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Buckhorn

Stepping onto the street in Pinos Altos was like stepping into the scene of an old western movie. It’s as if the tales of the Wild West came to life. Curtains of time rolled back as I stepped into the old saloon. The Buckhorn Saloon had its beginning in the 1860’s. The long bar bore scars from boot spurs and barroom brawls. I could easily imagine seeing my great grandfather and Old Moss sitting at one of the tables scattered throughout the saloon.

You can still get a drink or a sumptuous meal at Buckhorn as you experience the old west. Next door to the saloon is the Opera House that is still used as a performance venue. Musicians from all over play there. Just a walk through the Opera House is a memorable walk past historic photos, paintings and old artifacts.

  • at the bar
  • Opera House
  • Gila Cliff Dwellings

Pinos Altos, meaning “tall pines,” is along the route from Silver City, New Mexico to Sapillo Creek. It is a fascinating drive. The road winds through the Mimbres Mountains, a gorgeous and unique igneous mountain range. Dense forests and deep canyons make the mountains look dark and ominous. In this ancient land of tall mountains, rivers, and high desert, you can still find evidence of the prehistoric Mogollon Indians who made their homes in the cliffs of these mountains. A visit to Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument allows a fascinating look at their homes and culture. This was also the land of Apache Indians. As settlers moved into the area, big ranch owners brought their own unrest as these cultures clashed. Some of my ancestors called Sapillo Creek home before they left that land of gunslingers and raids on their neighbors’ homes.

  • just prior to fetus being pulled from the doe

Along that same road my family and I witnessed a scene that I warrant have only been seen by a few, other than the rare occurrence caught on film by a wildlife photographer. Just off the side of the road we saw a bear on the other side of a fence. Then we noticed a doe laying under the fence at the feet of the bear. It appeared the doe tried to jump the fence but didn’t make it. Within a few seconds, the bear reached into the doe’s abdomen that had been ripped open and pulled out a fetus as we watched. It’s was unbelievable!

The Mimbres Mountains are still wild and full of undiscovered mysteries.

  • Mimbres Mountains
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Under the Shade Trees

Growing up in the South fifty and sixty years ago was a lot different than it is today. Though I grew up in the south, I didn’t consider myself a Southern girl, even if I sounded like one. My parents were Northwesterners. There were definite cultural differences that were evident in our household, including the food. 

My dad was a preacher, mostly of small country churches. When we had church-wide meals, we ate outside if weather permitted. Some of the churches had tables set up in the church yard just for the meal. Others had concrete tables just waiting for an excuse to be used. Tall trees offered shade for the occasion.

Country church folks took every opportunity to get together. Homecoming and any other occasion warranted a church-wide or community gathering to eat. Ladies brought covered dishes filled with all kinds of food. I bypassed some dishes with no trouble. Turnip greens, collards, black eyed peas cooked in fat back, over-cooked vegetables with bacon grease, cornbread and grits were items that certainly did not tempt me in the least. Now, southern fried chicken and fresh baked pies were a different story! Neighbors and friends talked through the afternoon about their families, crops and jobs. Children ran and played. Laughter was caught up in the breeze.

Up until just a couple of weeks before Daddy died, he still talked about one of the first church gatherings they attended. It seems the ladies talked about what they brought to the meal. One lady said she brought a chocolate cake that “the preacher” just had to try. He went to the end of the table that held the desserts. Where was the chocolate cake? He soon learned what southern ladies considered to be a “chocolate cake.” It was a yellow or white cake with chocolate icing. There was no chocolate cake anywhere under that icing.

Occasionally at one of the churches, especially in the fall, a big pot was set up in the church yard with a fire under it. Parishioners brought ingredients for Brunswick Stew, dumped them in the pot and let the stew cook for hours as they took turns stirring. When it was ready, people got in line with their bowls. They walked away with stew slopping over the sides of their bowls and gathered up a handful of cornbread and had a feast. I never stood in either of those lines! Yes, I did taste it and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the texture and I sure didn’t like the way it looked. To me, it looked like a meal that had already been eaten once and it sure didn’t appeal to my senses.

Sometimes now when we’re driving down country roads, we might pass a little church with all the doors and windows boarded up. And sometimes off to the side in the church yard is a concrete table leaning unsteadily on broken or sunken legs, the top covered with moss, sticks and leaves. It brings thoughts of years gone by when gatherings under the shade trees were a central part of the community. For just a fleeting moment those memories are recaptured as I see neighbors sharing their lives with one another.

