There was one last stop I wanted to make before getting to our cabin. It was a trivial thing, but I thought the girls would enjoy it. As we got off the interstate ramp, I tried to explain to the girls what we were going to see.
Sure enough, even before we passed into the Greycliff Prairie Dog Town State Park, there was a fuzzy little critter standing tall like the sentry that it was. I rolled the windows down and told the girls to listen. All they heard was a few clicks, chips and chirps. The Judge said, “What is it?” “It’s a prairie dog.” She was surprised, and I was even more surprised when she said she was looking for a dog of some kind. Others joined the chorus as they signaled warnings to the town of prairie dogs that strangers were in their territory.
Just when I thought they understood, we saw an especially chubby guy standing atop a mound. It didn’t even twitch. The Judge said, “Is it stuffed?”
“Yep. It’s a statue. They put it there so people will know what a prairie dog looks like.” Right on cue, the fuzzy guy looked at us then disappeared in his hole.
We shared a great time of laughter more than once on her account.
If you’re ever in Greycliff, Montana, it’s worth a stop at the 98-acre Greycliff Prairie Dog Town State Park. The preserve for the black-tailed prairie dogs is full of holes, mounds and a tribe of prairie dogs. You might be a bit intrigued but some of the locals who find them a nuisance may not share your opinion.
Later on that year, Luella and Anna, another niece of mine who was a year older than me, stopped at the ranch. The Coopers had gone to the World Fair in St. Louis and then on to Mississippi to visit Jack’s sister. Luella brought Mamma some pretty salt and pepper shakers from the World Fair.
That winter, Mamma, Joe who was about 21, Bessie, Tooie and I went over to Fergus County for Christmas. Luella was living at Whiskey Gulch near Gilt Edge. I don’t remember how we got to Harlowton – perhaps on the stage from Melville, but I do remember that we rode on the “Jawbone” railroad from Harlowton to Lewiston. This was the railroad built by Richard Harlow without adequate backing of money – just talk, thus the name “Jawbone.” (He had to mortgage the line with James Hill the Great Northern magnate; however, in order to the lines available, Milwaukee Railroad paid off Harlow’s mortgage in 1910.)
From Lewistown we took a stage to Gilt Edge which was a mile or so from the mining camp up Whiskey Gulch. Jack met us and took us to their small log cabin where we stayed for a couple of weeks. Don’t ask me to explain how all of us managed – I suppose that Jack and Joe slept at the boarding house or someplace else. Jack was working in the Big Six mine. (In 1957, Anna Cooper Doore and her daughter Kathryn and I went back to the old place, and we found remains of the old cabin where they lived. The camp is mostly gone and only a few places could be recognized.)
The big social event while we were there was a masquerade at Gilt Edge. I was so taken with the grocery boy, Dick Blake, who was dressed as a woman with a blue dress trimmed with popcorn, I don’t remember anyone else. Luella was masked, but I don’t remember what she wore. We had Christmas at the boarding house which Mrs. Mershon operated. Mrs. Mershon had a son, Joab, who was about 10 or twelve, and a little girl named Sarah Rebecca. A woman named Mrs. Limbaugh gave each one of us girls a silver thimble. I still have mine. Tooie lost hers. A little girl that lived up the hill gave me a tin doll head. Later Bessie made a body for it out of a rag and stuffed it with goat hair.
One of our family’s favorite traditional dishes to serve at Christmas and other family gatherings is Noodles & Tomatoes. Oh, it’s not just noodles in a bag like you buy in the store, it’s homemade noodles. They are really simple to make and ohhhhh so good. I always use home canned tomatoes – it makes a huge difference.
This year we aren’t celebrating with a big crowd of family gathered in the kitchen and scattered throughout the house. I bet that some of the nieces and nephews are serving noodles and tomatoes in their homes this Christmas!
Beat eggs with fork. Stir in salt. Add enough flour to make a very stiff dough. Roll dough out very thin on a floured surface. Roll dough up (like a crepe) and cut with a knife in 1/2″ strips. Unroll each strip and place on a towel or paper towels. Allow to dry. Cook noodles in salted boiling water about 10 minutes. Drain. Pour 1 quart (or more) home canned tomatoes over this and add 2 Tablespoons butter (or more). Season with pepper.
