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Learning a Foreign Language

One day I decided I needed to know how to crochet and knit. It fascinated me to watch my grandmother do her handwork. I sneaked a peek at her instruction sheet, and I couldn’t read a thing. Ch 17, dc in 4th ch from hook, 15 dc; Sl st, ch 17; dc in next 4 dc, ch 1, [sk next dc, shell in next dc] 4 times; trc in each st across; repeat in rounds. What did that even mean? To me, it was a foreign language, one I would have to learn in order to read the directions. 

My grandmother did not willingly divulge information on her skills. With that in mind, I formed a plan of action. One day I walked into the room where she sat and said, “I want you to teach me to crochet, and knit those dish cloths like you make.” She stiffened up and started to sputter out excuses. Her greatest excuse was that she tried once to teach someone in the family to knit and crochet and they never could get it. Well, that wasn’t me! I said, “One day you’ll be gone. Don’t you want to leave those skills as part of your legacy? Tell me what I need to purchase – the exact hook and needle sizes and the specific type of yarn you use – and then you can teach me.” I pointed to a crochet pattern and said, “This is a foreign language. It makes no sense. I want to know how to read it and how to do each stitch. Then, I will be able to read any pattern.”         

She looked skeptical and told me what I needed. A day or two later, I showed up with the suggested items and took instructions under her reluctant yet capable tutelage. It wasn’t long before I would go in and show her something I was working on, and I knew she was pleased.

My grandmother was hesitant to show me how to knit because she thought it would confuse me when I tried to read a pattern. She said she learned to knit from her friend, a Dutch lady, who taught her to knit ‘like the Dutch.’ That is completely different than the American way. I told her, “I want to do it just like you.” So, she taught me. Years after she died, I was working on a knitted baby blanket that gave instructions to purl. Oh my, how do you purl like the Dutch? I had no idea and found no help. One day, I gathered up my stuff, and went to visit my great aunt which was always a treat. I said, “I need help. I’m supposed to purl and I want you to show me how.” She said, “I don’t think I can show you because I don’t knit the American way.” I got a surprised look on my face. She said, “Who taught you to knit?” I responded, “Grandma Bee.” Then she looked surprised, “Oh! I can show you then because I taught her. We knit like the Europeans.” So, I learned to purl – just like the Dutch and Europeans. When I visited China, one of my daughter’s Chinese friends showed me how to knit like the Chinese which uses three threads per stitch.

  • the first crocheted afghan I ever made
  • I especially like crocheting doilies

Every walk of life has its own language whether it’s the medical profession, cooking, engineering, construction, banking, sewing, crocheting or knitting. To speak those languages, you have to learn the unique terms and their meanings. Now if you come to my house, you will find a basket of yarn, knitting needles, and crochet hooks beside my chair, and I know how to use them. I learned the language!

  • knitting the European way and the Chinese way
  • tools of the trade
  • This little doll has a crocheted body as well as her clothing, horse and dolly. Hours and hours are spent crocheting one of these, but it is so satisfying when completed.
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The Coyote Raid

a tale of my guest author, a scared little boy who grew up to be my daddy

Cousin Anna has a cat.  She calls her Kitsy-Witsy. She loves cats. Every morning she says, “Good morning Kitsy, do you want Mama to fix you some warm milk?” 

Cousin Anna calls herself “Mama” when she talks to her cat. At night she says, “Do you want to sleep with Mama?”  

  • That is Cousin Anna. She likes cats.

She won’t put Kitsy-Witsy out of doors at night because coyotes live in the forest around us. Cousin Anna thinks the coyotes might get her cat. Maybe they would. Coyotes tried to eat our turkeys.

It was night, and the turkeys were sleeping in the big fir tree behind the chicken house. The coyotes barked, and howled, and tried to climb the tree to get the turkeys.

“Yip, yip, yip.  Oowhaa, OUOUOOUU! Hickey, hickey, hicky, ooooooOOOH!”  

My sisters and I were sleeping in the new bedroom way off on the end of the house. We heard the coyotes. One of them was right outside the window where we slept – that was way off out there on the far side of the new room. 

We were afraid the coyote would try to get us instead of the turkeys.  My big sister said, “Let’s hide under the bed so the coyotes can’t find us.”

  • the author and his sisters

We pulled the covers off the bed and crawled under it. We shivered and cried until Old Spot started barking at the coyotes.  

He said, “Go away or I’ll eat you up.”  

But the coyotes barked back, “There are six of us and only one of you.”

