Category: Childhood Memories

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?

“Margaret, sing Strawberry Roan.”

She continued crocheting and said, “I don’t want to sing Strawberry Roan.”

The man continued to slap his leather gloves into his left palm and gently grasped them as he pulled them through time and again. He wore a faint grin, and after a bit said, “Margaret, why don’t you sing some of Strawberry Roan?” 

She looked up then, her annoyance clearly showing by the scowl on her face and her curt response, “I don’t want to sing Strawberry Roan. I don’t remember all the words.”

There was silence except for the slap of the gloves of the man that sat in his easy chair. He tilted his head slightly, amusement on his face and a twinkle in his dancing blue eyes as he said, “Margaret, sing some Strawberry Roan.”

She gave a quick retort, but after a pause she sang a few lines of Strawberry Roan.

I watched from the other room and thought, “That sweet little man is not quite as innocent as he seems. What an instigator!”

In my grandmother’s younger years, she played the guitar and sang. I never heard her play. One day I asked her to write down some of the old songs. Strawberry Roan was one of those. Here’s a stanza:

He’s about the worst bucker I’ve seen on the range
He’ll turn on a nickel and give you some change
He hits on all fours and goes up on high
Leaves me a spinnin’ up there in the sky
I turns over twice and I comes back to earth
I lights in a cussin’ the day of his birth
I know there are ponies that I cannot ride
There’s some of them left, they haven’t all died

I’ll bet all my money, the man ain’t alive
That’ll stay with old strawberry
When he makes his high dive

A Tribute to Aunt Ellen aka “Sister Ellen”

Fourth of July celebrations began early that day in 1923. A seven-pound firecracker baby girl was born and that was cause to celebrate. Every year after, fireworks exploded into bright cascading waterfalls and thousands of whirling, spinning, sparkling lights that dissipated into the air. We always knew the fanfare was in honor of Sister Ellen’s birthday. She wasn’t Sister Ellen to us kids, she was Aunt Ellen, and we knew her personality well suited the fireworks that added to the celebration of her birthday.

We heard many stories of the lives and adventures of much of the family, but I believe the ones we heard most were of Sister Ellen. She was even in Daddy’s sermons, you know – the gospel according to Sister Ellen. There were many hidden spiritual truths in all the Sister Ellen illustrations we heard from the pulpit. 

Sister Ellen was a kid, and then a woman of many facets. She was called Soup by her dad, Sookie by Grandfather Ward, Sister Ellen or just Sister by Brother Buck, Toby by Cousin Anna, Potatuses, and Nellie. During her lifetime, she had many roles including that of a writer, warrior, ambassador, and sometimes even a conniver. Sister Ellen was also a bus driver. Yes, she sat in the saddle on old Spider and held the reins while Brother Buck sat behind prodding Old Spider whose belly moaned and complained all the way to the mountain one-room schoolhouse. 

She took up arms against her English Grandfather Ward. It didn’t take much for him to set her off like a rocket ready to launch. When he broke his leg, she took advantage of his convalescence as he rested in his bed. It seems she always had someone do her bidding, that “someone” being her little brother Buck. She had to have someone to blame! Her scheme worked when she persuaded the younger brother to push sawdust through the knothole into the face of Grandfather Ward.

When she wanted a new doll, she buried her old one in the sawdust pile and had a funeral for it, appointing Brother Buck to be the presiding minister. That may have been his first call into the ministry. When she conveniently couldn’t find the doll again, she asked for a new one – a prettier one – for Christmas, which she got. There were many other incidents and tales including Effie Bowlegs, the outhouse, Nimmy Not and the bear, other confrontations with Grandfather Ward, shenanigans with cousins, and pushing her sweet little brother.

Aunt Ellen had the gift of words – spoken and written – and there were many. She was Valedictorian of the rural schools, worked for The Sweet Grass News, and wrote for The Big Timber Pioneer. After High School, she took a business course in Helena, Montana and accepted a stenographic position in the State Legislature. Later, she was secretary to the City Manager in Santa Barbara, California. She got to know visiting dignitaries from other municipalities and foreign countries, one being an Assistant City Manager of Jerusalem.

When Sister Ellen went on a tour of the Holy Land with Brother Buck and some of their cousins, the dignitary she knew from Jerusalem gave them a private tour of the city. When they traveled to another country, she came to the rescue of a fellow traveler who had an unacceptable passport. She was fearless, marched into the American Embassy, took care of the matter and somehow managed to receive a special tour of an ancient Roman City. When Daddy returned home, he laughed when he told that Sister Ellen ordered strange things to eat while on their trip. Her philosophy was, “Well, I wouldn’t eat that at home.” Brother Buck followed suit, ordered strange things, and embraced that philosophy for himself, and I am a witness to that!

Brother Buck and Sister Ellen exchanged many letters over the years. She would send him a story she had written and then say, “Now you write…” He completed his assignment and sent it to her with a challenge to write something else and reach for even great achievements. Often, they read the same book and then discussed the contents in great lengths. They spurred one another on just as when they were kids with Ellen holding the reins and Brother Buck spurring Old Spider on with a kick in the flanks. 

During those years, the trail before them sometimes may have been covered with trees or with grass growing between the ruts. There were curves in the road and bumps here and there. Yet they continued to travel together, exhorting, encouraging, challenging, and praising one another. As their lives neared an end, she pushed him forward to lead the way. He complied and went on without her. At the age of 99, she joined him. Fireworks lit up the sky to signal the coming of a new year, or maybe, just maybe it was celebration of her entrance through the gates of heaven as she left this earth on New Year’s Eve. Little did she know that within just a few hours, they would welcome a favorite cousin who was proclaimed to be “another sister.”

