The innocent blonde haired blue eyed little boy held the dandelion puff in is hand. He closed his eyes, stood quiet for a moment, then blew as he whispered, “I wish I could be Spiderman.” Little parachutes of dandelion seeds launched and floated through the air. When the little boy opened his eyes, he saw there were some stubborn dandelion tufts still attached to the stalk. He giggled, crunched them with his fingers, closed his eyes, blew, and made the same wish. He wasn’t taking any chances on not getting his wish! Though he didn’t transform into the superhero, I have no doubt that in his dreams and imagination, he accomplished many great feats of heroism.
You’re never too old……
As children, we saw the world as a magical place where dreams and wishes could come true. Hopefully we will never outgrow the belief that anything is possible. We need that hope in our world today.
Did you make a wish every time you blew out your birthday candles? Did you make a wish as you threw a coin into a fountain or a wishing well? Did you make a wish when an eyelash rested on your cheek? Did you wish upon a falling star as it streaked across the night sky or when you saw the first star of night?
Star light, star bright First star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might Have this wish I wish tonight.
When we had chicken for supper, I would “call the wishbone.” It was the choicest piece of the chicken, but it was even more special because whoever got the wishbone got to make the wish. Of course, the sibling who got the other side of the bone to pull usually managed to get to make the wish instead of me.
I don’t know as if any of my childhood wishes ever came true, but that never stopped me from wishing then or now. Who knows, maybe a ladybug will land on me, or I’ll come across a white horse and get to make a wish. Better yet, I might catch even a leprechaun – then I’ll get a wish and a pot of gold.
Growing up, my clothes were missing one thing – tags. Some girls looked down their nose on those girls that were tagless.
My mom made all my clothes. My grandmother supplemented with some summer shorts outfits and crocheted vests. By the time hand-me-downs got to me they were pretty much worn-me-outs that were mostly shirts from my brother. Now that’s something to be proud of! I thought I was in “high cotton” when I got my first pair of store-bought pants – straight legged blue jeans that I purchased with money from my first job when a junior in high school.
There were times I was a bit envious of schoolmates who had store bought clothes, though it was a bonus to have a mom who could make something by mixing patterns or by just looking at a picture. I didn’t really gain an appreciation of that until later when I was sewing tagless clothes for my kids.
I remember some of my favorite pieces of clothing my mother made for me. One was a princess seam taffeta dress. The fabric was bright blue with splashes of vibrant colors. After it was ironed, the skirt of the dress held its shaped and flowed like waves with every step I took. Even after it was washed, all it took was to be ironed again and it looked like new. When I walked, it made a crisp crinkly sound kind of like fall leaves blowing in the breeze.
Another of my favorite dresses was a long waisted yellowish colored dress with a brown print skirt and rounded collar to match. Mama even made me a black and white animal print bikini with a cut out heart trimmed in red.
There was a time when most girls wore clothing that was handmade, and most were of better quality than that purchased in stores today. No price can be placed on the time, sacrifice, and love that went into hours of cutting fabric, and sewing stitches and seams to make those garments. Though being tagless for the most part is a memory of the past, it is also something else – priceless.
Family history is not just a tree with tangled limbs of names, relationships, and dates. Though those facts are interesting and important, my favorite part is the stories, many of which are hard to come by. My granddad never disappointed when he spun his yarns. His stories sometimes seemed a bit farfetched, but they were true, and ripe with history of Western expansion and the rugged life of those early pioneers. Our family history does not belong solely to us but is laced with stories of other colorful characters who have their own tales to tell. In finding their stories, it somehow makes our family history even richer.
My handsome granddad
My granddad was a tall lean drink of water who wore a twinkle in his baby blues, laughter on his lips, and a square jaw, all topped off with a cowboy hat. His stories of life in the wilds of Montana were larger-than-life and many of the people included in his tales became legends. In those days, a neighbor could be within a hundred miles or more. Though neighbors weren’t necessarily close in distance, they would set aside their own work to help one another. As my granddad recalled those days, his memories reached into the recesses and gullies of the rugged Montana hills and found Joseph (Joe) Doney (Doaney), a neighbor we met in the previously story, “Doctor Bee.” Doney was in the cattle business at the mouth of Duvall Coulee, near the Missouri River.