You might like to try it! Who knows, you might start you own new family tradition!
In a time when there is much grief and uncertainty, we could all use a message of hope and a blessing of Christmas.
This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it! |May his blessings be upon you, his peace in your mind, and his love in your actions.
Here it is CHRISTMAS 2006. – A year of hopes and fears, of laughter and tears, of hellos and goodbyes. BUT THE FINAL WORDS ARE THE WORDS OF ADVENT. “UNTO YOU A CHILD IS BORN, UNTO YOU A SON IS GIVEN.” At his name we celebrate Christmas and lift up our heads in hope.
Some days of this year gave us good memories: There was FEBRUARY 20th when “Christmas-choo-choo-Engineer Patrick” got a baby sister named her “Grace Elizabeth.” Then on APRIL 20 Arlo got a baby sister, “Samaya Guadalupe.” It was about time some one of these young’uns got a Guadalupe.
Jean and I had a big celebration on JULY 26th. It was our 60th Wedding anniversary. This sent us off on a three-day honeymoon trip to a Bavarian Alpine Village (located in Helen, Georgia) and gave us special memories to carry along with a big “THANK YOU GOD” FOR SIXTY YEARS, ABUNDANT YEARS, GREAT YEARS.
Then came a big personal change. It started on AUGUST 18 when a car roared out of a side road, like a shark dashing into a school of fish. Our car was the fish. We were knocked into another lane and hit again. Jean was taken by helicopter to the Erlanger Hospital in Chattanooga. The jaws of life ripped my car door off, and I ended up in the same hospital.
Jean died 3 days later. I won’t even put that date down. The children and most of the grandchildren, even those now in China, were beside her those three days. I wanted to die with her, but the children and doctors wouldn’t let me.
People said that family put on a great memorial service decorated with a score or more of the baby quilts, graduation quilts, and anniversary quits that Grandma had made for them. I got out of the hospital on OCTOBER 13th – a good day. I learned how great it is to have a family and to have a church – not just one, but there were at least four directly involved. What a grand tribute to the bride that of 60 years.
We had Thanksgiving in South Georgia in a daughter’s remodeled house and saw 97-year-old Aunt Evelyn on the way home. Now I am to prepare for a book signing December 21.
In this all I say “Thanks, Lord, for being with us.” Even things we did not like were lighted by the grace and love of God – where they become the Church Advent Candles coming to life.
There are hopes and fears. Faith, hope, and love abide – and the greatest is love. Share it with one another. The greatest news we have is “UNTO YOU A CHILD IS BORN – UNTO YOU A SON IS GIVEN.
The little girl’s eyes got big. She whispered, “Did you hear that?” “What was it?”
She tiptoed to the doorway, peeked through the opening and looked around. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. She looked up then quickly turned toward me as she made that short gasping sound kids make when they pretend to be surprised. Her whole face lit up.
“Do you hear the heartbeat of the house? It went thump, thump. Thump, thump.”
Then I was the one who looked surprised
I thought, “How can a little five-year-old girl be so smart? She’s a tiny genius philosopher.”
She was absolutely right. The sounds she heard were the heartbeat of the house. It was the sound of footsteps, footsteps who belonged to people, people who love her dearly. The heartbeat of the house means there is life. Without the footsteps of those who live together and love one another, a house is void and cold.
The next time you hear footsteps coming in the door tracking in mud or leaves, or the footsteps in the night of someone checking to see if the little ones are covered and warm, or the running footsteps of those playing hide and seek, or the footsteps of one preparing and serving a meal, or tiny footsteps at the glass door smeared with tiny fingerprints on the just cleaned glass, remember that is the heartbeat of the house!
My Guest Author is Patrick Halash, son of World War II hero who served with my Father. Their brief encounter on the battlefield came full circle just a few years ago when the Halash family contacted my Father after filing his battle account on the Library of Congress website. For the first time in over 70 years, my Father was able to sleep through the night of December 2nd with no flashbacks, all because he knew he made a difference that night in the life of one man – Leo Halash. Two heroes survived the night!