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Holey Socks

Cousin George has holes in his socks. There’s a hole for his foot to go in, and there’s a hole for his big toe to go out. I think my dad bought his socks at the same place because that’s how his socks looked, too. The only difference is, Daddy’s socks weren’t pink. 

Of course, who am I to talk about their socks? In warm weather I don’t wear socks. In cold weather I wear my socks a few times then switch feet so there are two matching toe holes in each sock. Then I have to get new socks. I don’t like my toes hanging out. Daddy didn’t like new socks. He liked his old socks so his big toes could stick out. It was too much trouble to break in a new pair of socks and the holes in his old ones were in just the right place. 

My big toes turn toward the sun and my second toe looks like a camel, too. It’s a family thing!

This is a picture of a pair of my holey socks. I don’t have the heart to throw them away because they are my favorite frog socks.

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Sweet Fragrance

Light streamed through the window as we crowded into the little room.  The figure in the hospital bed lay contorted from a body ravaged by sickness.  His head fell to one side, chin pressed to his shoulder, his mouth opened and twisted. With eyes immovable, his stare was fixed on the foot of his bed.  His bride of untold years sat by his side.

As voices were raised in song of declaration of God’s grace, the woman lovingly took his hand. She gently stroked it as tears streamed down her face. Her voice could be heard mingling with the others.  It was strong and confident.  She knew his remaining time was short.  She anticipated his last breath at any time.  

As I watched her, I wondered what she saw.  Did she see a twisted man with life fading away?  Did she see a strong handsome young man from days long gone? Did she relive the moment she met him? Did she remember that moment when her heart flipped, and she thought she would love him forever?  Did she envision their wedding day or his face when he held their child for the first time?  It’s almost as if she was trying to gather time in her arms and hold it tight so it could not escape, daring the memories to fade.   

Her tears fell unashamedly as she lifted his hand slightly, lowering her head to give it a tender kiss.  I thought my heart might stop as I witnessed the scene.  The twisted man I saw was the object of a woman’s love and devotion. Somehow, the room appeared even brighter.  As we prepared to leave, we all held hands.  I stepped forward and took the hand she had kissed through her tears. I was surprised that he gripped my hand while he slowly moved his other hand toward hers.  No other visible emotion or movement escaped him.  His hand was soft and warm.  Life could still be felt pulsing through his veins.  As I closed my eyes, the smell of disinfectant and distinct odors that had followed us into the room were snuffed out. I noticed a sweet fragrance.  I knew it must be the perfume of the lady who sat within my reach, but maybe it was the fragrance of her love mingled with the sweet aroma from the prayers that were being lifted to the heavens.   Time is indeed short.  We cannot hold it tight for it will slip right through our fingers like sand in an hourglass.   

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Four Wheeling

Hang on! We’re off! I gave the girls a few days to acclimatize before we headed to the mountains. Finally! They were going to see a place I had told them about for almost 30 years that I don’t think they even believe existed.

Cousin George agreed to take us up in his truck since we didn’t know how the river crossings would be. We met at the ranch, climbed in the truck and headed up the canyon. The girls were amazed at the views and I think a bit overwhelmed. It’s different being in the heart of the mountains than seeing them at a distance. That was the most wilderness they had ever seen. We had to open gates, ford creeks, and dodge rocks along our trail. We crossed the rocky flats and pulled into the yard at the old home place. Cousin George unloaded the four-wheeler and we grabbed our picnic lunch out of the back.

I gave the girls a tour of the buildings, many of which were collapsed, and told them the significance and history of each. They drank from the eternal spring that I call, “the fountain of youth,” which is the best water in the world. We had our picnic in the cozy bunkhouse close to the woodstove that had already warmed up the place. 

The weather had not cooperated but that didn’t dampen our spirits. After lunch we jumped on the four-wheeler. Of course, I was the driver. The girls climbed on the back. They were layered in clothes but I think they discovered they could have used a few more. Since it was raining off and on, we put on our thin ponchos. We looked quite a sight! Those girls have traveled with me a few times. We’ve ziplined, driven Segway’s, kayaked, thrown axes, flown in planes, ridden on boats, rode horses, forded creeks, ridden on buses and other fun adventures. Having done all those things, a four- wheeler ride didn’t intimidate them at all. 

The temperature had dropped quite a bit from the time we left town. It was chilly. No, it was cold. I failed to bring my gloves, so pulled my extra long sleeves over my hands to use as gloves. Off we went up the trail peppered by mist and occasional rain. There were a few puddles along the way. I revved the motor just like I was trying to pop a wheelie. When I saw a good puddle, I just happened to speed up a bit and hit it just right to make a good splash. We jumped over rocks, dodged roots, stopped and pondered the best route around obstacles in our path, and went as far as we could before having to turn around. On the way back, I stopped above the lake. The grass in the meadow was tall and green. Though the rain and clouds shrouded the view of the mountains, the lake still shimmered. Ripples danced on the water as raindrops pelted the surface. It was still a glorious day.

