May 2022 – Back Window Adventures

May 31, 2022May 31, 2022

Branding Day

I opened the gate and made my way past the bawling cows and calves that wandered restlessly around the barnyard kicking up dust. They complained about being driven from their pasture. After they settled down a bit the calves were separated from the cows. A couple of guys persuaded, guided, and pushed each calf through an opening between the gates that led to the hydraulic calf table. In less than a minute the calf was lifted on the table, branded, tagged, banded if required, and vaccinated. The cows bellowed and hollered as they waited for their calves to be returned. Within a short period of time, they were reunited and soon in the pasture grazing once again.

That is much different than it was in days of long ago when my dad watched his uncles on branding day. That was a time when family and friends gathered for the branding and the festivities that followed.

Ropers, wranglers, and those wielding branding irons made their way to the corral along with the spectators who hung on the fence or peered through the log rails. Then, the excitement really began. One of the ropers threw their lasso around a calf’s neck and another cowboy wrestled it to the ground and tied its legs together. A couple of guys held the calf down while the hot iron was applied and burned its identifying mark on the rump. Smoke from the iron mingled with dust that hung heavy over the corral as the smell of burning hair and flesh was blown away in the breeze. When all was done, everyone headed to the lodge. Recounted tales of the day mingled with good natured laughter and the aroma of food coming from the kitchen. It has been a good day.

Uncle Dick on horse,Uncle Ed, Buck (my daddy)

Times and methods change but branding day is still a vital part of the cowboy culture. What once required many people now takes only a few. Branding irons heated by fire are now replaced with electric irons, but brands are applied the same way to burn marks of ownership that cannot be removed.

On branding day, I didn’t peer through the fence rails and see ropers and wranglers in action, but I still got to be a spectator. Somehow, amid the noise and the smoke, I imagined how it might have been in the days of my father’s youth. I think I caught a glimpse of him standing in the middle of the corral, Uncle Dick on the horse, Uncle Sid and Uncle Barney holding down a calf, and a youngster bending over to watch Uncle Ed wield the hot iron to apply the brand. Yes, it was a good day!

Uncle Sid on Pat, Uncle Dick on Buster, Uncle Barney & Uncle Gus holding calf, Bud Ward

May 25, 2022May 24, 2022

Poppy

I never knew my paternal grandfather, but I heard many stories. My father gave a tribute to him in one of the books he gave to us kids one year. Included is one of the poems Poppy wrote.

My grandfather, “Whose pioneer instinct led him to unsettled lands in the mountains of Montana. This paved the way for a whole family of FIRSTS. Did he get homesick?” This is what he wrote:

Take me back to old Montana
Where there is plenty room and air,
Where the hand clasp is the firmer
And the latch string’s open there

Where the boys wear chaps for breeches,
Buckskin gloves and Stetson hats,
Where they throw the diamond hitches
And brand cattle on the flats.

Land of promise, Land of sunshine,
The finest land on all the earth,
Take me back, let me recline
Land that gave my children birth.

– Bud Ward, 1927

May 21, 2022May 21, 2022

Trail of History

As you turn onto our Montana road from the main highway there is a brown sign depicting the figures of two men, one pointing, and an Indian woman with a baby on her back. That is, of course, Lewis & Clark, and Sacagawea with her son.

William Clark was an explorer, soldier, Indian Agent, territorial Governor and was appointed as Superintendent of Indian Affairs in 1822. Clark and Lewis’ expedition opened the West to fur and lumber trade, and made the way for an influx of settlers who soon followed. The expedition of Lewis & Clark not only was of great importance in our nation’s history, but it holds another fascination for me – family history.

In July 1806, Clark and Sacagawea along with the party who accompanied them, traveled through our part of the country along the north side of the Yellowstone River. That is where our house will be. The path they traveled is very close to our door. As the red-tailed hawk flies, Yellowstone River is just under one mile from where our house is being built.

Recently a cousin doing research came across the William Clark Papers housed at the Kansas Historical Society which includes correspondence referencing Captain Richard Brannin, my 3^rd Great Grandfather, as well as a letter from Captain Brannin to Captain Clark (of Lewis & Clark), who was then the Superintendent of Indian Affairs. Captain Brannin was appointed as Indian agent and agriculturist to the Osage Indians by President Monroe in 1822, serving from 1826 to 1833. His wife, Margaret, my 3^rd Great Grandmother, was an instructress to the Osage women.

When Captain Brannin first met Captain Clark, there was no way to know that in just a few years, in 1864, some the Brannin family would cross into Montana territory. Not long after that, members of the family took up permanent residence here along the Lewis & Clark Trail in Montana.

As I look out across the countryside, the scene is not much different than when Sacagawea stood near the banks of the Yellowstone River and gazed at the mountains around her. Suddenly, the Clark/Brannin connection from 200 years ago somehow narrows the gap of time as the trail of history makes its way right past our door.

This scene is not much different than when Clark and Sacagawea were here.

May 17, 2022May 17, 2022

Belt

“Belt!” I pointed to the sign then pointed to the left. My husband made no indication that he was going to turn. “Belt”, I said again. He said, “Yes, the Little Belts.” Emphatically I pointed again to the sign and said, “Belt, turn here.” We made a quick left-hand turn and almost immediately the road seemed to disappear beneath Belt Butte.