Here is Patrick’s account
My dad is a WW2 American War Hero who was wounded in action on December 2nd 1944. He survived that fateful day in a large part due to the quick thinking and brave actions of another WW2 American War Hero named Robert Ward. The fact that Robert Ward helped my dad on that day came to light during a lucky web browsing session by me as I searched for information about December 2nd 1944 Flossdorf Germany on google. I saw my dad’s name as I read various posts by WW2 veterans that described their memories of that day. The post that mention my dad’s name was written by Robert Ward. Mr. Ward heard my dad calling for help after he was shot in the knee as US forces were advancing on the small town of Flossdorf Germany. I have attached a couple brief quotes from Robert Ward’s account of the events of that day.
“I crawled ahead. It was light now and there was heavy fire. Our troops were pinned down by the road. “Lieutenant Lovell’s hard hit,” I shouted. The word went down the line. Someone would get there when they could. There were other cries for help. One was close by. “Medic. Medic.” A beet field was behind me. Someone was in the beet field. F Company had launched their attack on our left. The soldier was from F Company. He was lying in the flat field. His helmet was sticking up among the beet tops and every time he moved a sniper bullet would zip through the beet tops beside him. I bellied my way to him and lay beside him. A bullet had torn a hole through his leg. I bandaged his wound and had him take his wound tablets. I pulled his belt tight around his leg, then dug like a badger to make a trench deep enough to get him below ground level. That done, I jabbed his rifle in the dirt, bayonet down, butt up. The trench wasn’t big enough for Halash and myself, and a sniper was still active. I crawled away, head on, and hoped my helmet would keep me covered.” R B W
“I gave him his pills and I bandaged his wound. If I had not put the belt on his leg, he would have bled to death. But time was critical. If the tourniquet was on for too long, he would lose his leg. It had been raining so I was able to take the claw-looking tool and dig into the soft ground. I don’t remember the first time I saw Leo Halash, but I sure remember the last time. When it was all over I looked through the list of casualties and didn’t find his name listed among the dead. So I knew he survived.” He said, “For over seventy years I have had flashbacks on December 2. I see Frank Svoboda. I see Lieutenant Lovell lying on the ground – wounded – and his detached boot with his foot still in it. I see others who lost their lives. I see a soldier in the field and hear him call for help. I hear the enemy fire all around.” A tear escaped and he continued, “But now I have been given a good flashback. After seventy years, I can now see life – that of Leo Halash. I thank God that I was there that day and that Leo survived and had a good family. That’s a good flashback!” R B W as told to his daughter
Some war veterans do not like to talk about their battlefield experiences and others seem to excel at it. My dad did not like to discuss his WW2 experiences with us seven children or even his beloved wife. My mom is still with us some 71 years after the battle of Flossdorf and she told us one story about an encounter that my dad had with a German soldier the night that he was wounded.
My mom remembers that my dad told her that during the night my dad laid in that cold wet ditch that Robert Ward dug to protect him from all of the barrage of bullets, he was approached by a German soldier. Both soldiers panicked and drew their weapons. Neither man really wanted to shoot each other but would if their own life was in danger. My dad yelled out “kompan” which is the Polish word for “comrade”. As fate would have it, both of my dad’s parents immigrated from Poland so he was fluent in Polish and the German soldier turned out to be a 17 year old Polish boy that was forced into the army after Germany overran Poland The boy was lost, hungry, cold to the bone, and scared to death (kind of like my dad). Each soldier tried to get the other to come join their fellow soldiers for the attention they both needed but in the end the German soldier decided to keep moving to find the other members of his platoon. My dad survived the night and was picked up by American forces the following morning.