The girls gasped when I pulled off the wilderness road into the tall wet grass. They have traveled we me enough to know that whatever I’m driving has a mind of its own and always manages to go off road. We were pretty much off road anyway. I could not resist riding through the mountain grass and wildflowers to give them a closer view of the lake below. Besides, it’s a tradition to take a photo at the old hay rake. When we were sufficiently wet, we headed back to the bunkhouse to thaw out a bit before heading back to town.

Knowing the river wasn’t too high for me to cross in our four-wheel drive, we knew we would return to the mountains in a couple of days for another adventure with a picnic and bears!

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Don’t Let the Spooks Get You!

The night seemed darker than usual. Not even a sliver of light found its way through the black curtain of night. My sister had always said she felt like eyes were looking at her. The stairs creaked from the bottom of the steps to the top. The sound of footsteps sent a resounding crackle through the house. It always sounded eerie, but that dark night, the sounds were magnified.

It didn’t help matters that the new parsonage was built on a potter’s grave. There was also a graveyard in the woods beside our house. It also didn’t help matters that a ghostly white horse was seen on a foggy night roaming through the church graveyard across the road. A few days after it was seen, the horse died after a story circulated that a curse had been cast on it. It is possible the horse got religion before his demise. He did attend church service a time or two when he stuck his head in the opened window on a Sunday morning and snorted a bit. I just thought it was Mr. Norman snoring in the back.

On that particular dark night, Daddy and Mama were in a meeting at the church. My sister, sister-in-law, niece and I were at the house. All of a sudden there was a loud banging noise. We all looked out the window just in time to see a shadowy light float through the back yard. It was gone a quickly as it came. The whole house creaked and groaned. Our imaginations ran unchecked. Someone or something was in the house. We all crept into the kitchen, opened the drawer and chose our weapons – knives and whatever else we thought would be good protection. We hurried up the stairs, ran into Mama and Daddy’s room, and closed the door. Someone grabbed a chair and put it in front of the door, the top of the chair lodged under the doorknob. We must have looked like crazed lunatics with our feet firmly planted and our weapons ready to be wielded when the door came crashing down.

The situation demanded action. We called the church phone. Nothing. We called again. Someone finally answered. We all talked at once. Someone needed to come to our rescue. It seemed forever until we heard Daddy come in the house. We didn’t open the door until we were sure he was the one on the other side. He searched every room, nook and cranny, but found no evidence of anyone being in the house with us. There was only the lingering feeling of eyes watching us and the sounds of footsteps that could be heard anytime of the day or night.

It was concluded that a light from a car created the shadowy light figure across the yard at the very same moment that an acorn fell from a tree and hit the trash can lid. Just a side note – that was the only time in the four years we lived there that we saw such a light – and that must have been one gigantic acorn to make a noise that loud.

On another dark night years later, some of us girls went on a ghost tour in Asheville, North Carolina. We heard stories of some of the places that are supposedly visited by spirits. At one house, we heard stories of the man who rocked invisibly in the chairs on the porch and walked around the yard. I decided to take a photo of the house. I looked through the lens of my camera and made sure there was no glare from the window of the trolley. I snapped a photo without the flash and thought nothing more about it. No one mentioned seeing anything unusual. When we got back to our room, I hooked up my camera to the computer to look at the photos of the day. I said, “Ummmm, girls, come over here!” We all looked in amazement. There in the photo was a shadowy ghostly figure walking down the sidewalk.

Just sayin’ – sometimes there are things we cannot explain. All I can tell you is, “Don’t let the spooks get you!”

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Foster Babies

There is nothing that melts the heart like a little baby. The gruffest of burly men soften and become putty with a newborn baby in his arms. Women gather around a new baby like a mama hen with her chicks, clucking, ooooing and ahhhhing. Even grumpy people smile at the sight of a soft little baby. A new life brings hope of the future, but sometimes a new life is unwanted and seems hopeless.

One day in 1967 there was a knock on the door. It was a lady with Family and Children Services. My parent’s names had been suggested as prospective foster parents and there was a desperate need for foster families to care for newborn babies. With four of us kids still at home, Mama didn’t have extra time, but she agreed to help them out until arrangements were made for adoption. 