Then Daddy jumped out of bed and grabbed his shot gun. He went outside, right by our bedroom window. “Blood, thunder, and sudden death!” he shouted. He fired the gun.  “BAM, BAM!”

A shotgun sounds very loud when you are under a bed at midnight. My mother heard us crying way down there at the far end of the house. She told us to get on top of the bed because coyotes wouldn’t hurt children anyway.

Do you think that my mother gets strange ideas?   

  • This coyote crawled under an old house and died. How would you like those eyes staring at you?
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The Hunter’s Cabin

Because there was very little snow on the mountains, which was not typical for mid-October, deer and other wildlife had not been driven to lower feeding grounds. Bare branches on trees and shrubs rattled with the slightest touch or breeze, making animals and hunters alike jumpy. Shots rang out, the barrage of gunfire too close for comfort. It was October 15, 1940, the first day of hunting season.

Four men who hunted in the Crazy Mountains that day returned to their little cabin just above the Ward & Parker place forty miles from town. There were two cabins side by side. One cabin built in 1937 or ’38 was “Gommie’s cabin” and was sometimes used by hunters. The other cabin was built by a hunting crew from Big Timber. It was sometimes referred to as the Bryan-Alden cabin. Ward & Parker furnished the logs and lumber, but the hunters provided the labor and built the cabin to use during hunting season. Other times of the year, the cabins were used for vacationers and one of them was the honeymoon home of a young couple for a time. 

  • Gommie’s Cabin

After the long day of hunting, two of the men sat in the cabin cleaning their weapons. The scene changed in an instant. While one of the men unloaded his rifle, it accidentally discharged, hitting the other man in the right side shattering his upper arm and shoulder. Hearing the shot, the other two men ran into the cabin. The gunshot victim lay unconscious but alive on the floor.

 They quickly took the wounded man to the Ward house where first aid was administered. One of the hired men at Ward & Parker drove them to Big Timber Hospital, arriving at 9 PM. Amputation was performed on the arm, but the loss of blood and shock was too much. The man died at 1:15 the following morning. 

Though the old hunter’s cabin now has a leaking roof, and a door that no longer closes, it still contains memories of a life that was snuffed out in the blink of an eye. Like shattered glass scattered on the cabin floor, the lives of more than one family were shattered that mid-October day in 1940. 

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Overload

On the way to take my son to school one day, we were talking about learning a new language. I told him it was easier to learn a language at a young age. He was quiet for a minute then said, “I guess it’s harder for older people to learn a new language because their brain is already full.” 

Though Daddy’s brain contained lots of data, he was still a master at remembering people. When he met someone, he somehow made a connection with them. Later he not only knew the person’s name, but he also knew about the family, where they were from, who they were related to, and various other bits of information. 

As Daddy aged, he remarked that he just couldn’t remember like he used to. Even with his short-term memory loss, as he called it, his memory was better than almost anyone I knew. It distressed him whenever he forgot someone’s name. Usually later that day or the next, he would randomly call out the person’s name and was very pleased with himself. He had no problem remembering stories from his childhood. His tales included dates, names of people and places, and history. He was always coming up with songs from school days or from his time in the war. Somehow, he sifted through all the files of information in his head and pulled out the right one.

  • You’re never too old to learn something new

One day when he was discouraged because of a memory lapse, he asked why he could remember things from years ago but not from earlier that day. I told him his brain was getting full. His old memories connected to the roots of time were deeply embedded. He had drawn them from his memory bank for so many years, they were always fresh. The latest happenings of his life lay in a shallow layer on the top of his database. Kind of like dust on a table, or a thin layer of snow on a sunny day, they were easily melted and wiped away. 

I loved hearing his old tales over and over again. It seemed each time, he found another nugget to add to his story. By retelling events of his childhood, he kept his mind active. He spoke bits and pieces of several other languages and would often answer a question in one of those languages. My great aunt took a language course in her later years and Daddy kept his German books handy so he could refresh those things he had learned. But his greatest language was one we should all try to learn at any age – it was the language of love and acceptance for others.

  • These two siblings contain a wealth of information on a plethora of topics and family history
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The Language of Sign

My mother was almost deaf, in fact, according to the charts, she was legally deaf. Sometimes it was very difficult to communicate with her. I’m afraid to say that many times she was ignored. She often felt alienated because she missed so much of the conversation. Her lack of hearing really hit me when the grandkids were small. I told her one day, “I’m so sorry that you can’t hear that sweet little voice.” How sad to not hear those little sounds we all take for granted – a chirping bird, a child’s soft song, or a little voice saying, “I love you.”

