There was a great repository of mud by the creek. The boys stripped down to their birthday suits and rolled in the mud until they were amply covered. When an unsuspecting couple came by in their wagon, the boys jumped out and danced like madmen. The horses spooked and gave their passengers quite a ride. It didn’t take long for the boys’ father to catch wind of their performance. That put an end to that!

illustration of the mud dancers drawn by a granddaughter of Stanton & Guadalupe

Along with cattle, horses, and Angora goats, they also had some burros. The boys hated the burros, especially Dick. He would much rather ride a horse. It was an insult to have to ride a burro. The burros were slow, lazy, and stubborn. The boys decided to drown one of the nasty beasts. They tied a log to its halter and pushed it into the swollen creek in the swimming hole. The ploy did not work. Little did they know the log would float. It drifted to the edge of the creek and the burro just walked out!

Maybe the trees would have told about the Apaches who camped at the pond near the Brannin cabin. The Indians may have grabbed an apple or two on their way to borrow and return a pair of scissors to cut their hair. Maybe the trees saw the ghost of Charley Woods walk through the orchard before he climbed up the pole in the barn. Maybe they heard the boys beneath their limbs as they conspired to string barbed wire at neck height from one side of the draw to the other with the intent to slit the throats of GS cowboys.

the last tree 2012

That’s when Stanton decided it was time to move the family. He left the untamed wilds of New Mexico in 1895 to more civilized lands – the untamed wilds of Montana. In 1896, they had made it to their destination where their last two children were born.

One hundred years later, descendants of Stanton and Guadalupe Brannin gathered at the site of the Brannin Ranch on the Sapillo. Still standing, twisted and weathered, were a few apple trees. Sixteen years after that meeting, we stood in the same place again and had our picture made with the last lone tree planted by Grandfather Brannin about one hundred thirty-four years earlier.

If only trees could talk!

grandson of Stanton and Guadalupe looking down on the ranch site from Apache Hill
view from Apache Hill, notice the man on horseback looking over the horses and field

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Do ALL Preachers’ Daughters Really Play the Piano?

My sister and I moved into a new neighborhood. That drew many speculations among the neighbors. They eyed us from behind their bushes or peeked through the curtains that covered their front windows. 

One afternoon, the next-door neighbor was in the yard and came over to speak to us. Somehow the conversation turned to us being preacher’s daughters. The guy said, “Oh, so you play the piano.” I said, “Well …. yes, but why would you assume that?” He said, “ALL preachers’ daughters play the piano.” I responded, “That’s not true.” But at that moment, I honestly could not think of one preacher’s daughter I knew who did not play the piano. Maybe he was right. He’s the one that thought we were WACs, too, and that wasn’t true.

The little word “all” is one of the biggest words in the English language. It is ALL inclusive, so can easily turn into one of the smallest, narrowest words in the English language. Though it encompasses a vast range, it also narrows by stereotyping and takes away individuality. 

ALL preachers’ daughters DO NOT play the piano is one of many misconceptions.

Handle ALL with care!

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The Candy Man

I know the Candy Man.

I can tell you what he looks like.

He has a bald head except for a few wayward hairs that have escaped extermination. He wears a cowboy hat. There is a twinkle in both of his blue eyes. He has some white stubble hidden in the creases in his face so the razor can’t snip it off. There is always a story on the tip of his tongue. He plays the fiddle. He is tall and lean. Two leather work gloves are either on his hands, in one hand, or on the arm of the furniture so he can grab them quickly. He would rather drive a tractor than a car. He would rather pee outside and has been known to make a trip outside just for the occasion. He has a big lap. His rough work hands can hold a delicate rose, stroke a soft baby chick, or pick up a little kid. A smile lives on his face. His ears don’t work too well unless something is said that he wants to hear. He would rather be piddling in the barn or outdoors than closed up in the house. He likes coffee with lots of cream and lots of sugar. Almost every meal is the best he has ever had. He likes candy. No, he loves candy.

  • The twinkly blue eyed Candy Man

Any time we visited the Candy Man was a good day, but Thursdays were the best. You see, Thursday was the day the Candy Man and his Missus made the weekly trip to town. The Missus, Miss Margueritte, was the chauffeur. She took off her apron, put on a clean dress, brushed her hair nicely, stretched on her stockings, laced up her shoes, grabbed her purse and got in the driver’s seat. The Candy Man slid in the seat beside her. Kids, if they were lucky enough to be there on Thursday, climbed in the back.

On the way to town, the Candy Man talked about the pastures and barns of the places we passed, admired the cattle, commented on the gardens, told stories, and urged the Missus to sing the song about the Strawberry Roan. She never obliged. When the chauffer pulled into the parking place, everybody in the car piled out and headed through the front door of the store.