Joseph Doney was no ordinary man. He was wise in the ways of the western frontier. His father, by the same name, was Chippewa, and his mother was of French descent. A newspaper article published in 1936 after his death gives the account of just a small portion of his life.
The journalist recorded an interview given by Doney that reached back to his childhood that was spent in the vicinity of Totten, North Dakota, “except when on long treks to get buffalo and beaver,”which could be for 10 to 12 months at a time. The story continued and told of his time as a young man when he freighted and was employed as an Army Scout from 1863-1870 with a company of soldiers out of Totten. He rode Pony Express through hostile Indian country but in snowy months, he made his mail deliveries by dog team. When I read his tales about driving the dog team through deadly blizzards that blew across the Dakota Territory prairies, it sent chills to the bone. On one of his excursions several soldiers who traveled with him and his partner froze to death.
Here are a few excerpts from experiences within his ninety years: “The coming of the first steamboat in the spring was an interesting sight. The coming of any steamboat, for that matter, always sent a thrill through me. I became acquainted with many of the steamboat Captains and pilots. The tenderfeet coming from the east amused me as much as I, with my buckskin garb, did them.”Doney told of standing on the banks of the Missouri River waving and calling out, “bon voyage,” when the boats headed north. In his mind, he imaged them loaded with merchandise as the boat made its way to Ft. Benton, just as they had done in the older days.
Joe Doney saw many changes in his years. The journalist who wrote his account sums it up pretty well, “Whistling locomotives had taken the place of popping bull whips, cattle had replaced the buffalo. Towns sprang up, stores and merchandise were sold for cash instead of bartered for furs. It came so quickly he was made a foreigner in his own country. He was bewildered, he knew not how to make a living. He wanted to get away from it all, but there was no place to go. Yes, there was: The Missouri River, where many just like Joe had found seclusion to enjoy life as he had known it away from the whistling locomotives, the sound of saws and hammers with rushing foreign people in their race for gold. This is where he went, located in a wide blue joint bottom which he was engaged in the only occupation he was fitted for; the raising of cattle. Where he lived, seldom leaving the river.”
Joseph Doney was a man whose story bridged the gap of history. A few tattered pieces of the unfinished puzzle of his story are laid out on the table of life. Most of the pieces have been lost, scattered across the windswept prairies, buried in the deep winter snows, or floating on the rivers and creeks that wind through the Dakotas and Montana wilderness.
My grandfather always spoke of the Missouri River Breaks with respect and admiration. The wild country was hard but rewarding. I am so thankful that Joe Doney, a half-breed, and his wife were counted among the friends of my grandfather. Somehow, it makes my heart sing a song of respect for those western pioneers who braved the harsh country, lived off the land, and went above and beyond to help their neighbor.
Sources: Doctor Bee, as told by my grandfather Census records : 1850, 1900, 1920, 1930 Military record as found at FOLD Newspaper article: Great Falls Tribune, July 5, 1936, p 30, 31 Various family tree sites and entries Family Search Ancestry BLM (Bureau of Land Management) Montana search of documents
My granddad was one of the greatest storytellers of all time. Here is one of his tales. I considered all of his life stories as truth – well, truth with a bit of embellishment.
Just before I left for the war the neighbors started calling me ‘Doc’. This is how it came about.
I was up there working for Gus Tank. There was a big canyon which came down out of the hills three or four hundred yards from old Gus’s corral. There was a saddle horse trail there which was used in the summer. It wasn’t a winter trail.
About the last of March most of the snow was gone. However, the canyon was still drifted with snow and wasn’t passable yet. A little lady from up around the flatland had been riding across the hills. She and her husband, Bud, would come down that way to pick up the mail that the stage left. It was mail day.
Gus Tank’s cabin was halfway place between Leedy and Content. The stage driver would stop there, leave off the mail for the neighborhood, feed his horses, eat something and pick up any mail that was going to Leedy. Four or five people had been by that day to eat dinner and pick up their mail. Then here came the old lady down to get hers. She lived three or four miles back up there on the hill. And she was pretty well loaded with that old black and white that they used to get out of Canada. She was used to alcohol and so was Bud.