She and Daddy had their own way to talk to one another. They made up their own method of sign language. Someone came up with the idea for us to take a sign language class. Daddy, Mama, my daughter, husband, and I signed up. We went to the Technical School and took the course for American Sign Language. 

After we completed the course, we tried to put the language into action. I will admit that I didn’t use it as much as I should have, so most of that has left me now. Mama and Daddy used it, but Daddy’s sign language was much like his writing – sloppy. They managed though Daddy added his own quirky signs for various things.

Fifteen years ago, Mama and Daddy were in a serious car accident, one that claimed the life of my mother. Mama was flown to a hospital that had a trauma unit. After she was situated, I went in to visit her. They had her arms strapped down but she could move her hands. I noticed her making some kind of motion with her hands. Immediately I called for my daughter to come in. She was faster at reading sign than me. Mama was saying, “I hurt.” She signed letters and words so we were able to at least have some idea of how to help her. The nurse came in and I explained the reason she was moving her arms was not because she was a bad patient, but because it was her only way to communicate. I also told the nurse that she was hard of hearing. If they wanted her cooperation, they should all speak loudly, clearly, and in front of her face where she could watch their mouths move. Then, she would be compliant. I asked if there was anyone available on the nursing staff who knew sign language. There was none. A friend of the family who knew sign language fluently came to our aid and was able to help translate messages. We felt that at least gave Mama a bit of comfort during those last moments.

After her death, Daddy insisted I write letters to some of the universities with well know nursing programs, one being the University of Georgia. In the letters, I relayed to them to situation Mama and the family faced, suggesting that basic sign language be part of their curriculum. It would be easy enough to have a chart of basic signs posted in the rooms so patients could voice their needs. Of all sections of the hospitals, the trauma units and ICUs have patients that cannot speak because of tubes and other obstructions. If you’ve ever been in a foreign country where you are the only one speaking your language, it can be a bit frightening. What if you were deaf and there was no one to communicate with you, especially if you had an urgent need? I never received a response from any of my letters, but hopefully, someone took it to heart and maybe, just somewhere, there is a nurse who learned the language of sign.

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Mountain Spooks

a mountain tale by my Guest Author, my daddy

It gets dark in the Mountains. Strange things creep around our house. Sister Ellen is afraid to go outside at night. Of course she is a girl. Not me, I’m not afraid of the dark. At night a kid is supposed to stay indoors and hope that coyotes, bears, and haunts will go away before morning.

  • Sister Ellen and her little brother

Sometimes Sister would say to me, “Little brother why don’t you go outside and see if the moon is shining.”

Poor girl, she should know that the moon could shine on its own. Last Halloween time Ellen came back from school telling spooky stories about witches, black cats, ghosts, and goblins. She shook her finger at me and began to sing,

Once there was a little boy,
Who wouldn’t say his prayers,
And when he went to bed one night,
Way, away up stairs,
His mama heard him holler,
And his papa heard him bawl,
And when they turned the kivers down
He wasn’t there at all.

She’d sing about how his parents hunted high and low. 

And all that they could find of him,
Was waist and round-about.
And the Goblins will get you,
If you don’t watch out!

“Why don’t you go outside, brother. Nothing would get a kid like you.”

She didn’t know that I waited for a chance to prove how big and brave I was.  Then, when winter turned into spring, I got the chance I was waiting for.  

Mike came up. We were playing on the hillside back of the chicken house when a “Boom. Boom. Boom,” sounded from the little fir trees at the edge of the forest.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s a Hammering Goblin,” my friend said. “If we slip up there real quiet, maybe we can see him.”

“I don’t need to see him.”

Sometimes a Goblin will just get a kid.  It’s best to say your prayers every night. 

“Then we can tell the girls.”

Mike was interested in doing something brave to tell the girls. We crept through the sagebrush on the hillside. Soon the hammering was close to us, right back of the first little fir trees.  

“You go first,” he said.

“No, you.”

“It’s your hill.”

“You’re a special guest.”

“We’ll go together.”

We were about ten steps from the edge of the trees when the hammering stopped and a large Ruffed Grouse flew up from the bushes. The grouse must have warned the Hammering Goblin and sent him running up the hill like we went running down.

My friend was disappointed.

“Shux!” he said, “We are going to Cafilornia next week and I wanted to tell your sisters.”

“Cafilornia? Is that a long way from here?  I’m going to miss you.”

“Yeh, I know.  I’ll miss your little sister.”