We descended to the valley on a curvy road. The little town of Belt, Montana was just before us. We slowed as we entered the little town, passing the historic jail that now serves as a museum, and the Belt Valley Grocery with the parking area lined with potted plants for flower beds and gardens. “There it is! There’s the Harvest Moon Saloon where we are going to have lunch.” We parked in front of the saloon and hopped out of the car. Though the town is not big in size, it is abundant in character. I was fascinated with the old buildings that revealed the architecture of the Finnish and Slavic emigrants who first settled there when the town sprang up. There is a certain air about those small western towns that seems to defy time.

When we entered the saloon, it was just as I imagined. Locals, I guess, sat at the bar spinning their yarns and talking loudly. Upon seeing us, a spry little lady who ran the joint admonished one of the men, “Watch your language! Do you think you’re in a bar or something?” We sat at a table and the lady greeted us with menus and a hello. The whole time we were there, she ran back and forth from the dining area to the grill area to the bar. I took in the whole scene before me – the people, the old relics, the newer technology available, the dim rooms, the neon signs, the old, clouded windows.

At one time, Belt was a coal mining town, the first in the state of Montana. They supplied fuel to Fort Benton, the smelter at Great Falls, powered locomotives of the Great Northern Railway, and heated homes throughout Central Montana. Just as quickly as the town grew, it came to an abrupt halt when other fuel sources became readily available. Yet, the small town never gave up. The people of Belt, as well as the town itself, have survived the years. From a population of 4000 in the 1890’s during its heyday to a population of 564 in 2020, the town has endured. They found other ways to secure their place in living history. Being in grain country and fed by some of the country’s finest water from the Madison Aquifer, it has become a prime brewing place for makers of craft beers. Belt jail was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1980, and the main section of town was listed in 2004. That continues to draw visitors into the quaint town – including us.

Belt Butte with its dark “belt” of sandstone around its middle, draws travelers’ attention as they pass that way. Not only is the town of Belt named for the butte, but also Belt Creek, and the Little Belt and Big Belt Mountains. Had we not taken the time to turn off the main road, we would certainly have missed another of Montana’s hidden treasure, the little town of Belt, Montana.

May 11, 2022May 12, 2022

Gumbo Anyone?

Though I was raised in the South, some Southern foods are not suitable to my palate. Grits and greens are not on my menu, and I don’t get excited about a pot of gumbo thickened with slimy okra. See, I heard about gumbo from my mom, and she had a different story about gumbo, and it had nothing to do with food.

Mama grew up on the prairies of Montana. That meant times of drought. When the rains came, the ground slurped up the moisture like a sponge, grass turned green, and flowers sprouted up. But the rain brought something else – gumbo – thick, heavy, sticky, gooey, slimy mud. Mama told stories about getting mired down in gumbo. She said if you got stuck in gumbo, you might be there a while. When it dried, the ruts were left in its place, and if you got stuck in a rut, you could be in it for a long time, too.

The other day, we took a drive down one of the dirt roads through the countryside – one of those that turns to gumbo at the mere mention of rain. As we drove down the country lane, we stirred up as many memories as the clouds of dust that rolled behind us. Parts of the road were not much more than a grass centered lane full of ruts and rocks. When it’s wet, it’s gumbo just like in the days of Mama’s youth, and can be almost impassable. Yet that rutty road took us to places that were dear to my mom’s heart.

When when Mama heard “gumbo”, memories of younger days came to mind, some of which she shared with us. Here are a couple of events from her youth.

On the way to their Baccalaureate, my mom, her sister, and friend (who became her sister-in-law), headed to town. Most of the roads in the country were dirt except when it rained, then it was gumbo. This happened to be such a day. As the girls neared a hill, they saw one of the neighbor ladies stuck in the mud. The girls stripped off their dress clothes, waded in the sticky mud, and pushed the car up the hill. That’s what neighbors do. They had to go wash up and get dressed again before their Baccalaureate.

Another such incident might make your cheeks rosy. One day my dad’s sisters headed to Cavill School to pick up my mother where she taught in the one-room schoolhouse. As they headed to the mountains, the clouds opened up and poured out their wet wrath. The road immediately turned to gumbo. It wasn’t long before the car was stuck. One of the girls crawled out of the car and wallowed in the mud trying to get the chains on the tires. By the time she was done, she was as mired down and muddy as the tires. Her clothes were ruined. There was nothing else to do but strip off her clothes, and just put on her coat. The girls headed on as the day began to get dark. Up ahead, a neighbor waving a lantern stopped them and said the bridge was out. He invited the girls into his family’s house for the night. All the girls but one took their coat off, and I’ll bet you know which one. I guess they failed put an extra set of clothes in the car for such emergencies.

My dad claimed to grow three inches taller if he was lucky enough to cake the bottoms of his boots with gumbo. That was unless he got his boots sucked off his feet instead, then he lost an inch or two. So much for gumbo.

Gumbo, anyone? No thanks. I don’t care for any gumbo.