My sister and I were with them on many occasions. While “Miss Margueritte” took her buggy to load down with groceries, we went with the Candy Man. Do you know where we went? Yep. To the candy aisle. The Candy Man loved hard butterscotch candy and soft peppermint sticks. He usually always had a supply stuffed in the drawer of the end table next to his side of the sofa. We got to pick what we wanted whether it was candy corn, caramels, circus peanuts, or other sweet treats, including chocolate candy bars. What we didn’t eat got pushed into the drawer for the Candy Man or for the next kid who visited.

Sometimes we even got to have a soda pop before going back to the house.

Candy Man was true to his name. He was one sweet man.

He loved candy even into his 97th year.

  • the Candy Man and his Missus
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Nurse Helen

Though the noise of battle moved away, the soldier, not much bigger than a boy, still heard the barrage of gunfire echo in his mind. Every little sound brought him to attention even though burning pain exploded through his body. The smell of war hung heavy in the thick smoke-filled air, his nostrils aflame from the distinctive sharp lingering odor of acetone from the cordite explosions. The haunting image was burned in his memory and would rear its ugly head and cause flashbacks for over seventy years. 

  • the “little soldier”, right on first row; fellow soldier Halash, far left on second row is in another story

He, along with other wounded ambulatory soldiers, moved slowly through the battlefield bathed in blood. Some of the injured were carried off the field, some to be transported to hospitals, some to receive their last rites. Those walking joined the ranks of soldiers needing medical attention as they packed into jeeps to be taken to the field hospitals. That was December 2, 1944, the Battle for Flossendorf. 

When the soldier awoke, he was in a tent and still caked in mud. A nurse cut his clothes off, replacing them with a standard issue gown that exposed the backside.  A couple of days later he was evacuated to a hospital in England. The hospital ward was a long Quonset hut staffed with two doctors and nurses by day and two of each by night. One of the nurses, Catherine, was kind and sweet. The wounded men all loved Catherine. The other was a redheaded nurse, Helen. She was “a heller.” She “gave them hell” and they didn’t like her. She had been jilted by her doctor boyfriend and she “took it out on anybody wearing trousers or long handled underwear under their raincoats.”

It didn’t seem like there would be much celebrating that Christmas. Soldiers were separated from their families back home and doctors and nurses were pushed to the max to tend their wounds. Some men didn’t make it. Some carried the scars of war to a ripe old age.

Amid the stench of death and amputated limbs, one doctor assigned to them offered a taste of celebration. He gave each a shot of whiskey and wished them a Merry Christmas. Little did the wounded GIs know they were to be recipients of a greater Christmas gift.

The soldier made his way to the latrine, walking down the aisle that separated two rows of bunks. His walk was not straight like a man marching in cadence with his unit. He shuffled his feet to the cadence of the rise and fall of moans and groans, some of those his own as he gave way to the wound where the shrapnel hit and lodged in his rib.

That caught the attention of Nurse Helen. “Soldier, when you walk here, stand up straight and walk like a man!” The soldier jerked to attention, gritted his teeth, and walked straight. He didn’t like her any better!

A few days later, about Christmas Eve, a bedridden soldier, “Tex”, had a flare up. He had a seizure, gasped and turned stiff. They just knew he was dead. Nurse Helen came running and jumped into action. She pounded on his chest, did something with tubes and needles, and pulled Tex through. She saved his life.

That redheaded nurse became a hero in the eyes of the wounded men. To show their newfound respect, they all walked straighter and taller.

Though I don’t know who Nurse Helen was or what happened to her, I thank her for giving my father a special gift the Christmas of ’44. Years later, the little soldier told his stories to students over a period of several years. Students sent letters of thanks, many touched by his story of the redheaded Nurse Helen. And so his story continues…..

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In Search of Hiram

It had been a long road in search of Hiram. For over twenty years, I followed clues that finally led me to my destination. According to the GPS coordinates, I stood on the property that was the homestead of my great-great grandfather near Winthrop, Washington. With cousin Jon’s help, the location and GPS coordinates of the homestead were determined. It was one thing to see it on the map, but it was another to be on the very spot where he had walked. Blue mountains were off in the distance. Rolling hills were bordered on one side by the river. There was no sign of an old homestead. Rather, a hatchery stood on the location.