When she got to the canyon she rode right across the drift. The melting water had ran under the drift, which had settled and caked over. It was hollowed out underneath and would not hold a horse. The horse fell through. Well, he got out all right, but she got stuck and could not get any footing to get out.
Well, I’d been out riding the bluff along Alkali Creek. Three or four head of cows were down there and I’d pulled one out of the bog. The day was getting a little late – close to sundown. I rode up to the corral. The horse kept looking toward the canyon trail. Pretty soon old Jug stiffened up. I was just ready to pull the saddle off him. I looked up and saw the lady’s horse come up over the bank. He was nasty and all wet.
I had a thirty foot rope for pulling cows out of the bog. I jumped on and rode to the mouth of the canyon and there was the old lady stuck in the snow. I got that rope around her shoulders. I couldn’t pull her out by hand, so I tied her on to the saddle horn and backed out of there. That pulled her out, and I got her up to the barn. I threw some feed and turned the horses in the corral. Then I got her on my back and carried her up to the cabin.
Old Gus had a bunk seven or eight feet wide. He slept on one side and I slept on the other. So I rolled her out there on my side and on my tarp and started the fire good. I put on some coffee and warmed up a pot of soup which I’d put out there for the mail day crowd.
She was just about numb and coughing. I rubbed her feet and I asked her, “Now can you get out of these wet clothes?”
She shook her head. No, she couldn’t get out of those clothes.
“Well.” I said, “You’ve got to get out of these wet clothes or you’re going to catch pneumonia and you’ll die right here.”
She wouldn’t do anything. So I said, “All right”, and rolled her over on her back and unbuttoned her clothes from top to bottom – sheepskin, a couple of shirts, long handles and everything else. Then I turned her over on her stomach and got hold of her clothes and just stripped her, by gosh. I had a big old wool blanket on my bed. It was about a quarter of an inch thick. I just rolled her up in that and told her, “Now you’re going to have to stay right in there because I’m going to go get Mrs. Doaney.”
So I got her all fixed, stoked the fire good and got back on the Jug and went down to Doaney’s as quick as I could get there.
They seen me coming and Mrs. Doaney said, “I knew that there was something the matter somehow and told Joe to get the horse ready.”
I told her I had Mrs. Elkhart up there and she was about froze to death. She’d jumped off her horse and sunk in the snowdrift. Mrs. Doaney was right ready and had a little bag fixed up and piled on her horse and away we went.
We got back up there. She went over and felt of the old lady’s face. She was still pretty blue. I had rubbed her feet, lower legs and her hands and wrists and rolled her up in that blanket and left her. Mrs. Doaney looked down in there and saw she didn’t have any clothes on and she says, “Did you do this?”
And I said, “Yes, I had to. she was freezing to death.” I said, “I just unbuttoned her and pulled that thing up over her shoulders and rolled her over on her stomach, took a hold of the collar, turned everything wrong side out, skinned her alive and rolled her up in that blanket. That’s all that saved her life, I guess.”
So we got the old lady kind of comfortable. She was sober by then. And I took a couple of blankets and went down to the barn and went to bed.
The next morning, well, Mrs. Doaney got breakfast and the old lady got up. She didn’t even catch a cold. She went home, and the next day or two she and Bud came down and asked me how much my doctor bill was.
The neighbors heard about it. When the first ones came by they’d say, “How are you Doc.” Pretty soon everybody in the country was calling me Doc. This lasted all summer.
Come fall I quit and went up to Great Falls to sign up for the army. I never came back or saw any of them again until the war was over. Then I saw her and old Bud in town. He was still grateful to me for saving her life out there on the snowbank.
Have you ever watched a child try to walk in the footprints of their father or mother? I was one of those kids.