The case worker brought us a big baby boy straight from the hospital. All we knew about the little guy’s parents was they were professors at the University and a baby did not fit into their budget. You know, it doesn’t take much to get attached to a new little person. That little guy was very smart. His personality won the heart of everyone who saw him. He was cooing and smiling in no time. We kept him for at least six months. It was really hard to let him go, but it wasn’t long before we had another baby. Over a period of six years, we kept at least thirty babies for two and three months, some longer. Occasionally we would keep a toddler for a shorter period of time. One of the saddest situations was a little girl about two or three years old who had cigarette burns all over her body. When Mama put her in the crib to sleep, the little girl whimpered like a scared puppy. When she was lifted out of the crib, the little girl ran to the corner of the room and curled up on the floor. Mama made a bed for her in the corner. There is no telling what that little girl had lived through. She was sent back to her mom who promised to reform but it wasn’t long before the little girl came to us again. 

All the babies we kept were unique with their own looks and personalities. One of the perks of keeping foster babies was that we got to name them. We took turns naming each new baby. Of course, the adoptive parents had names picked out for them but one of the babies kept the name we gave him. 

The last baby we kept was a little boy. He was a ward of the state. We knew he would not be adopted. He was to stay with us until they found a place for him in a State institution. The little guy’s mother was a young teenager, a drug addict. The baby suffered from withdrawals and had epileptic seizures. He was born with a closed skull that had to be crushed in order for his brain to grow. Jagged edges of his crushed skull could be felt and seen under the skin on his head. He was legally deaf and practically blind. His eyes were glazed over and they darted back and forth almost continually. His cry was the sound of a wounded animal. He had no instinct to suck, so we got a cloth, dipped it in milk and taught him to suck so he would learn to take a bottle. It broke our hearts. The doctors said he would never respond to any stimulation, even to touch, but they were wrong. If he was whimpering or agitated, there were very few who could quieten him down. He responded to their touch and sensed if someone was comfortable with him. I was one of those he responded to. I think that is the reason that of all the babies we kept, he was my favorite. I figured he needed us more than any of the others. 

I have thought about those babies over the years and wondered what happened to all of them. I would like to think that somehow we made a difference and am thankful my parents were willing to open their home and their hearts to care for these little ones. 

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Women of Strength

I’ve searched through the women in my ancestry and have found no “sweet little ladies” that were docile and complacent. I only find women of strength, starch, sauce and sass. 

The Knapp women were pioneers of the prairies. They set their jaw, fixed their eyes ahead and did what was necessary. They were steadfast. My great great grandmother loaded her wagons, kids in tow, no husband, and raced across the prairies in the 1889 Oklahoma Land Rush. She staked her claim, built a sod house initially and cooked over cow chip fires, continuing to make improvements in order to “prove” her homestead. My great great great grandmother lost her husband in the Civil War and raised all eight children on a meager widow’s pension to be doctors and teachers. Others pulled up stakes and tromped all over the prairie lands and mountains, traveling by covered wagons from the Midwest to untamed lands of Montana. These were women of starch, survivors! They were also women of laughter. I can still hear the hearty laughter of Aunt Leone as her lap was amply filled with kids and her table teemed with sumptuous food, complete with real cream and butter. Aunt Evelyn’s home was like her sister’s, always welcoming with delicious food on the table. She always had a story to tell. Memories of her unique voice and laughter still brings a smile to my face. 

Sarah Brewer McNeil Robinson
Azuba Osburn Brewer
Florence McNeil Knapp & Aunt Leone
Aunt Evelyn

The Brannin women were a bit different. They were up for any task and had plenty of starch. But they also had a lot of sauce and sass. If you riled one of those Spanish beauties, you’d experience dancing eyes that could shoot fiery darts! They had a sense of adventure, well, it might be more of a “dare me” characteristic. Some may even call it a streak of “meanness.” They could outride, outthink and out work most folks. They were the great Matriarchs. That starch and sass was necessary to their survival in a world of gun slinging, cattle rustling, traveling in covered wagons over desert lands and mountains. The head Matriarch kept her infant grandchild alive, along with her own little one, by nursing them both after the baby’s mother came down with typhoid fever.

Yep, these were women of strength!  
I find many of these characteristics in my sisters, aunts and cousins even today. Even the kitchens of some of these ladies bring back fond memories! We are still survivors. But I’ll give you a word of warning – Spanish blood still runs strong. You might not want to push that too far!

Aunts Tooie, Julia, & Luella
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What Does a Cowboy Look Like?

Have you ever wondered what a real cowboy looks like? When I was a kid, I would’ve said he is short, stocky, wears a cowboy hat and cowboy boots, has bowlegs, eyes black as coal, and rides a horse. He looks like Uncle Sid!

