We played cards, but then, we were Methodists! The Baptists down the road wouldn’t be caught doing that and truth be known, Mama and Daddy didn’t want us caught at it either.
They weren’t opposed to us playing, we just couldn’t do it in view of passersby with the possibility of being the topic of conversation around someone’s dinner table that night. We had to maintain a certain appearance you know – especially since we were the preacher’s kids and were often held to a higher standard than the neighborhood kids.
One day my sister and I headed out to the front steps to play a friendly game of poker. We were quickly told that we could play in the back yard or in the house where no one could see us. I didn’t see a problem, nor did I think it was anyone’s business. Some folks even frowned on solitaire or pinocle or rummy.
Our poker playing was quite harmless. After all, we used candy corn for poker chips. If someone happened by, we could easily destroy the evidence by ingesting the sweet nuggets. Surely using candy corn ante couldn’t be considered gambling. Well, I guess it was quite a gamble for the winner who took the ante pot that had been handled by everyone at the table. You can bet that made the win not quite so sweet.
One day I decided I needed to know how to crochet and knit. It fascinated me to watch my grandmother do her handwork. I sneaked a peek at her instruction sheet, and I couldn’t read a thing. Ch 17, dc in 4th ch from hook, 15 dc; Sl st, ch 17; dc in next 4 dc, ch 1, [sk next dc, shell in next dc] 4 times; trc in each st across; repeat in rounds. What did that even mean? To me, it was a foreign language, one I would have to learn in order to read the directions.
My grandmother did not willingly divulge information on her skills. With that in mind, I formed a plan of action. One day I walked into the room where she sat and said, “I want you to teach me to crochet, and knit those dish cloths like you make.” She stiffened up and started to sputter out excuses. Her greatest excuse was that she tried once to teach someone in the family to knit and crochet and they never could get it. Well, that wasn’t me! I said, “One day you’ll be gone. Don’t you want to leave those skills as part of your legacy? Tell me what I need to purchase – the exact hook and needle sizes and the specific type of yarn you use – and then you can teach me.” I pointed to a crochet pattern and said, “This is a foreign language. It makes no sense. I want to know how to read it and how to do each stitch. Then, I will be able to read any pattern.”
She looked skeptical and told me what I needed. A day or two later, I showed up with the suggested items and took instructions under her reluctant yet capable tutelage. It wasn’t long before I would go in and show her something I was working on, and I knew she was pleased.
My grandmother was hesitant to show me how to knit because she thought it would confuse me when I tried to read a pattern. She said she learned to knit from her friend, a Dutch lady, who taught her to knit ‘like the Dutch.’ That is completely different than the American way. I told her, “I want to do it just like you.” So, she taught me. Years after she died, I was working on a knitted baby blanket that gave instructions to purl. Oh my, how do you purl like the Dutch? I had no idea and found no help. One day, I gathered up my stuff, and went to visit my great aunt which was always a treat. I said, “I need help. I’m supposed to purl and I want you to show me how.” She said, “I don’t think I can show you because I don’t knit the American way.” I got a surprised look on my face. She said, “Who taught you to knit?” I responded, “Grandma Bee.” Then she looked surprised, “Oh! I can show you then because I taught her. We knit like the Europeans.” So, I learned to purl – just like the Dutch and Europeans. When I visited China, one of my daughter’s Chinese friends showed me how to knit like the Chinese which uses three threads per stitch.
the first crocheted afghan I ever made
I especially like crocheting doilies
Every walk of life has its own language whether it’s the medical profession, cooking, engineering, construction, banking, sewing, crocheting or knitting. To speak those languages, you have to learn the unique terms and their meanings. Now if you come to my house, you will find a basket of yarn, knitting needles, and crochet hooks beside my chair, and I know how to use them. I learned the language!
knitting the European way and the Chinese way
tools of the trade
This little doll has a crocheted body as well as her clothing, horse and dolly. Hours and hours are spent crocheting one of these, but it is so satisfying when completed.
Because there was very little snow on the mountains, which was not typical for mid-October, deer and other wildlife had not been driven to lower feeding grounds. Bare branches on trees and shrubs rattled with the slightest touch or breeze, making animals and hunters alike jumpy. Shots rang out, the barrage of gunfire too close for comfort. It was October 15, 1940, the first day of hunting season.