  • This was the location my great-great grandfather’s homestead.
    The Methow River is just beyond the trees.
    (photo credit Travel with the Slivas)

Getting to that point was quite an adventure. It began with family stories, some that were fabricated while others held nuggets of truth that left a faint trail to follow. The story as told to me by one source was that my great-great grandfather Hiram was robbed and killed while returning home from a week of work on the railroad. For months, family members looked for him. There was no trace. Though there was no evidence of foul play, the story remained in oral family history. The same source also told me that my great grandmother was caught burning old family photos and notes. Her response when questioned was, “Some things are best left alone.”

I never felt settled with that bit of family history. I questioned the tales and began a journey to undercover the mystery. When I voiced my skepticism about the validity of the stories, my father told me he had heard murmurings as well that led him to believe that there was more to the story.

So began my search for Hiram. One of the first big clues was an Ohio newspaper divorce notice posted by my great-great grandmother. Sometime later, Hiram followed her and their four children to Kansas, and they were married a second time, ten years after their first marriage. After their fifth child was conceived, Hiram disappeared again. When I came across his mother’s will, I had proof that Hiram had not been killed, for he endorsed the voucher for his inheritance.

There was a problem I kept tripping over. Another man by like name lived in the same vicinity in Eastern Washington. I had to make sure the one I followed was my Hiram. When I found a brief death notice, I contacted the only funeral home in that area and asked if it was possible there were records from 1924 still on file. Explaining my interest and family connection, I received the documents that proved the identity of my great great grandfather.

Hiram left his family, twice, forcing his wife to care for their five children on her own. His death record indicates he died a lonely, sick man. The cause of death was from cancer of the eye. He had nothing to claim as his own – no property, no family. He died in the County Home and didn’t even have a headstone until a few years ago. His twin brother came from Ohio to pay the final funeral cost and gather his brother’s meager belongings. I couldn’t help but feel sorrow thinking of all that he missed in life. He never saw his children reach adulthood. He never felt the arms of grandchildren wrap around his neck. He never heard their laughter or saw their eyes dance with life. Some might consider him a scoundrel of sorts, but in the words of one of his granddaughters, “There must have been good in him because he had some mighty fine children.” 

Standing on the property he claimed, I felt a connection for the first time. He was more than just a name. I could finally put the story to rest, satisfied I had come full circle. It seems I heard a whisper, or maybe that was just a breeze blowing through the grass or the sound of water rippling over the rocks. Maybe a lingering spirit of unrest finally found peace. Maybe somehow a wish of his had been fulfilled. A soft breeze blew through the low hills. I took a deep breath and let out a sigh that released the feelings and emotions that had been penned up inside. 

  • the five “fine children”

There was a lump in my throat as I took one last look of where the old homestead once stood. It was a bittersweet moment. The dark clouds began to dissipate as the sun pierced through. I glanced out the window as we turned away and drove along the river.

I rewarded myself with some scrumptious home made ice cream from the historical town of Winthrop, Washington at Sheri’s Sweet Shoppe.

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The Watchmaker of Holbeach

People came for miles to bring their watches and clocks to be repaired by the watchmaker of Holbeach. They were amazed to watch his hands at work. Fingers of the artisan placed each delicate piece in place, connecting every minute spring and pressing each tiny gear in the proper position. Each unique work of art responded to the master’s touch as the hands on the face kept time, ticking past each number.

  • this old family clock could use a touch from one of the Rippin clockmakers

William Rippin was no ordinary watchmaker or repairer of clocks. He did not use the aid of magnifying glasses that craftsmen of the trade needed to see the intricate workings of the inside of the watch or clock. He did not use vision at all. You see, Mr. Rippin was blind. While others relied on their sight, William relied on touch. Around the age of twenty-five, William caught a severe cold in his eyes. Various treatments were unsuccessful. The result was amaurosis. At the age of twenty-eight, William was hopelessly blind.

Instead of being defeated, he became a master horologist. What some saw as misfortune was turned into perseverance and skill. His ability to repair clocks, watches, musical instruments and every tiniest of item connected with the business was remarkable. The only aid required was the assistance of his wife in the unpinning and pinning of the hair-spring. He trained her to work at the business after the loss of his sight. There could be a hundred watches in the shop for repairs at one time. He knew every watch by touch.

As has been the pattern throughout the years, some people will try to take advantage of those deemed as handicapped. William seemed an easy target. Once he was robbed, the stolen pieces consisting of “watch-wheels, hair-springs, and other tiny things belonging to the trade.” When the thief was apprehended, the stolen items were identified by Mr. Rippin by a mere touch of his hand.

His daughter described him in a letter to the editor of The Standard, October 14, 1887, as “an intelligent, handsome man, standing five feet ten inches high, and many who saw and conversed with him were unaware that he was blind.” After his death, his wife and daughter carried on the business at Holbeach.

