My dad always told “Sister Ellen” stories. They were some of his best sermon illustrations along with Brer Rabbit. Whenever he said, “Sister Ellen,” my ears perked up because I knew a story was coming. I don’t have a sister Ellen, but I do have two sisters by different names.
Sister Lynn is my oldest sister. She was too busy for a little sister. I accused her of always having her nose in a book growing up – except when she was sporting a new boyfriend. Let me just tell you, we were well entertained with her new beaus!
Sister Margaret & I would spy on her. I don’t know why she’d get mad about that! She was too young to date anyway – and I told mama and daddy so!
She wasn’t always too tolerant of a little sister. One day she walked in the bedroom we girls shared and caught me modeling some of her undergarments, complete with sock stuffing. She was furious and went to Mama demanding that I leave her stuff alone. Imagine that! Well, maybe that was a good thing – because from then on, I only wore socks on my feet, reluctantly, and occasionally on my hands when I couldn’t find gloves.
I don’t think Daddy modeled Sister Ellen’s clothes, but he did write her a nice birthday poem one year. That same poem could have been written to my sisters as well:
To Sister Ellen
You are the work of mystery, You carry the seeds of majesty, You are the works for miracle, You carry the breath of eternity.
My Guest Author is my Daddy, this poem taken from his book “Great and Mighty Are God’s Ways – Stories to Stir Our Insight”
A BODY OUGHT to give thanks and praise to God for whom all praise is due. Sixteen-hundred and twenty-one years ago God’s Son was born, but it took me until last year to know I should have praised Him long ago. Last year I learned God rides white capped waves and camps on the edge of the wilderness. Nor storm, nor night, nor death can turn away His face!
From tough hewn men and thrifty women, I heard the words of thanks Which had not sounded from under well thatched roofs On cobbled streets, Where ladies carried parasol And gentlemen had servants to drive their trotting teams. A year ago I learned thanks Which I should have known before – the lesson came hard.
For a lark I joined, at Plymouth Town The Captain Jones and seasoned crew On MAYFLOWER heading all points west. ’Twas then the lesson came. I saw it in the settlers’ eyes, I heard it in their prayers. Exiles they were, But not exiled from the Lord Almighty, Exiled from England – leaving Holland – two ships strong, Seeking new lands they came, Sailing with Virginia on their minds. The larger ship turned back And only half could carry on. But they gave thanks and sailed. The sea was rough, Green faced men grew sick in storm. Whitecaps drove courage from sailor’s hearts. However Pilgrims turned not back. MAYFLOWER creaked and MAYFLOWER groaned Like a coffin on a watery grave. And in it all, they sang a song, And raised their hands in praise. At sea the snow blew thick. Ice coated riggings; sails broke down. A newborn baby cried her protest. And we journeyed on while they gave thanks.
Land met us, bleak and cold. Death trudged through forest trails. Then Brewster said, “He’ll see us through. The Almighty God, who brought us here, Will walk before us in this land. In the snow-drift harbor, I caught a faith. Dying men tossed it to me like an extra garment. “Wear This,” they said. “It will keep you warm.” And it did.
Then Spring danced across the land, And with the south breeze the Red Man came. My timid heart leaped to my throat, But the faithful rose their voice in prayer, And, when the Indian came, he came in peace.
“Twas in the spring – John Carver died – and MAYFLOWER sailed back to England. I stayed behind with those who taught me praise.
And now, wide furrows, live with ripening corn, A whisper, “Harvest has come.” “Tis Thanksgiving time!” God holds his hand to his ear! Lift up your voice and shout The Lord God Almighty, Who leads pilgrims to new lands, Is listening now to hear your praise. rbw
When I was a kid, I got paid for doing little odd jobs from time to time. The oddest job I had (with the least minimum wage) was tickling my brother’s feet for a nickel. There was one stipulation – his feet had to be washed first. He definitely got the better end of the deal. I say that my brother was odd because he liked his feet to be tickled. Hmmmm, I guess I was odd for doing it! If anybody even touched my feet, I would get madder than a wet hen.