Whenever I went hiking or backpacking with my dad, I usually followed right behind him trying to place my foot exactly where he stepped. When climbing rocky mountain trails, he seemed to sense which stones would give the steadiest foothold. He even blazed trails through mountain streams, knowing which places in the streams to avoid. Following in his footsteps, I knew we were headed in the right direction and on the best path. Only later did I realize some of his many paths were actually longer and not necessarily the intended trail, but the rewards were well worth it. There were a few questionable moments as to his decisions, though they always brought valuable lessons.
When my first four siblings lived in the heart of the mountains, they relied on the footsteps of my father, too. Many a snowy day, which were more days than less, he was the first one out the door to cut a path to the outhouse, barn, or the folks’ home beyond. After the trail was forged, then the kids emerged bundled up, so they walked like Frankenstein. With gloves, hats, and boots secured tightly, they walked in the footsteps prepared just for them. Wherever the boot prints were embedded in the snow, the kids followed, knowing their father was just ahead and would come to their rescue if they needed him. Of course, they attempted their own trails as well.
In my memory, I cannot recount all the times I walked behind my dad. The time came when I walked beside him, and then the time came when I could walk in front of him, sure of the path. If I came to a fork in the trail and questioned myself, all I had to do was pause until I could ask him. And then the time came when he relied solely on my footsteps. The roles reversed.
That’s the way life is. We are followers. Then we are leaders. Then we are followers once again. One of the most profound lessons of this principle is found in nature. I’m sure you have seen a noisy flock of geese overhead. When I hear honking geese, immediately I look up in the sky searching for the geese. One goose leads while others follow in V formation. When the goose in front tires, another comes along side and takes the lead, the “leader” falling back into formation.
Though we have followed the footprints laid before us, there comes a time when we take the lead for a season before passing it on to someone else. Even then, we find ourselves as leader occasionally, even if it’s just in the small things like a kind word of encouragement, a nugget of wisdom, or a truth from the archives of family history.
Cut a trail, take your turn to lead, be willing to fall back so others learn the way, and continue to do your part to make the journey a success.
The other day, I asked my youngest granddaughter what her favorite subject in school was. You might can guess her answer. Recess.
I think recess these days is different than it was when I was kid. Those were the days when girls had to wear dresses to school. I begged my mom to let me wear shorts under my dress so I could escape from the principal’s son trying to steal a kiss from me on the playground. He was afraid to climb the monkey bars so those were safe territory for me. There was also a merry-go-round and a giant swing set on the playground, but we made most of our fun playing tag, red rover, dodge ball, hopscotch, and other games.
There was nothing like this on our playground.
Most of the girls liked to jump, or skip, rope. We took turns (two at a time) turning the ends of the long rope. The first jumper followed the rhythm of the rope until it felt just right, then she ran in and jumped as long as she could to the sounds of kid onlookers calling out some song. One of the songs chanted most was, “Cinderella dressed in yella, gone downtown to buy an umbrella, on the way she met her fella, how many kisses did she get?” 1 – 2 – 3 … and the count continued until the girl missed.
Another song could be embarrassing for two chosen victims. “Jack and Alice sittin’ in a tree, K I S S I N G, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Alice with a baby carriage.” Of course, every kid on the playground had their name chosen at some time with a bit of mockery and kissing sounds coming from the others.
The tune “London Bridge” had numerous verses to make it long enough for even the best jumper. “London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down, London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady. Take the key and lock her up, lock her up, lock her up, take the key and lock her up, my fair lady,” were just two of the stanzas.
Skipping rope got a bit more difficult when we jumped double dutch. That was two ropes going at one time, each turning the opposite direction. It could be tricky for the one jumping and the ones turning the ropes.
At one time, the childhood game connected generations, but I don’t know if that is still true. I don’t think many kids jump rope anymore. But if they do, maybe the kids could learn to spell Mississippi to the rhythm of a long rope being turned by two –
M I crooked letter crooked letter I crooked letter crooked letter I humpback humpback I
My granddad gave the women and older girls of the family each a box of chocolate covered cherries for Christmas every year. I dreamed of the day when I would be old enough to get my own box of those luscious cherries in a pool of creamy sweetness all covered with chocolate. What made the gift the most special was that it was given by my granddad. Well, by the time I became that magic age, he had quit giving the boxes of cherries. I guess he decided there were too many girls.