Four men who hunted in the Crazy Mountains that day returned to their little cabin just above the Ward & Parker place forty miles from town. There were two cabins side by side. One cabin built in 1937 or ’38 was “Gommie’s cabin” and was sometimes used by hunters. The other cabin was built by a hunting crew from Big Timber. It was sometimes referred to as the Bryan-Alden cabin. Ward & Parker furnished the logs and lumber, but the hunters provided the labor and built the cabin to use during hunting season. Other times of the year, the cabins were used for vacationers and one of them was the honeymoon home of a young couple for a time.
Gommie’s Cabin
After the long day of hunting, two of the men sat in the cabin cleaning their weapons. The scene changed in an instant. While one of the men unloaded his rifle, it accidentally discharged, hitting the other man in the right side shattering his upper arm and shoulder. Hearing the shot, the other two men ran into the cabin. The gunshot victim lay unconscious but alive on the floor.
They quickly took the wounded man to the Ward house where first aid was administered. One of the hired men at Ward & Parker drove them to Big Timber Hospital, arriving at 9 PM. Amputation was performed on the arm, but the loss of blood and shock was too much. The man died at 1:15 the following morning.
Though the old hunter’s cabin now has a leaking roof, and a door that no longer closes, it still contains memories of a life that was snuffed out in the blink of an eye. Like shattered glass scattered on the cabin floor, the lives of more than one family were shattered that mid-October day in 1940.
I grew up in the Bible Belt. You know, the place where there was a church on every corner. Well, that might be a bit of exaggeration, but there were lots of churches. If you took a drive through the countryside, a church would appear out of nowhere, no houses in view. If you took a drive into town, you could see a first, second, or even a third Baptist church once removed. You might find a United Methodist, a Congregational Methodist, Church of God, Assembly of God, Pentecostal, and the list goes on. Some of those old country churches now have their doors closed.
Some parishioners change churches as easily as changing a pair of pants. They are called church hoppers. Whenever our family changed churches, we had a slight disadvantage, or maybe it was an advantage, because we couldn’t get away from the preacher. Nope, he went with us.
Through the years, I have heard lots of prayers float to the rafters and beyond. Some folks have “unspoken requests” while others voice prayer requests publicly, many that should remain silent and held in strict confidence. One man in a church I attended had his own way with prayer. He spoke loudly and much too clearly as he began his prayer, “Lord, you know Sister Sally is having a hard time since she found out her husband is seeing Jane Thermabotham. You know they have been seen together out on the town…..” And the “prayer” continued. (names have been changed as to not incriminate someone) By the time the last “Amen” was given, word was all over town. Of course, the man who prayed wondered how everybody in town knew about Sally’s situation. The damage was done. Every time he prayed, I thought, “you don’t have to tell God what he already knows and no one else needs to know it, true or not!”
There are people I love to hear pray. One of my special ladies prays and when she says, “Amen,” all eyes open wide just knowing that God will be sitting right there beside her. Who knows? She might even be found sitting in His lap! Another of my special girls prays and a sense of reverence and awe flow into the room. Her words draw a clear picture of holiness. An exemplary gracious lady who has now gone on prayed quietly. She was one known as a “prayer warrior.” Never did anyone hear her repeat something in prayer that pointed a finger of judgment. She silently reached the gates of heaven with her sincere requests, but it didn’t end there. Her prayers were accompanied with action. If there was a need she could help meet, she did it quietly with no recognition. She learned what many others know – there is power in prayer and accompanied with love, it reaches the throne room of heaven.
The elderly man sat quietly in his chair with a stack of Alaska magazines beside him. We walked in unnoticed at first. When he finally realized we were there, he looked up and upon seeing his nephew, he flashed a big smile. Slowly, as if willing his tall frame to stand erect, he pushed himself upward. Soon, he was almost to full height, the height of a giant of a man. His curly gray unkempt hair that at one time looked like a big black Brillo pad, rested atop a weathered, wrinkled face accentuating his black eyes and the distinguishable Spanish features of his mother.
the old Wolf Trapper
Before us stood a man larger than life. Though he had no children of his own, the kids gravitated to him. He was gentle in his speech and in the way he cared for the little ones with fierce loyalty. His protection of the kids, his family, and his neighbors, and their livelihood, was just as fierce.
Barney with a bunch of kids
Visiting Uncle Barney was one of the first things on our list and one of the highlights. Walking into his house was like walking into a museum. Glass cases were filled with relics of his younger days. My nose prints and fingerprints joined those of others who had peered into the see-through treasure chest. Antlers, guns, and pelts of mule deer and the infamous gray timber wolf Snowslide hung on his wall. Each item had a story – and what a story!