My dad was also emphatic about not letting the surgeons amputate his mangled leg. Instead of spending approximately two months in the hospital he spent about two years. He endured at least five operations to save his leg even though it was clear he would never be able to bend his knee at all. I recall seeing about a dozen 3 by 5 inch scars on his thighs and back where the doctors removed patches of skin in order to cover the knee cap area that was not able to be salvaged after the bullet wound. My dad never complained about the pain or discomfort of his injury and always down played the severity when corresponding with his family back in Michigan. He did not want his mom, dad and six siblings to worry about him.
My dad was the kind of WW2 war hero that simply chose to not discuss the horrors of war and was also the very best dad in the world to me and my six siblings.
The “Dirty Thirties” blew in more than prairie dust storms, drought, and depression. Those years also blew in death and brought mourning to the Brannin family in Sweet Grass Canyon. You’ve heard it said that deaths come in threes, but those depression years demanded more, claiming five lives from the heart of the Crazy Mountains.
Orval Briner, born in the spring of 1911, was the first-born son of Bessie Brannin Briner. They lived in Indiana though Bessie longed to be with her family in the Crazy Mountains. Every summer, she took the kids back to the Montana ranch. They lived there during the war. Bessie died shortly after, leaving behind three small children and a large family to mourn. The kids were still able to spend some time at the ranch. When the Brannin brothers transformed it into a Dude Ranch, Bill Briner brought the family out to stay and helped build the lodge.
It seemed fitting that “Ollie” was there. After all, he bore the first name of Bessie’s favorite brother, Richard, known as “Uncle Dick.” Ollie learned how to ride horses and bulls. He went hunting and fishing. Surely, he got extra attention from his namesake though none of the slew of kids who found their way to the canyon suffered from lack of love, care, or good-natured ribbing. Many of them spent part of their growing up years there.
At the age of eighteen, Ollie went to work on the ranch with the uncles. He was also employed by other ranchers in Melville. The 1930 census lists him as a “lodger” in the household of the Tronruds. He broke horses and was trail guide for the dudes. The teacher of the cabin school, Miss Egland, caught his eye, though Ollie did have a bit of competition from a youngster, cousin Buck, who nursed his first teacher crush. Ollie wore a black leather jacket and tamed Leo, the big bay gelding, to impress the teacher. Those years of youth, hard work, fond memories, and puppy love were soon overshadowed by dark clouds of death.
Granny Brannin was the first to go in the spring of 1930. She left behind an overwhelming legacy and generations who continue to retell her story. Maybe it’s fitting that she would soon be joined by others. She thrived in the company of her family, her arms always ready to embrace them in her circle of love. It was only three short months when her oldest son, Dolph, the most affectionate of her boys, joined her. I imagine when they reunited, he swept her across the dance floor. They both loved to dance and since his wife didn’t, mother and son were dance partners.
Orval seated left; Jack standing far right
The fall of 1931, fourteen-year-old Jack joined his Grandmother and Uncle Dolph. He had been diagnosed with an inoperable Pontine brain tumor in 1929. It was the egg money given to Jack’s mother that provided funds for their travel to the Mayo Clinic for treatment and prolonged his life longer than expected. Granny Brannin must have greeted him with open arms and introduced him to Uncle Joe and Aunt Bessie.
Dolph
A year later, another was added to the number. Orval, age 21, and a buddy of his, Orie Ortenson, went deer hunting on Porcupine Butte. They split up to track their game. When Orie saw movement in the bushes, he shot, not knowing that Orval had changed direction. Orval was struck in the back. Orie ran for help but when he got back with Stanley Lavold, Orval was already dead. That was November 5, 1932. The newspaper stated, “The Ostenson boy, in a pitiable condition from the shock and grief, is being watched carefully that he may do no harm to himself.”
In 1932, when the whole country wept from depression, there were tears flowing from the heart of the mountains. Grandfather Ward also joined the ranks of death that year. It was a bad year, but Jack’s Mama said that good things happen even in bad years. Sometimes you just have to wait to find the good that comes from such times. Jack’s little brother, Buck, thought maybe his Mama was right. Brownie, his Teddy Bear, fell in the outhouse in 1932. But his Mama pulled him out.
Winds of depression, sickness and heartache may blow across the parched land and we may think that nothing good can come of it. Sometimes you just have to wait…
A Tale of a Horse Trade – as told by my guest author, my Granddad, of his “batchin’ days.”