My brother three years older than me was odd too. He grinned like a Cheshire cat and wore underwear on his head. The only thing he gave me was a hard time and an occasional hand me down shirt.
I sure wish I would have kept all those nickels. If he would have paid me a nickel per foot, I might could have made a down payment on a new house!
It was said Grandma Knapp could roll out a perfectly round pie crust that fit perfectly in the pie pan. She didn’t even have to trim it.
When I first heard that tale, I thought that might be a good aspiration. As I pondered that seemingly impossible skill, reality set in. Now why would I want to make a perfectly shaped form fitting pie crust? That would be a grim quandary indeed. How would I be able to make lady fingers?
I usually make extra dough just so I have enough for a big pan of lady fingers. Sometimes I take a picture and send it to the neighbors on the hill. Within two minutes I hear footsteps on the back porch and then the back-door slams shut. What a fun treat! We might even have a cup of hot tea!
It was almost dark. A noise startled me! What was it? I went to investigate.
I looked all around and saw nothing. Then I looked down. There was something that had little green feet. What kind of beast had ten green toes and stinky feet?
It was a puzzle to me, that is until I looked in a long mirror and saw that those St. Patrick green feet belonged to me! Whatever would I do?
It all started when I was just a snotty nosed kid playing in the dirt. My mom said, “Go put some shoes on!” I argued, “I don’t want to put on shoes. They hurt and make my feet hot.”
She questioned, “How can you stand to go barefooted?” Mama was one that wanted her feet covered. “Go put some shoes on!”
“Shoes make my feet hurt.”
Sometimes she relented, other times she wouldn’t budge. I grumbled and complained the whole time my feet were being smothered.
As I got older, I had to wear shoes more often. My feet were hot, sweaty, stinky and then, they started breaking out with water blisters. Ouch! The folks tried all kinds of remedies. Finally, Daddy took me to the doctor. And you know what he did? He prescribed a pair of clunky ugly brogans and some kind of liquid that had to be applied by a sponge. And do you know what color it was? Yup – green – and it stained my feet.
You may not know this, but people make fun of someone who has green feet.
One day Daddy said, “Come on. I’m taking you to a dermatologist.” What could a dermatologist do for hot, sweaty, stinky, blistered green feet? The doctor was smart. He took one look at my feet and said, “Ah ha, you must have one parent who is hot natured and one parent who has allergies.” How did he know that just by looking at my feet? Well, however he knew it, he also knew what to do. He created his own formula for a special ointment, and powder to sprinkle on my feet. I was instructed not to pop the blisters but rather cut them with a sharp pair of scissors, then apply ointment and sprinkle with power. His best instruction was, “Go barefooted as much as possible.”
When we got home, Daddy told Mama what the doctor said. I’m sure I wore a rather arrogant, “I told you so,” face. I must say Mama was penitent and apologized for all those years of not believing me. Never again did she complain about me not wearing shoes!
They are still hot, sweaty, and stinky, but they are not green!
For several years, Daddy came to my house every evening for supper. He preferred it that way. He liked to take the walk and he wanted to keep his independence. If the weather was not agreeable or he didn’t feel well, I cooked at his house. When evenings began to get dark early, it could well be dusky or dark when he teetered back home. He usually declined a ride, but I still needed to know that he made it safely and hadn’t fallen along the way.
As he went out the door after supper, I told him, “Turn your light on when you get home.” I turned on our outside lights and watched him as far as darkness would allow. Usually, several minutes later, his outside light came on. I switched my lights off and soon, his lights echoed from across the hill. That meant he was safe in the house and I could rest easy.