Only one word was needed to be rewarded with a fascinating, almost unbelievable, tale. Daddy knew that word, “Wolf!” He spoke louder, “Wolf!” The flood gates of adventure and intrigue opened and stories of wolf days were unleashed. Though the old Government Trapper had dull ears and clouded eyes, his memory was sharp. The shroud lifted from his eyes, and they began to sparkle. He didn’t miss any details as he began to talk. Uncle Barney’s words mounted us on the back of his saddle as we joined him in the chase. Now he was the hunter again, retracing the trails of memories to capture the elusive predators. We were entranced, a mesmerized audience drawn into the pursuit.
Barney with part of Old Cripple Creek’s pack, her mate to the left in the photo
Tale after tale followed as he told of Snowslide, the gray timber wolf that killed sixteen head of sheep in one night at one ranch, slaughtering forty-three at another ranch the next week, thirteen at another, then turned to killing calves; Old Cripple Foot, queen of the Little Belts that killed sheep for sport and then began taking down cows – three large Herefords in one week (that she didn’t eat) on the American Fork Ranch, aka “The Ghost”; and her mate and pups; Killer – the wolf that killed for pleasure, killing at least fifteen dogs in two years that were brought in to rid the ranchers of the wolf; Old Crazy Mountain Wallis, aka Loofer Wolf that easily split a dog pack, and along with another wolf killed 60 head cattle on the American Fork Ranch valued at $30,000; Lefty, of Ft. McGinnis, so named because she was missing her front left foot from a trap, and when she was taken, an old granddad wolf adopted her pups.
Some raise their eyebrows thinking it a great injustice. Uncle Barney said, “From my experience wolves didn’t kill sheep unless they were hungry or wanted revenge.” What could a wolf do with sixteen sheep in one night? That was not for food, it was for pure sport and revenge. In 1915, Barney was hired by the Bureau of Biological Survey as a Predatory Animal Trapper. His job was to end the predation plague that spread throughout the ranches in Montana. He was to rid them of stock killing bears, bobcats, coyotes, and wolves. Government Hunter Brannin was hailed as a hero and the stockmen rejoiced as the wolves were removed from their herds. Some of the captured wolf pups were sent to the State Fair, or to a wolf sanctuary in the East.
Brother Gus, Peaches the Bear and Barney, 1916, Crazy Mountains
Many of Uncle Barney’s exploits are contained in various newspaper articles, government documents, family stories, and various books. There are other tales of goats in the Crazies, taming bears, helping raise kids, stocking creeks and lakes with upwards of 850,000 live trout and eye eggs in the Crazy Mountains, and then… there’s Alaska…
Charlie lived across the field, 100 yards. One of his grandsons was quite a football player of the same name. Charlie had a mule. It was summer. Hot. No air conditioning in the little white church. Doors open. Windows open. Charlie’s mule got out and decided to visit the church yard. Charlie came after the mule. He didn’t want him to use the church for a barn or a shady place. Figured that would disrupt the congregation.
“Sometimes we need a social dispensation.”
“Whoa mule!”
One bald headed gentleman had his chin on his chest so that his head reflected the light. He jerked his head up. “Whoa there mule!” The mule trotted behind the church to the cemetery.
“Get out of that place, mule!” Charlie trotted around behind him. The mule ambled around the church again, back on the other side and past the front door. “Don’t go in there mule! Those are white folks.” The mule paused and went on. By this time the people had lost the sermon. It was just as well, I’d lost it too, and when the mule went back across the road with Charlie after him, I got hold of another part – and nobody missed it.
The Fourth of July has always been a day of celebration for our family.
When I was a kid, we had family reunions on the Fourth. We loaded up in the car and drove to Aunt Leone’s where there was always a pile of food stretched out on tables under the big shade trees, and a pile of kids to match. Cousins and more cousins showed up along with aunts, uncles, and grandparents.
Aunt Leone with sis and Bella
Old timers reminiscing of homestead days
After a time of playing on the old grist stones, playing ball with cow patty bases, and listening to the old timers tell their old tales, it was time for watermelon. My granddad always picked out a watermelon or two just for the occasion. It was not a quick choice. He turned the watermelon, inspecting all sides and the stem end. Then came the real test. He would lodge his middle finger behind his thumb, and then release the trigger, “Thump.” A “thump” sound was what he wanted to hear. If it made a “thud” sound, he would place the watermelon back and grab another. As a side note, when I was nearing the time of delivery of my children, I asked him to do the watermelon test to see if I was about ripe for delivery. His method worked!