  • Little Sister, Sister Ellen, author
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Power in Prayer

I grew up in the Bible Belt. You know, the place where there was a church on every corner. Well, that might be a bit of exaggeration, but there were lots of churches. If you took a drive through the countryside, a church would appear out of nowhere, no houses in view. If you took a drive into town, you could see a first, second, or even a third Baptist church once removed. You might find a United Methodist, a Congregational Methodist, Church of God, Assembly of God, Pentecostal, and the list goes on. Some of those old country churches now have their doors closed.

Some parishioners change churches as easily as changing a pair of pants. They are called church hoppers.  Whenever our family changed churches, we had a slight disadvantage, or maybe it was an advantage, because we couldn’t get away from the preacher. Nope, he went with us.

Through the years, I have heard lots of prayers float to the rafters and beyond. Some folks have “unspoken requests” while others voice prayer requests publicly, many that should remain silent and held in strict confidence. One man in a church I attended had his own way with prayer. He spoke loudly and much too clearly as he began his prayer, “Lord, you know Sister Sally is having a hard time since she found out her husband is seeing Jane Thermabotham. You know they have been seen together out on the town…..” And the “prayer” continued. (names have been changed as to not incriminate someone) By the time the last “Amen” was given, word was all over town. Of course, the man who prayed wondered how everybody in town knew about Sally’s situation. The damage was done. Every time he prayed, I thought, “you don’t have to tell God what he already knows and no one else needs to know it, true or not!” 

There are people I love to hear pray. One of my special ladies prays and when she says, “Amen,” all eyes open wide just knowing that God will be sitting right there beside her. Who knows? She might even be found sitting in His lap! Another of my special girls prays and a sense of reverence and awe flow into the room. Her words draw a clear picture of holiness. An exemplary gracious lady who has now gone on prayed quietly. She was one known as a “prayer warrior.” Never did anyone hear her repeat something in prayer that pointed a finger of judgment. She silently reached the gates of heaven with her sincere requests, but it didn’t end there. Her prayers were accompanied with action. If there was a need she could help meet, she did it quietly with no recognition. She learned what many others know – there is power in prayer and accompanied with love, it reaches the throne room of heaven.

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Our Secret Place

Our first stop was Hobby Lobby. I just needed to pick up some sewing needles and one piece of fabric. My little sidekick decided she needed some fabric, too. She settled for two pre-cut pieces and some trim to make a purse.

For lunch, we decided to pick up something from a drive-thru and find a place for a picnic. We like picnics. I pulled into Steak and Shake for a couple of burgers and drinks and then drove to find our lunch spot.  We stopped in a pull-off along a side road in the park. My little sidekick and I got out, walked to the back of the jeep, opened the hatch, and climbed up. As we ate our lunch, feet dangling, I told her that was a special spot. Daddy Buck’s favorite place for lunch was Steak and Shake. Many times, we got it to go, and we stopped along that same road, sat in the back of the jeep, and let our feet dangle as we at our burgers. My sidekick seemed excited to share that special place. We were even rewarded with three deer having lunch in the woods beside us.

A few days later, the other kids were with us. My little sidekick said, “Let’s get our lunch and eat in our special spot.” I said, “Nope. That’s our secret place now!”

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Laundry Day

I took the girls on an adventure – girls as in the Judge, Red, and Maud. That particular trip required us to wash our clothes a couple of times. You can tell by the picture below that we were in a place with dirt roads zigzagging through the countryside. It wasn’t just our vehicle that was dusty.

We gathered up our dirty clothes and headed to town. As usual, we plan a meal with any occasion, and laundry day was no exception. The first stop was the laundromat. We loaded up three washers with clothes, started our walk through town, grabbed some lunch, and popped into various shops along main street. By the time we got back to the laundromat the clothes were ready for the dryers. I gathered up a few things and went to our vehicle to put it in the back. I will admit that even I was surprised to see a couple of items hanging in the back to dry. Let me just say that those things didn’t belong to me. We laughed about our ornaments, closed the hatch, and walked down the street to get our milkshakes.

If you see a SUV with an Idaho tag, with two bras hanging, one on each side of the back window – I don’t know anything about it. I can’t take those girls anywhere!

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Silence Is Not Always Golden

We were filled with anticipation as we walked through the doors of the Montana Historical Society Library. A lady brought out our family’s file full of treasures. As I sorted through the files of documents, love letters, and other interesting tidbits of information, my cousin went to inquire about another treasure we hoped to find. Another staff member came and led us out the door and down the stairs. In the basement, we found row after row of shelves filled with thousands of Montana historical artifacts and files. The lady stopped and pointed, “there it is.” There propped against the wall was a square rosewood Steinway piano, the keyboard and soundboard on their side with four legs resting in front. Above the strings on the soundboard was the number 1863. Was this really THE piano we had heard about in family tales from childhood? The lady who led us to the basement walked off and returned with a folder. Excitedly, I looked through the papers. There it was – proof that the piano was no myth and was indeed the one brought across the country by family members one hundred fifty years earlier. 

