February 2023 – Back Window Adventures

by my Guest Author, my dad – the man of the mountains

The people down in Big Timber and Melville thought we were crazy to live that far back in the Crazies in the wintertime. They were almost right.

Winter was a son of a gun. For four months of the year we put chains on our car at the Olson Field Bridge four miles away. We carried a snow shovel and even then, sometimes, we walked and left our automobile off the road or in a snow drift.

Some winters the Cletrac tractor was the only thing that could manage the road between our house and the herd of cattle four miles down country. My father would wrap up snug and lay down on the sled that I pulled down the road and back. And driving the caterpillar tractor was cold with a capital K. At times I tied twine to the brake rods and walked behind it guiding it with lines like it was a team of horses.

Anyone who lived that far back in the mountain wilderness got acquainted with the curse of winter. The book writer in the family might say, “Winter is a bitch.” But there were also blessings. Just come with me and find a special place and enjoy our land of snowdrifts. Winter gave us a wonderland for hand sleds, skis and red nosed children. When we came home from school, we’d grab our sleds and head for the sled race tracks on the drifted hillsides.

On one sled race that I especially remember, Sister Barbara run-started her sled, sped down the hill, crossed a swale, and landed on the limbs of a fallen tree. She jumped up with blood flowing from a tree limb gash and shouted. “I won!”

A part of the winning was having had a warm house to get into. The west wind could be is driving snow across thehouse roof pouring off the eaves like a waterfall with the snow drift on the front side of the house so deep we had to shovelsnow away to see out the window – on days like that it’s nice to be hugged by a warm house.

Icicles could hang from eaves to the ground, the thermometer could read twenty degrees below zero, but who cared, if there was a glowing fire place or a wood heater with red cheeks.

The uncles had a super large house with a massive rock fireplace accented with a mantel covered with interesting Indian relics and the mounted head and antlers of large bull elk. That fireplace burned lots of wood and sent the heat up the chimney. The fireplace was more show than heat. It would warm the back of your legs if you stood in front of it. One of our home improvements was a stone fireplace that showed the head and antlers of a buck deer. The fireplace also housed a Heatilator that would consume any wood that would burn and throw out lots of heat. Before that we had a heater stove that was made out of a fifty-gallon barrel. It had a draft vent that was borrowed from a manufactured stove. It might go “Put, put, put.” What it lacked in looks it made up by output. That stove would really put out the heat. We liked to watch its red cheeks when it got really hot.

REAL WINTER COMFORT

J. Frost rides the wind tonight.
He shakes the window screen.
He whispers through the key hole,
“Let me in.”

The fire’s aglow inside,
The hearth log sends its flame
higher up the chimney,
When it hears Jack Frost’s name.

At every heart grown cold,
And every demon, dread, and doubt,
Light faith’s hearth log yet again
And coldness will flee out.

Rummaging through an old bookshelf, I found a tattered and torn book hidden away. A cloud of dust burst into the air as I picked up the book and wiped the jacket to reveal the title, “Prairie Rose.” Slowly, I opened the book. On the first page was the photo of a small girl and just beneath it was a picture of a mother with six children. Who was this little girl who grew into a woman? Would I like the girl, the teenager, the woman, whose stories rested between the pages?

As I began to read, it felt as if I was bound by a vortex of time that passed through the years of this girl’s life. The first scene that came into view was a cabin on the prairie in which a baby girl had just been born on a warm summer evening as green hail clouds cast balls of ice downward and the winds blew against the house. Even as a small child she held a fierce determination that could not easily be swayed. It wasn’t long before another girl joined the family. The two became fast friends and were inseparable. They were like prairie tumbleweeds, not staying in one place for long. One of the great joys of the youngsters was seeing a circus for the first time.

The hands of time reached out and pulled back the flap of a covered wagon. Two little girls peered out from the bed of the wagon in awe of everything they saw as the family traveled from Montana to Idaho to escape the drought. In just a few short years, the family made the trek back to Montana. From time to time as the pages turned, I stopped to ponder the stage set before my eyes. It was hard to imagine the mother in the photo ever being a child or a teenager, much less a wife and mother.

A soft wind tugged at the leaves of the book. New scenes flashed before me as time slowly moved forward. The family moved again, and a son joined the family. It was then I saw the

small figure of a little girl walking to school alone bundled against the cold. The winter wind taunted her and pelted her with blowing snow. The neighbors rescued her from the storm and kept her safe until her dad came and scooped her up in his arms.

Time picked up speed as the girl transformed into a teenager and became a young lady in love. A new chapter emerged. Within the moments, hours, days and years spoken of within the sheets of paper, the girl became the woman, wife, and mother seen in the picture. She was studious with a strong sense of righteousness. She stood up for those ridiculed by others. Her work ethics were commendable, her friendships unbreakable. This woman sacrificed to support her husband and children. Time and again, just like the prairie tumbleweed, she rolled on to another place.

“Prairie Rose” was calm as a warm sunny day, cold as the blowing snow, fresh and pretty as a prairie flower, sharp as a prickly pear, fierce as the heavy green storm clouds, determined as the blazing sun, curious as the rabbits that watched from the tall spring grass, relentless as the sticky gumbo that bogged down the tires of the cars and soles of her shoes. Yes, she was all those things, the prairie grass in the gently breeze, the cracked parched earth thirsting for a drink of water, the deep blue sky, and dark moving shadows of fluffy white clouds.

I turned the last page to the final words.

“The End. Love, Mom.”

No, that wasn’t right, that wasn’t the end!

I gently placed the book back on the shelf. The edges were still frayed, but inside I had found new, fresh stories, and treasures this lady left behind. I saw her now through different eyes. As I caressed the cover one more time, I turned with a tear and a smile. Yes, I had found more within the pages of her life, for I found a friend.

Through those years, she forged lasting friendships and strengthened the bonds of family. How could my heart not be drawn to this prairie school teacher who could ride a horse bareback across the prairie blown by the wind; who stood fearless to sweep rattlesnakes from the porch; who could calm a crying baby; who could sing a song and whistle a tune; who had spunk; who was not shaped by status; who was a perfectionist, yet never felt good enough, smart enough, or pretty enough; who was a prairie tumbleweed? Yes, I could like a girl like that, but would she have liked me?