On occasion, his light did not come on. Had he forgotten? Had he fallen? Was he lying in the driveway? Had a pack of wild wolves gotten him? All kinds of scenarios raced through my head. Either my husband or I would grab a flashlight and head across the yard and up the driveway. If I was checking on him, I’d peek in the glass door or window. Most of the time, he was sitting in his recliner with his feet propped up and a thin fuzzy blanket pulled over his legs. If not, I would go in the back door, and sneak around the corner to see if he was in his bedroom or at his computer. I don’t think he ever knew I came in to check on the “little man of the mountains.”
I still look out my window from time to time, but there is no light echoing mine from the hill. Oh, what would I give to see him come hobbling down the hill to my table once again.
Sometimes, someone comes along and joins a family though there is no blood relation. Such was the case with Ernest. He needed a family and a family needed him.
Ernest was born in Illinois in the spring of 1877 to Louis and Sylvina Toland Parker. His parents divorced a few years later, and he was sent from one relative to another. When a cousin headed west in 1888, eleven year old Ernest went with him. My mother’s heart breaks at the thought of him being cast aside by family to face the hardships and dangers of the trail. Crossing the country in the 1800’s looked a lot different than today.
The cousins made their way to Chehalis County, Washington. Ernest stayed with the Keiler family. Ten years later in April of 1898, he enlisted at Camp Rogers, Tacoma, Washington, to serve in the Spanish American War. He had a narrow escape when his horse was shot out from under him, and even survived drinking water from which maggots were skimmed off the top. His discharge came in March of 1901 in San Francisco.
Ernest on the left
Upon his return from war, Ernest worked in the timber business in Washington. He is listed in the 1910 census in Thurston County, Washington as working in a sawmill. He reunited with his brothers and spent time farming with them in Milton, Kansas. Still, he did not find a place to settle down and call home, that is, until he found his way to Montana.
He first landed a job with Leo Cremer in 1913. From there, he worked on the Blakeman ranch where he met the little Englishman, Bud Ward. The two became fast friends, business partners and family. It is said that Ernest, “studied a map of Montana, saw a spot where mountains circled valleys like a horse shoe, put his finger in the middle of the circle and said, ‘By the Great Horn Spoon – that’s where I’m going to live.’” He did and discovered a place called home.
Ernest was more than just a partner to Bud. He was more than the resident of the bunkhouse, he was family. Just months after forming the partnership in the Ward & Parker Sawmill, he was initiated for baby duty. In March of 1917, little Jack decided to surprise Bud and ‘Niter and make an early appearance. Even though the snow was up to the roof of the house, Ernest was sent to the ranch to get Granny Brannin. They had to cut steps into the snow in order to get out. Though the ranch was only two miles away, it took quite some time for the journey. It was the next day before Granny was able to get there. By that time, tiny Jack was sleeping in a tiny shoe box near the stove.
War broke out again and Ernest, along with Bud, enlisted for duty in World War I. Enlisted at Ft. George Wright, Washington on November 29, 1917, Ernest was assigned to the 20th Engineers. His years of working in timber and sawmilling was a needed skill. After being discharged, he headed back to the mountains that called his name. His home was with the Ward family.
Ernest was the one who taught “Niter” to cook and filled in when she was sick or away. When the kids came along, he got the title of babysitter. He even taught little Barbara her first words, “Shut up.” In all fairness, it was because he had the duty to calm the little tyke down when she had colic. Ernest laid the little girl on her belly across his lap, patted her, and said, “Shut up Squall cat.”
The place up the canyon was always busy with comings and goings. As he worked, whether it was firing up the steam boiler at the sawmill, doing chores, herding kids, or whatever, it was done with vigorous whistling accompanied with colorful language that painted the wind.
He attacked life with vigor. One time the bunk house was plagued with bedbugs, no doubt brought in by some of the lumber haulers who often bunked down for the night. Ernest lit smudge pots of sulphur. All that did was make the bedbugs mad and hungry. He said, “Now that’s the Devil to pay and no pitch hot.” He got just as mad at those bedbugs. He closed the windows, filled the crack under the door and threw more wood on the fire. Throughout the morning, he left the steam boiler at the sawmill and headed to the bunkhouse to add more fuel to the fire. The plan worked. After the bunkhouse roof burst into flames, the bedbugs raised their white flag in surrender. Ernest won that war!
