We pulled into the gas station to fill up the truck. Parked at the pump beside us was a green F250 that was hard pressed to be considered green. It was covered with mud, dust, and very likely other ranch excrement. The diesel was running, and it was evident the engine had been revved a time or two.
But that wasn’t what caught my eye. There was a guy, I assumed the owner, in the back of the truck along with a four-wheeler. When he had pumped gas into the four-wheeler, he took rags and wiped off the gas cap and the seat. He took the squeegee and cleaned off the mirror, then wiped the whole thing clean. When it was to his liking, he hopped in the dirty truck and drove off into the sunset.
I thought the scene a bit amusing. As I pondered it, the modern cowboy came to mind. When I was a kid, we drove into western towns and were rewarded with seeing real cowboys – you know, the ones who wore cowboy boots with jingling spurs, cowboy hats, western pearl snap shirts, walked bowlegged, and rode the range on horseback. Their horses were well cared for – fed, brushed, and rubbed down. They not only bore their rider across the range to drive cattle, mend fences, check livestock, etc., but they were also the cowboys’ companion.
Nowadays, four-wheelers ride the range. The guy who carried his four-wheeled horse powered steed in the back of the truck was just taking care of his ride.
That was the response from the little man whenever something strange happened or something was missing.
One day I opened the microwave oven. I said, “Daddy, why is there a cup of cold coffee in the microwave?”
His reply? “The old man did it. He must have gotten it warm and forgot to take it out. I’ll drink it in the morning.”
“Daddy, your t-shirt is ripped.”
“The old man did it.”
The old man moved papers, left trails of spilled coffee on the floor, left burners on, set off the smoke alarm, hid things, and did other antics.
One morning Daddy came out of his bathroom and said, “I looked in the mirror and there was an old man staring back at me.”
That old man in the mirror hung around for a while. I guess that was good because he was company for my dad.
Note: Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I see one of my sisters in the blink of an eye, but the other day, for one split second, I thought I saw an old man in the mirror (that looked like my dad) looking back at me.
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.
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?
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!”
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.
After the accident that took the life of my mother and threatened to take my father’s as well, I was bombarded with a myriad of emotions and decisions. Life as I knew it changed in the blink of an eye. Along with the shock of the tragedy was the responsibility that followed. It was months before Daddy healed from his wounds and even then, he was ready to give up from time to time.
I tried not to borrow trouble, for each day has enough trouble of its own, but I did (and do) like to plan ahead. Thoughts rushed through my mind of situations I might face, and I wanted a plan of action in the event that happened. Though Daddy had not mentioned driving, one day, I said, “Daddy, if you want to drive again, we will go look for a car. It’s okay if you want to drive, but I don’t you going any further than our little town.” My brother brought one of his vehicles over but it just sat in the carport. Daddy never mentioned driving. (One of my previous thoughts had been, “What am I going to do if Daddy wants to drive and I have to hide his keys?”) I made Daddy’s appointments on my days off. For the ones not available on those days, I made other arrangements of transportation for him.
one of our outings
I pondered the situation, and his lack of desire to drive. A first thought might be that he was afraid to drive again, but I didn’t sense fear. It was then that I came to a conclusion. If Daddy drove, he would maintain a sense of independence, but what would he forfeit? Aha! That was the key! He didn’t want to be by himself. If someone else took him to appointments, to pastors’ meetings, out to eat, to visit, to the store, etc., he would have someone to talk to – someone to spend time with him. That was not a forfeiture but a blessing.
While working in a public office for many years, I saw customers come in, some on a daily basis, just to have coffee and chat with employees and other people coming through the doors. I received phone calls from customers who asked some insignificant question just to have someone to talk to. Often, someone asked the question, “Why do they come in every day and just hang around?”
If you run across someone like that, remember, they might just be a bit lonely, and just maybe, you might be the blessing.
I stood in front of the sign that displayed the name, “Kingfisher.” To most that holds little or no importance even in light of the history it contains. To me, it is a place that connects a lifeline to my heritage, that of the great pioneers forging West for a place to call home.
In April 1889, thousands of pioneers rushed through Oklahoma Territory to stake a homestead claim. The McNeil wagon raced across the prairie leaving a trail of dust whirling behind. A stake was pounded in the ground and the three-year process of “proving” the homestead began. You may have read their account in a previous post. Once a homestead was proven, it was then registered.
You see, the little town of Kingfisher was the location where the pioneers in the area registered their claim. Stopping at this exact location may have been of little significance to others, maybe even with a hint of annoyance, but I knew if we blew through town without stopping, I would regret it. I may never pass that way again.
Not only did the McNeil family claim a homestead in the area, but also the man who became the patriarch of the Knapp family – my great grandfather. Here in Oklahoma Territory, Charles Knapp set his stake in the ground and married the daughter of the determined, fearless McNeil lady who rushed west with her family. Here, the lives of Charles & Florence joined together resulting in seven children. One of the children, a girl, remains, for she rests in a little cemetery not too far from Kingfisher.
As I stood on that very spot, possibly where my great grandparents and my great great grandmother had walked, I envisioned the scene from the past as homesteaders came holding their papers of proof verified by testimonies of neighbors and friends. They left with a big smile and documents in their hand that gave them clear title to the land they had worked tirelessly to improve and make a home.