There is a stained glass window in All Saints Church, Holbeach dedicated to “William Rippin, the Blind Watchmaker and his wife Ann”. It depicts the gospel story of blind Bartimaeus when he received sight. The memorial was placed there by Mr. Rippin’s daughter.

William Rippin, along with his brother Joseph and James, learned the trade of watchmaking from their father, James Hall Rippin. Census records and parish baptismal records of James’ numerous children verify his occupation. Others followed in his footsteps. “The Rippin family of clockmakers from the South Lincolnshire towns of Spalding and Holbeach are recorded from around the middle years of the 18th century for most of the following two hundred years.” Alfred William Rippin, a son of James, brother of William and Joseph, continued the trade and relocated to Spilsby. His seal has been on display at the British Museum.

This is not just some fascinating tale. In a world where people are ridiculed for their handicap or for being different, it is a tribute to those who are artisans despite the barriers.

“The unique skeleton clocks with their frames based on the ellipse are invariably signed, simply, ‘Rippin Spalding’. Despite the proliferation of Rippin clockmakers research favours James (1820-1884) as the most likely maker of these clocks.“

William Rippin is my husband’s 2nd Great Uncle.
Joseph Rippin is his Great Great Grandfather.  

Isaac and Sarah Rippin Muxlow, daughter of Joseph Rippin
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Ringo

  • brothers

Some of my brothers were notorious for teasing the dog. Ringo would have been a good dog, but all the pestering made him mean. Ringo bared his teeth, growled, snarled and was always ready for a fight. He was the mailman’s worst nightmare and chased anybody that went down the road or came near the house. I was hesitant to even go outside if no one was with me.

One day, one of local preachers pulled into the driveway. He chanced getting out of his car. I guess he felt he was safe when Daddy went out to talk with him. My mother peered through the kitchen window. She sneered a bit as she watched the encounter. There were some people my mother just did not like, and that preacher was one of them. She thought he was sneaky and sleazy. More often than not, my mother’s first impression was prophetic. If she thought someone was sneaky and sleazy, it was usually true.

There was a wheelbarrow on the carport that contained old cans to be taken to the dump. The preacher looked kind of like a cocky strutting rooster. He got a little too comfortable and propped his foot up on the lip of the wheelbarrow. Ringo thought the sleazy preacher crossed the line! That was his territory. He grabbed the preacher’s britches leg, with a little bit of leg in it. Ringo shook his head back and forth just as if he chewed on an old rag. It took some doing to get Ringo pulled off the preacher, but Daddy managed to get him loose and tied up – the dog, not the preacher.

That was the last straw. They were afraid the dog might attack someone else, so he was history. Daddy called the neighbor down the road and asked him to take the dog off and “get rid of him.” I didn’t ask exactly what that meant, but I knew.

I doubt my mother felt any remorse whatsoever – at least concerning the preacher. There were some people she just did not like!

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Check Your Brake Bars

One of my favorite places to rappel was beside Lula Falls. Halfway down the cliff I would pull the rope to the top of the rack and sway back and forth with the mist of the falls spraying my face. The final descent was a free fall. 

  • Lula Falls. We rappelled just to the left of the falls

It was a beautiful day to hike the switchbacks to the top of the mountain and walk the flat trail to the rappelling cliff. When we arrived, someone was already there. We either had to find another place to rappel or wait until they were finished. Then something caught my eye.

I stood motionless, except for my eyes narrowing over the grimace on my face, as I watched a grown man loop the rappelling rope under each of the brake bars of the rack. His other companions had already gone off the side of the cliff, one of which was on the trail leading to the top. Warnings flashed in my mind and the thought that formed was, “You’re going to kill yourself!” Though the Smiths were not with us, Mrs. Smith’s warning waved a red flag as it echoed in my head, “Check your brake bars.”

  • my sister ready to go down a cliff

As I walked toward the man, it was obvious he didn’t know what he was doing. I stepped forward and said, “You’re threading the rope the wrong way. If you try to descend like that, the brake bars will all pop and you’ll fall.” He just looked at me and started telling me that was the way he was told to thread it. I told him again, “You need to loop the rope OVER the brake bars.” To him I was just a scrawny young wisp of a teenager. What would I know?

He was hesitant to believe me, but he made a loop the other way – over the bar – and studied it a minute. It was apparent he was not comfortable rigging himself and did not understand there were two ways to wind a rope – over or under. Yet, he wasn’t about the take my word for it. The encounter at least slowed him enough to keep him from making a fatal error. About that time, one of his companions came up the trail. He intervened and helped his pal get rigged properly.

There wasn’t so much as a “thank you.” I’ve wondered from time to time if he ever realized that some scrawny girl kept him from making a grave mistake.  