Ernest was a member of Sweet Grass American Legion Post No. 19. He served as post commander, district commander, department adjutant and attended several national conventions. He as served as commander of the Montana Spanish American War Veterans.
Though I only saw Ernest a few times, he was as much family as anyone else. He was very fond of my grandmother which was reason enough to earn my endearment. After Bud died, ‘Niter and Ernest moved to town. He lived in the little pink house beside the big house. I remember him always wearing the khaki colored pants and shirt. He was a small man and had wrinkles. I guess the last time I saw him was after he went to live in the nursing home. Through the years, I have heard many tales of him. He left a legacy of giving. He had a heart as big as the whole outdoors. Ernest maintained a special bond with the little “Squall cat” all of his life. An occasional letter to my dad was filled with compassion and concern for others. What a special member of the family!
It is said he was a “hardy pioneer breed who understood how to live life with a zest and twinkle,” and he knew how to find a family.
taken from the Book on Uglies by my Guest Author, Sage Brush
This is mostly a true story, or I wouldn’t tell it.
Most of the girls I know are called names like Missie, or Sissie, or Princess, which is a name that fools people. There are lots of girls with those names. If someone says, “Here comes Missy”, you don’t know who is coming. But if they say, “Here comes The Claw,” you know that Boo is coming.
That is sad.
Mama says we should call her Mary, or even Missie. But Boo is called “Boo the Claw”.
That is a very bad name. But sometimes children do bad things. Someday, I’ll call her another name. If you know why, don’t tell anyone or I’ll say:
Sage Brush with two of his sisters
“Tattle tale, tattle tale. You won’t never get no mail.”
And you won’t.
Did you know why children call her “Boo the Claw?” It’s because she got caught in a fire. One side of her face was left red. There are scars on her arm. Her right hand got burned. She has three fingers left. They are bent like a hawk’s claw when he’s trying to catch a mouse. They are ugly.
Ugh! It made me feel funny the first time I saw it.
Last year there was picnic across the creek from where Uncle Ed lived before he became sheriff and moved to town to put horse thieves in jail.
The girl named Boo came with some of the neighbors. When it got dark, we sat around a bon fire to roast wieners on a stick.
Wieners are really “Hot Dogs”. They get black and crack open. They are very good that way, and you get dirty hands when you eat them.
Some children were sitting on a log. I could hardly see it in the dark, but I found a place to sit. There was a girl that sat beside me. I felt all right because it was dark, and Sister Ellen couldn’t see me.
The girl beside me started talking. “My mama doesn’t want me to put mustard on hot dogs,” she said. “It drops on my dress.”
“My mama don’t care,” I told her. “Mustard don’t count when it’s dark”
“You’re funny,” she said.
Cousin Virginia with mushy eyes
We sat in the dark while Red Mac sang a song. He liked to yodel. Cousin Virginia looked at him with mushy eyes.
Then someone threw a chunk on the fire and sparks flew up in the air. “Look.” The girl beside me pointed to the sparks. “Those are baby stars.”
“Now you’re being funny” I said.
If you’ve been to a wiener roast at night you know that a cool wind makes people sit closer to each other.
“I like to look at the real stars. My sister thinks they have people on them.”
“I have two sisters,” I said. “I think you’d like them.”
“Maybe I’d like you, just a little. You talk to me.”
“You’re easy to talk to,” I said.
“I think you are nice.”
Wow!
I never had a live girl tell me that. Have you?
I reached over and took her hand.
Ugh.
She only had three fingers. But I squeezed them anyway, and she squeezed me back.
It felt good.
For a while we didn’t say anything. She just leaned against my shoulder. She shook a little bit like she was crying.
If I told that I loved her, do you think she would cry more?
But don’t you tell anybody I said this. Remember, tattle tales don’t get mail. And you won’t.