Some 20+ years later, the family loaded their wagons and once again started a long trek to claim a homestead, but this time in the wide-open prairies of Montana. That’s another story!
The branches of my family tree extend from roots secured by my ancestors. Roots travel deep and stretch in all directions. They provide a foundation for the limbs that spread beyond, upward and outward. Some folks have no idea of the treasures that are hidden among the branches, twigs and leaves. I don’t want to miss those seemingly insignificant moments of the past that help ensure our heritage continuing into the next generation.
What extends beyond your roots – or do you know even know where your roots are planted?
I looked out the window. The neighbors’ house was completely dark. It was the middle of the night in the early morning hours. Well, I guess I couldn’t call the neighbors to see if they wanted to leave early for our adventure. I was up so figured everybody else should be, too.
In the quiet of the night, I could almost hear my dad say in a whispered voice, “Are you girls awake? Do you want to leave early?” Back then, we were usually wide awake and already dressed before our feet hit the floor. As became our custom, we always left earlier than planned because none of us could sleep. But that was when I was a kid! I’m no longer a kid – well, in age at least. And yet, even after all these years, the night before we are to leave on a trip, I can’t sleep.
So, here we are on the road.
I looked out the back window but all I could see was a loaded U-Haul trailer attached to our big Ram. I still look through my childhood’s eyes, but instead of seeing a big truck, I see a ’57 Dodge with me laying in the back window. And just like my childhood, I am still amazed at the shining golden wheat and lush green corn fields in flat wide country.
Today as we approached the Midwest, we took some country roads and slid by the skirt tails of St. Louis. Many areas along the rivers were flooded. We cross over small creeks about the size of an irrigation ditch, swollen dark muddy rivers, and larger rivers like the Tennessee, Ohio, Mississippi, and Missouri Rivers. Our road took us through Boonville, which is where my great grandfather, one of his sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins began their wagon train trip. They journeyed along sections of the Oregon Trail as they made their way to Montana, and endured many hardships. Who knows? We may have traveled some of the same road.
We took a short cut and bypassed Kansas City altogether. Daddy would have been proud. Our route was akin to some of his shortcuts. The ride down Missouri country back roads was definitely a bonus. We drove through some gorgeous farmland. Our road led through some old small towns that looked like great places to explore. One of the towns we went through had all but folded up its streets as abandoned buildings overgrown with trees and weeds, and broken windows baring glass teeth shards barely hung on the frames. I wondered what those little towns were like in their heyday when life roamed the streets as families went in and out of stores along main street and teens gathered in front of drive-ins. Sorting through my memories, I knew what some of them were once like.
Somehow, I think no matter how old I get, I will still be that little girl filled with wide-eyed wonder.
Our adventure continues – new memories to be made – old memories to share.
Black and white arms grasped each other and wrapped around the couple who had just exchanged their wedding vows. A black arm released the others and raised upward to join the prayers that drifted as a sweet fragrance toward heaven.
The wedding was the sweetest I had ever witnessed. When the bride made her entrance, the groom beamed and flashed a smile that became a permanent fixture. He had a moment to see his betrothed previously when they had their “first look.” He was in awe of her and told her she was gorgeous. At the ceremony as the two stood together before the officiants and attendants, she focused her eyes toward the sound of his voice. Had she been able to see his eyes upon her, she would have witnessed the same adoration the guests saw.
An innocent look of love was the main attraction all evening. After the ceremony when the music began to play, the call for the first dance was made. As the newlyweds made their way to the dance floor, the groom quietly told the bride just to sway back and forth with the music. He would lead her. He would be her eyes. As others made their way to the dance floor, he told her every detail and who joined in the dance. He led her gently and treated her as a priceless jewel – a queen.
You see, the two were more than just another couple. Though the bride was visually impaired, at the age of twenty-one, she moved to a large city and lived on her own. She worked at the same job for 20+ years, making her way alone and often unseen by thousands of seeing eyes. Yet, she never gave up. The groom had his own obstacles to overcome. He, too, managed to be a faithful and hard worker and have a place of his own. My admiration for both of them is unmeasured.
But there is more to this story. It’s a story of family. For years, their families prayed for God to send them someone special, someone to love, a forever friend, and someone to call their own. I was honored to be part of their special day and am so thankful that they were given the gift of pure innocent love.
I came across a folder that contained a whole stack of papers. Page after of page of cover letters accompanied by returned manuscripts all had one word in common, “rejected.” Why did Daddy keep all those rejection letters? After all, he was a published author who wrote across a broad spectrum of topics.
Some of the publication companies required a fee to even read a manuscript for consideration. That could get quite expensive, especially considering the number of “returned” letters as well as those approved for publication.
On one such letter, Daddy wrote, “Don’t give up!” Further down the page another notation caught my eye, “Rejection? A $50.00 possibility.” Wow! That’s why he kept the letters! They were reminders of all the possibilities literally at his fingertips. Just below that note was some more of his scribbling, “This article was sold to Scouting for ten times what High Adventure could pay!” Had he given in to rejection, he never would have tried again. Sometimes rejection comes in disguise as blessings.
I guess we can learn some life lessons. If you’ve been rejected, it might a blessing in disguise. There may be something better in store. Or maybe, if you have invested in something – money, time, caregiving, love, compassion – the return is far greater than the investment.