Actually, I have another theory about not getting a box of cherries. It could have been because of my sister just two years older than me. She had a nasty habit of poking holes or taking bites out of the chocolates in the Whitman Sampler box my granddad had in the house at Christmas time. If she didn’t like the filling, she just put the piece of candy back in the box. I’m sure my granddad had picked up a chocolate of two that had a bite taken out of it.
My sister wasn’t just partial to chocolates, she also did the same thing to store-bought bread without even taking it out of the wrapper. If there were teeth marks, they belonged to her. Maybe she was just testing it to see if they made good ammunition. That store-bought bread was perfect for squishing and rolling into little balls that we used to throw at one another. You sure couldn’t do that with homemade bread, and we would have had a bite taken out of us if we tried.
Don’t all of you go out and buy me a box of chocolate covered cherries. I think they might be a mite too sweet for me now.
I slowly opened the big Whitman’s Sampler box. It wasn’t full of chocolates. It was full of buttons – big flat buttons that were snipped off coats, covered buttons from old sofas and chairs, pearl buttons, small buttons, square buttons, wooden buttons, shank buttons, leather buttons, buttons shaped like fruit and flowers, glass buttons, and buttons of almost every color. The box held more than buttons. Every time I opened it sparks of magic escaped. Kids who have played with boxes of buttons understand they are for more than closing the front of a shirt or keeping a skirt from sliding off. Where else can you find a box full of eyes, noses, flowers, necklaces and bracelets, buttons for tying a quilt, crafts, art supplies, and endless possibilities?
One time when my kids were small, we went to visit my folks. My little girl crawled between the blankets on the pallet her grandmother fixed for her on the floor. That was her favorite place to sleep whenever we visited my folks. She had not been there long before she came running out of the bedroom, visibly upset and a bit scared. “Grandma’s slippers are looking at me!” We went to investigate.
Grandma’s fuzzy pink slip-on slippers with a button on top were just under Grandma’s side of the bed. The buttons were slick and shiny. Light reflected off the glassy surfaces and they sure looked like eyes. Understanding the reason for her being upset, I explained that the buttons on the slippers could not see. The little girl was not satisfied with that. After all, she had a bear with button eyes and the bear could see. The wisdom of a toddler won, and the slippers were moved so they couldn’t “look” at her anymore.
This little girl loved her bear. She slept with it and carried it with her when she played outside. The little bear rode in the basket of her tricycle. One day the dog grabbed her bear and pulled off one of its eyes and ate it. I had to perform eye surgery and sew on a new eye. It didn’t match the old, but that made no difference as long as the bear could see.
Oops! This little guy needs surgery!
Sometimes when my granddaughter comes to visit, she gets into my button box. She carefully selects the buttons she wants to use, then she draws a design on a piece of fabric and glues on buttons to make flowers, trees, the sun, and other things she sees in her imagination.
I feel a little bit sorry for little kids that know nothing about the magic that comes from a box of buttons.
It’s funny how little things trigger an emotion that pushes the flood gates open wide. I’m of the opinion that most folks think of emotion being unleashed when there is a barrage of tears. I think deep seeded emotions unleash much greater things than that. They sometimes act like a camera and reveal different angles of life and help us focus on the bigger picture – even making sense of things we may never have seen or understood before.
Today I was dust mopping – a menial task – sending a cloud of tiny dirt particles floating in the air. That stirred up memories of my mother. It brought a realization to me that my mother had rhythm. In anything she did, there was a consistent beat.
We had an old dust mop when I was a kid. I didn’t have to see Mama dust mopping to know what she was doing. There would be a swoosh-swoosh and then a few clicks. She would push the mop, lift it and shake it a little bit. The loose mop head would bobble on the end of the stick and make a clicking noise. Over and over she would push the mop, lift, shake it and go again. I can hear it right now.
We waxed floors back then. Mama took a can of paste wax and a rag, got down on her hands and knees and applied wax to the floor in a consistent clockwise motion. We kids were assigned the task of buffing the floor. After we donned a pair of socks, we ran and slid until the wood floor was slick like ice and almost shiny enough to see our reflection.