John Sherod and I got hold of some pretty good flat land in the eastern part of Montana and decided to put it into wheat. We had a fourteen inch gang plow and four work horses for their summer fallow work. This wasn’t enough horsepower to break up eighty acres of new ground. But luck came our way. My brother, Buster, was looking for a pasture for a herd of horses. Buster’s horses were not notoriously gentle when they were broke. Most of these were unbroken. John and I tied into breaking horses. We were breaking rigging too. Finally we created two teams of eight horses each. These included our own horses.
Dust raised over the prairie. John plowed half a day in the morning. I took the afternoon shift. Some horses worked out good, but a few stayed green around the edges. One, on John’s string, was a mean eyed, Roman nosed booger. “Geeraff” John called him. Geeraff was a long legged horse who was short on disposition. He was tough and had harness marks, but he was difficult to handle. We took to harnessing Geeraff in the chute. He kicked and fought and raised cane, but we fastened him in the middle of the eight horse team. After being dragged a few times he gave up laying down and got on his feet and pulled like a gentleman. But, by golly, you had to watch him. He was always ready to make trouble.
Some old timers believed that for every tough horse there was someone who could train him. Claude Gray was one such a fellow. Gray had another flatland farm. His was a prosperous place complete with a wife and a poultry yard which contained a goose to provide down for the lady’s pillows. One day Gray came by when Geeraff was in the chute being outfitted.
“How long you been doing that?” Gray asked.
“Too damn long,” John replied.
“Why I could have him working in two weeks.”
“Give me a trade and you can have him,” Sherod challenged. He was midday cook and wanted a break. “I saw a goose on your place. I’ll let you have Geeraff for a goose. Just have your wife cook the goose for dinner and Geeraff is yours.”
A horse for a goose dinner was a good trade for a couple of fellows who were batching. It was especially a good trade when the horse was Geeraff and belonged to another fellow. A couple of weeks later we went to collect our dinner. The meal lasted all afternoon.
“That was a fine dinner,” I said. “But tell us, how is old Geeraff working out?”
“He’s just like the goose ‑ eat up. Couldn’t do anything with the long legged outlaw, so I fed him to the hogs.”
Gray shook his head. “Run me out of my own corral, and when I lost my hat the son of a gun grabbed it with his teeth. Then he stomped it into the ground. Lucky I wasn’t in it.”
I don’t know what Geeraff did for the hogs. But with him out of the way we finished the job in jig time. I made the final round and headed for the barnyard. My eight horses were hooked to the plow and a thirty foot drag log with stub limbs was fastened behind the plow for leveling the ground.
When I went to open the wire gate, one of the horses spooked. The others took the challenge. They stampeded through the gate with the tree drag chasing them. The corral and barn were ahead. A log outhouse was to one side. When the horses flew by the corral the drag log was getting airborne. As they rounded the barn on the way back the drag swung wide, hit the outhouse and sent logs flying though the air like match sticks. The horses ended up in a glorious wreck ‑ plow, logs, match sticks, and harness.
I had one tame horse. He was on the bottom of the pile.
We were most of the afternoon cutting the horses out, and the next day we started sewing the harness back together. The field was plowed. I asked John, “Now what shall we do?”
“Head west,” came the reply.
We hitched up our horses and headed for the mountains. We reached the Big Hole Basin two weeks before haying time. Rainbow welcomed us. “Glad you came early,” he said. “I’ve got some green horses that I need to break so we can get in the hay fields.”
John had spent several winters working in the Big Hole Basin for Rainbow. This was on a big cattle and hay operation. Someone in Seattle owned this. Rainbow was the ranch manager. His wife, Blanche, was a good manager herself. She’d borrow me for her special chores. Sometimes mowing Blanche’s orchard took precedence over the nut grass in the meadows.
Blanche had an old horse that was full of miseries and on his last legs. One of my special tasks was putting the old horse out of his miseries.
(Note: Sometimes Mr. Bee speaks of this ranch as the Huntley ranch)