Uncle Sid was the great uncle I knew best. If we went to Montana at rodeo time, we were almost guaranteed to see Uncle Sid. He tried to scare all the kids by making funny faces and wiggling his ears while keeping a stoic look in his Brannin eyes. You could see sunlight streaming through his legs as he walked down the street. Yep, he was bowlegged. How could he not be? He grew up on the back of a horse and rode in his first rodeo at the age of 14. Uncle Sid wasn’t very tall. He reminded me of one of the seven dwarves. When he traveled to Montana from Washington, he often carried his saddle with him. He must’ve been quite a sight loading his saddle in the belly of the Greyhound Bus before climbing into his seat.

  • Uncle Sid standing on horse

Uncle Sid was a horse whisperer. He had a horse named Jughead. Jughead did anything Uncle Sid told him. If he said, “Stick out your tongue, Jughead,” that’s what the horse did. Jughead even counted on command. My sister and I had the chance to stay with Uncle Sid for a few days the year we made a three-month trip across the country. He took us horseback riding in the Olympic Mountains. He would see a mule in a field and call it a “jass-ack,” and he’d say things were “bass-ackwards.”  As we passed his neighbors’ ranches, they waved or called him over to give a diagnosis and treatment for sick livestock. He was the general vet for the area ranchers. He had a very impressive collection of saddles of almost every kind in his barn.  Cradles held the restored, oiled and polished saddles. 

  • Uncle Sid & Jughead sticking out his tongue

 Uncle Sid took us on a ride in his truck. He drove about like he rode one of the bucking broncs in the rodeos. We had to stop and care for some cattle for one of his friends who was away. Some of the cattle had escaped from the fence. We rounded them up, closed the gate and rode on to Olympic National Park. There were signs, “No Dogs Allowed.” We jumped out of the truck along with Chuley, the dog. There were snowbanks that had not yet melted even though it was mid-summer. We walked through the snow to the trail below. A Park Ranger saw us and hollered at Uncle Sid. “Dogs are not allowed on the trail.” Uncle Sid, black eyes straight ahead, just kept walking like he didn’t hear the ranger. A bit further, the ranger called out again. We said, “Uncle Sid, the ranger said no dogs allowed.” He said, “I heard him.” I guess his pretense of ignorance worked. We didn’t get thrown out of the park. If you couldn’t guess, Uncle Sid was a practical joker. He was always up to some kind of mischief. 

We left Washington a few days later to make it to the Big Timber rodeo in time. Uncle Sid rode with us instead of taking the bus. We had a great trip! Being with Uncle Sid was always an adventure!

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Second Love

I poked my head in the window of the car. “What’s for lunch?” That day lunch was a homemade pimento cheese sandwich and diet coke. “What’s for dessert?” That day as well as all days, dessert was a kiss from the girl he loved, and his eyes twinkled when he said it. I blushed a bit and said, “That’s more than I want to know,” and walked off with my lunch girls. He parked there every day. His “love” came out the side door of work and walked toward the car. He jumped out of the car, walked around and opened the car door for her. They drove across the road to the parking lot or to the City Park and shared their lunch under a shade tree where they parked. When he brought her back, she waited until he opened the door for her to return to work.

For a couple of days, I noticed the car was not there at its usual time. Then someone asked, “Have you heard?” Cancer. A form of leukemia. He was immediately admitted to the hospital and administered intense treatments. She told me, “If he’s feeling better on Sunday, we are going to get married in the hospital.” Sunday came, but also fever and sickness. He was not better. In just a matter of days, he was gone.

Memories flooded her mind. Her heart was broken. This wasn’t the first time she had mourned. She lost her husband seven years earlier, his life stripped from him from a similar form of leukemia. The memories were too fresh. It was as if the reels of a movie replayed all over again.

It was years after her husband died when a gentleman she had known for some time, a widower, set his affections on her. She is very naïve, and didn’t believe it when her coworkers said, “He’s sweet on you.” She thought he brought sweets for all of them, but it was evident his eyes were only on her. She finally consented to go out with him. Years were erased. Walls of grief were torn down. Once again, she was a giddy teenager finding a first love. Giggles, smiles, and dreams escaped from her spirit and her lips. She glowed and her cheeks blushed at just the mention of his name.

I watched her suffer the loss of the man she had come to love, her second love, the one who doted on her and showered her with affection. Though my heart was broken for her, I could not help but think how fortunate she was to have been so loved, not once, but twice. She married her first love right out of high school. Her second love came after years of grief. It was a breath of fresh air, sweet and pure.

Her faith in God sustains her and her spirits are lifted by a soft breeze whispering memories of those whom she loved.