Looking back now, the path seems clear. Their bonds of friendship and devotion to family opened the way for those who travel in their footsteps. I like to think that even now they walk side by side, but they just might be too busy talking.

Brother Buck once summed up the life of Sister Ellen,

You are the work of mystery,
You carry the seeds of majesty,
You are the works for miracle,
You carry the breath of eternity.

a tale of remembrance by my dad

Now I will tell you about a boy-girl problem and a horse wreck.  A horse wreck is something that happens to people who ride horses that buck, or people who drive horses that run away. 

But first I will tell you about my sister, Ellen. One day she said, “I wish I was a boy.” That’s when Cousin Billy said, “If a girl kisses her elbow, she will turn into a boy. And if a boy kisses his elbow, he can turn into a girl.”  

Ugh!

I’ll bet you didn’t know that!  

Sister Ellen wanted to play a boys game and couldn’t.  That made her unhappy.

Now my sister can do lots of things.  She can touch the end of her nose with her tongue.  She can kiss her wrist and her arm just above her wrist, but she can’t kiss her elbow.
(I hope you don‘t try this.)

Our neighbor has a hired man. He calls him, Slim.   This summer, Slim got thrown off his horse.  That is bad. Then the horse fell on him.  That is worse. And then the horse rolled over on him. I hope this doesn’t happen to you. 

Now Slim has four broken ribs and a broken leg.  His left arm was broken in two places and it fell across his chin.  

He is the only person I know of who could have kissed his own elbow.  But he was lucky and didn’t.  Otherwise, he’d have had a BAD accident!.

The Montana sky over the small town of Melstone grew dark as green clouds boiled over the prairies along the Musselshell River. Impregnated clouds unleased balls of hail as the storm swept through the countryside. The Knapp’s grain crop was completely destroyed but even that did not dampen their spirits for their firstborn baby girl made her appearance. That was July 18, 1927, and the newborn was my Mama. 

Her eyes were like green hail clouds, and just like the gathering storm, sometimes my mom was a force to be reckoned with. She was a strict no-nonsense mama who had expectations for her kids and grandkids. Sometimes she was even a bit scary. Those cloudy green eyes could burn a hole right through you and peel back every layer to expose what lay beneath. She held the utmost of values and encouraged others to attain the same heights.

This girl from the prairie came from a long line of survivors, those who traversed across the country and forged new trails that opened the west. At a young age during a time of drought, Mama and her sister saw the countryside from the back of a covered wagon as they made their way from Montana to Idaho in search of good grass and relief from the dry barren land. The family later moved back to Montana where she and her sister attended prairie schools. When she graduated and received her teaching certificate, she taught in a one-room schoolhouse on the prairies of Montana. 

Though she loved the prairies, she had a greater love for her little Man of the Mountains and made the Crazy Mountain wilderness her home for a time. Living in the heart of the mountains was no small feat. With harsh winters and few necessities, Mama made a home for her husband and their Montana born children. Encouraging her husband “Buck” to follow God’s call into the ministry, they gathered up their family for the trek South. They added another child, their “Georgia peach,” to their collection of kids and there, she finished her days.

Mama was an industrious lady. She made most of our clothes and excelled as a seamstress. She was an artist, calligrapher, homemaker, quilter, made her own bread, canned her own produce, and managed the household. Her home was always a place of open hospitality. Idleness was not an option in her home and any spare time was used in her love of reading. 

Had Mama lived, she would be 95 years old today. Her journey had been a long one from the Montana prairies to the wilderness to the deep South. She lived those years well. Though her life ended abruptly sixteen years ago, I can still see those cloudy green eyes of a storm. Her love of her family and her giving spirit continue to rise over us and bathe us with memories of a gracious lady.

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.

The little boy played in the winter snow as the day neared an end. Soft flakes that looked like silver glitter in the fading sun floated aimlessly to the ground. The call came, “Supper time!” It took no time at all for the kids to run to the house, wash up, and get ready for supper. The warmth of the fire and wood cookstove drove the chill from the squirmy little bodies and the sawmillers that sat around the long dining room table. 

Excitement was in the air. It resonated throughout the log cabin in the heart of the mountains. Christmas was coming! A few decorations were hung, special treats were made and set aside, and whispers seeped through the walls to fill the kids with great anticipation of gifts that would be under their Christmas tree. 

As the little boy got ready for bed, something caught his eye. The dark of night was interrupted by twinkling lights. He peered out the cabin window that looked out over the kitchen sink. The moon had made its appearance. Just beyond the chicken coop was a wondrous sight. The white boughs of an evergreen hung lazily under the weight of freshly fallen snow. The ultimate Christmas tree! It seemed as if every flake reflected the colors of the prism. The lights sparkled like miniature diamonds lighting up the world of a little boy on his path to manhood. 

When the little boy grew into an old man, he reminisced of his growing up years in the Montana mountains. Even then his favorite Christmas tree was white with colored lights. You see, whenever he saw the colored lights sparkling against the white tree, he was transported to a time filled with warmth and unconditional love. Maybe that childhood tree was the greatest gift of all for it continued to bring light, love, and joy for a lifetime.