My mind erupted with questions. What events brought the piano here? What would it have been like to hear an accomplished pianist play the ivory keys of the Steinway? Was there anything we could do to have the piano and its story put on exhibit? 

The next few years, details gathered from various sources, including Montana historians and the Chief Historian at Steinway and Sons, came together. I became the spectator, and the story began to unfold as events of the last century and a half rolled back like scenes on a movie reel.

Shortly after coming to America, in 1853 Heinrich Engelhard Steinweg started his own company under the name of Steinway and Sons. He came a long way since he built his first piano in 1825 in his kitchen in Seesen, Germany, as a wedding gift for his wife. It is said he had an “inherent talent for music” and an “unusual mechanical ingenuity.” That was proven as Steinway pianos rose to fame. On May 5, 1857, Steinway received his first of many patents, this one to improve “smooth repetitive action” of the keys. According to the Chief Historian at Steinway and Sons, that same year (not 1863 as family records stated) a piano went into production with the serial number 1863 and was described as being six feet eight inches long, with four sturdy shaped wooden legs, two pedals, eighty-two keys, and double strung. The completed masterpiece was shipped on October 14, 1858, to Michael Willkomm in Boonville, Missouri, who sold Steinway Pianofortes out of his sale rooms on Morgan Street. He also repaired and tuned pianos. 

Now it just happened that Michael Willkomm lived next door to Dr. George W. Stein who had immigrated from Hanover, Germany years earlier. At some point, Dr. Stein became the owner of the piano. In 1862, Dr. Stein married a widow by the name of Balsora Shepherd Furnish*, daughter of Mary “Mollie” Brannin. She brought two daughters to their marriage, Mary and Sarah Furnish.  

As roads were forged westward, the lure of the new territory captured the hopes of pioneers. Land was available, and there was talk of gold and fortunes to be made. In March 1864, some of the Brannin family took the trail west. They traveled by wagons and faced rugged roads, storms, Indian unrest, and other perils. My great grandfather was in that number along with a sister, aunts, uncles, a house boy, and cousins among who were Balsora and Dr. Stein, and Sarah Furnish. Mary, sick at the time, followed the next spring with the piano and other furniture. The piano, that had won first prize at the St. Louis Expo, was enough of a prize to Stein that he couldn’t leave it behind. He arranged for the piano to travel with Mary by steamboat up the Missouri River to Ft. Benton, and then by oxcart to its new home in Helena. 

In early May 1866, Sarah Furnish married Wilson Redding who had purchased a hot spring at Alhambra, Montana. Redding, who also had several mining interests, struck gold when he gained his bride. Not only did she bring grace and charm to their home, but she also brought the piano. Just a few weeks after they were wed, weary guests traveling from Virginia City to Helena were welcomed with a sumptuous feast to Wilson Redding’s Hot Spring. As they relaxed from their travels, their spirits were “cheered by the sweet strains of music which the piano gave forth, in obedience to the skillful touch of Mrs. Redding’s practiced fingers.” Through the years, many friends and guests enjoyed the music that flowed from the ivory keys of the Steinway.

Before Sarah Furnish Redding died, she expressed to her daughter her wish for the piano to be given to the Montana Historical Society. In 1930, her wish was fulfilled. Newspaper articles recorded the event with a brief historical account of how the piano made its way to Montana. The piano fell out of remembrance for a time until a fire stirred in the hearts of some of the family to bring her back into the limelight.

Some of Steinway’s creations are displayed in museums, some given to Presidents, others purchased or played by famous musicians before millions of awed audiences. And then, there is one lone disassembled square piano with serial number 1863 leaning against the wall in the basement of the Montana Historical Society Museum waiting for someone to clean off the dust, tune her strings, and put her on display. Even if she can’t be tuned, she is still a gorgeous instrument and deserves to have her story told and placed in the annals of history. It is a dream to have her grace the halls of history, her keys gently played to unlock her mellow tones and release her song that has been silent for far too long – a song that reminds us that silence is not always golden.

  • 1926
  • note: The first husband of Balsora was Barnett Furnish, a man of some means. He died on a return trip from California in 1854 in Platte County, Missouri after he and others drove cattle to the California market.