Check your brake bars! It could be a matter of life or death!

For those of you who don’t what rappelling is, it is jumping off the edge of a cliff with the aid of a rope (of course fastened off {we used a bowline knot}) and the proper aid – such as a set of carabiners with brake bars {that slows the rate of descent}, rope looped around carabiners to act as a brake, a rack or a figure eight. A good seat is necessary – either a purchased one that you just step into {a guy I knew once rappelled off the building and his purchased seat busted and he landed on his rear – good thing it happened at about 10 feet from the ground}, or a seat tied from seat belt material or a strip of narrower webbing designed especially for tying seats {which is what I used}. A belayer is also a necessity for safe rappelling. That is someone, usually at the bottom of the drop, who slows the speed of descent by merely pulling the rope taut. 

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School Houses

My Guest Author is my dad as he tells about the school houses he attended in his earliest years.  When he went to high school, he boarded in town some forty miles away from the heart of the mountains. 

School houses didn’t come to our part of Sweet Grass Canyon until 1929. That year Bill Briner and Dump Woods helped the building project at the Brannin ranch. My sister, Ellen, had reached school age and housing was needed for First Grader, Ellen, and Seventh Graders, Jack, Buster, and Billy. A little log building that had once been a winter house for Suzie, a black Jersey milk cow, became a schoolhouse. 

The first teacher for the school was a married lady from Oklahoma. Her husband was a gambler staying in Big Timber. She taught about two months with a hand slapping ruler for Ellen, and a better switch for the boys. There was rejoicing when a spinster from Washington replaced her. Ina Wall taught two years. I have a very dim recollection of some of her school classes being held in “Uncle Dick’s House.” Maybe it was just used for special events. I do remember that she had a program there for Thanksgiving. Ellen, Jack, and Billy had parts telling what they brought to the Thanksgiving meal. Billy played an Indian who said, “I brought a deer.” Maybe this is where he picked up the name, “Indian Charlie.” I wasn’t old enough for school, but I had a part in the Thanksgiving program. I said, “I bring an appetite.” 

Miss Wall taught Mother to play the piano and pampered the little three-year-old girl with the long curls. Two years later, Miss Wall was sent to another school, and Suzie’s House was pressed into other services. It had been moved several times and has served as a campout for Jim Brannin and his teenage deer hunters, a brooder house for baby chicks, a summer playhouse, and finally as a grainery.  It is one of the few original buildings still standing.

  • “Suzie’s house”

I started school the first year after Miss Wall left. That year, and the next fall, Sister Ellen and I rode the old roan horse (Spider) to Brannin’s. For the last part of my second school year the schoolteacher and cousins Sydney and Margaret rode up to our house for classes in the new addition.

The next summer the bunkhouse was replaced. A crew of bachelors dismantled the old bunk house and set it up for a schoolhouse halfway between the sawmill and the Brannin Ranch. School would be held there for five years. Then it sat idle for at least that long or longer. However, while other abandoned schoolhouses might dot the landscape of the American West the Bachelor School didn’t suffer this fate. In 1948, the vacant schoolhouse was taken apart and moved to the west side of the big hayshed.  It served there as a warm shelter for newly weaned calves and for calf-expecting two-year-old heifers.

  • Ellen is the middle
    at the Bachelor School

Here is his story about his freshman year in high school posted previously.

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Fried Chicken

For some reason I do not understand, my mother thought it necessary that my sister know how to ring a chicken’s neck and prepare it for the frying pan.

The plan had been for my sister to chase the chicken around the yard like a madman, but our dog, Ringo, wanted in on the chase. Early the morning of the execution, the chicken was put in the laundry room at the far end of the carport and Ringo was tied up.

My sister looked reluctant as she stepped into the laundry room and the door closed behind her. I stood inside the kitchen door. Ringo was going crazy. He was snarling, growling, and pulling as hard as he could to get loose. I didn’t dare step outside. The noises that came from behind the closed door were horrible. It sounded like a major battle with all the squawking, banging and yelling.

She chased the poor little chicken, grabbed it by the neck and twisted as hard as she could to no avail. That just made the chicken mad and it squawked louder and flapped it shedding wings harder. The door opened and my sister slowly emerged, hot and sweaty. Her hair was all messed up and she looked like she had lost the battle. Feathers were still flying in the air as they floated to the floor. What a mess! That poor chicken almost “gave up the ghost” on its own. That poor thing had a sore neck for sure. Daddy put the bird out of its misery.

Though I never understood why Mama thought it was so important for my sister to know how to ring a chicken’s neck, by the time we ate fried chicken for supper, it didn’t seem to matter.