It didn’t matter what Mama did, there was rhythm. She was never flippant in any of her actions – there was always a purpose, a rhyme or a reason. If she was reading, she had a constant rhythm as she snapped the lower right-hand corner of the page. It was quite annoying. She would get the old sewing machine going with the consistent beat of the treadles, all movement and humming evenly spaced. She loved to dance, though we didn’t see if often. My granddad would get out his fiddle and make it sing while mama danced the Shoddish, or moved to a tune like “O Dem Golden Slippers” or “Put Your Little Foot.” Mama whistled and liked to sing. Neither were appreciated some of the time, especially early in the morning. Even her handwriting was melodic.
It was fascinating to watch Mama make bread. She put ingredients in a big bowl, grabbed a big slotted spoon and started a repetitive motion as she half stirred, half slapped the spoon up and down. I can still hear the rhythm of the spoon as she beat the air into the dough. When she kneaded the dough, it was a very precise beat. She folded over a portion of the dough while turning it counter-clockwise with the right hand as she pushed the dough with the heel of her left hand. Her movements were synchronized, not missing a beat.
If she had gum – watch out. It would snap, crackle and pop in rhythm. If she was using the mixer or beating egg whites by hand, ironing, curling her hair, bouncing a baby, painting, coloring, writing a letter, or whatever she did, there was that same consistency – that harmonic progression.
She composed beautiful music inspired by each menial task, the rhythmic works of her hands and heart composing the final cadences that continues to sing its song in our memories.
Many old towns were built around the town square. Businesses, cafés, benches, and friendly folks were a welcome sight to residents as well as passersby. Some of you probably remember those days and were even among the number of those who “cruised the square” or sat on a park bench licking an ice cream cone or sipping on a cherry coke or shake purchased at the local soda fountain.
One small community in which we lived had a town square but there were very few businesses lined along the street. The square was more like a square with rounded corners. This town square had a fountain in the center. Some days, that was the talk of the town. Well, those were the days that followed the nights when some of the teenaged kids soaped the fountain, sometimes even in color. This small patch of greenspace was donated to the community in the mid-1800’s by a lady from one of the prominent families of the town. For being such a small plot, it sure was a popular spot.
On one side of the square was a small store. You could buy a candy bar and coke for about 15 cents. That’s when cokes really were the “real thing”. Candy displayed in racks included candy cigarettes much to my mother’s disapproval. The store was a short walk from our house, so if change rattled in my pocket, I would go to the store for a treat. My first choice was a Milky Way bar, but if I bought candy cigarettes, I hid them away.
The Post Office was on another side of the square where people came for more than mail. There was a lot of chatter as neighbors met and got caught up on the town gossip and the goings-on of family members, sometimes one and the same.
Across from the store on the other side of the square stood the United Methodist Church as a beacon to the community. Of course, we spent quite a bit of time there since my dad was the preacher. The land for the church building was given by the same benefactor as the parcel given for the square. The local churches were vital to the community. They provided a place to worship and a place for the community to come together and serve one another in time of need, sickness, or tragedy.
In the summer, there was a Marigold Festival complete with parade, and an occasional celebrity in the mix. Vendors, train rides, ball games, food, square dancing, and bands made the festival an attraction for residents as well as tourists. My sister was even a candidate for Miss Marigold one year. The whole city was planted in marigolds of various kinds. Everything was groomed and pretty with marigolds blooming in bright colors. There was a downside however – it didn’t smell too good. Marigolds are not the sweetest smelling blooms! The festival was an annual event from 1971 to 2002. However, the buzz is that the festival will return in 2022.
Though all of these were inviting characteristics of small-town living, there was another favorite of mine – the Bookmobile. We knew ahead of time when it would be parked at the town square in our little community. I loved going into the Bookmobile and rummaging through all the book titles and making my selection. It was almost magical to me. Books I might have overlooked in a library had a special appeal in the Bookmobile.
As I look back through the years, I feel richer and greatly appreciative of having the privilege to live in small towns with a big sense of community. Those are good places to call home.