Family gathering
a pile of kids
There were other Fourth of July celebrations when we were away from our Southern home. Those family gatherings were at Aunt Barbara’s house. Food was stretched out under the old willow trees in the back yard. Not only did we celebrate the holiday, but we also celebrated Aunt Ellen’s birthday. My daddy declared that was “another important holiday,” and Aunt Barbara always made her famous cinnamon rolls for her sister’s birthday on the Fourth.
Here are some Fourth of July stories from my dad’s memories as a little boy:
Another Important Holiday
The Fourth of July is Sister Ellen’s birthday. We celebrate it every year.
Sometimes three carloads of friends come up to have a picnic. They always bring a watermelon. We make ice cream in our rebuiltice cream freezer. The porcupines ate the outside of the old freezer because it tasted salty. Daddy made a new outside out of boards. After the picnic he hides the rebuilt freezer in the closet where the porcupines won’t find it.
Some years we don’t have a picnic. Instead, we go to town and watch a parade. Men who had been soldiers march in the parade. A retired army Colonel tells them how to march, and the city band marches in front of them.
When I get big, I will watch a parade without having to peek between someone’s knees to see it.
The Fourth of July is important. That is the day when American leaders signed the Declaration of Independence and told GeneralGeorge Washing to go chase the British soldiers back to their boats. You should always remember the Fourth of July for that.
I have to remember it because it is my sister’s birthday.
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.
The Beckhams were retired country folks. They lived near the sleepy southern village of Concord for most of their 58 years of married life. Mr. Beckham was pushing eighty, but he stood straight and tall without an ounce of extra weight. He worked an acre of crowder peas and corn with some squash and tomatoes on the side. Evelyn Beckham was a small, gray haired lady who did a lot of canning and gave most of it away because she didn’t want to see anything going to waste. They were a grand couple.
The road to Beckham seemed two miles long going out and a half a mile long coming back. The dirt road ran by the house which sat a car parking and a half from the ditch bank. The front porch rested on three-foot pillars and the Beckhams often sat on the porch in a matched pair of rocking chairs. But this sultry day Mr. Beckham was not in sight, just his wife. Evelyn Beckham was talking to a young man, whom I recognized as an insurance salesman. As he rose from Mr. Beckham’s rocker she said, “I’m sorry, maybe you can catch my husband home some other time.”
I stepped out of the car and spoke to the salesman as he left.
“I’ll call back,” the young man shouted through his opened car window.
“I’ll warn my husband,” the lady of the house replied. Then she turned to me. “Come in, Preacher,” she said. “We’ll go inside. Mr. Beckham will be glad to see you.”
I sat in a chair across from the kitchen door. “I’ll get you a glass of tea.” Mrs. Beckham stepped into the kitchen and spoke to an unseen occupant. “It’s the preacher,” she said. “You can come out now.”
There was a rustle in the corner at the kitchen table which was covered with a red checked oil cloth that nearly touched the floor. Two long shoes pushed back from under the table cloth. A pair of long legs followed as Mr. Beckham backed out from under the table.
“Almost got me,” he said. “Next time warn me sooner.”
Some years later I called on some parishioners in a large house on a busy street in Augusta, Georgia. I thought I heard a television playing as I got out of the car. However, when I walked across the porch everything was quiet.
I knocked on the front door. No one answered.
The next Sunday in church a little boy told me, “Come see us again preacher. The last time the house was a mess and we weren’t home.”
Many a mother-to-be has guarded her baby bump from unwanted hands stretched out to rub that expectant belly. I will admit that I, too, have had the urge, but refrained until I had permission. Feeling the movement of a new little life inside a swollen belly is fascinating as well as miraculous. I’m sure there must be a shirt that says, “Don’t touch!”
It’s not just baby bumps that get rubbed, but also bald heads. I have a good reason for liking to rub bald heads. My granddad had a bald head, well, except for an occasional wild hair that stood up straight. When I was a teeny little kid, my granddad told me if I rubbed his bald head, it would make his hair grow. I believed him. I could walk in the room, come up behind him, rub his head, and he’d say, “Hullo Sheri.” Every time I visited him, I rubbed his head – even until his dying day.
Now I don’t suggest that you walk up to a random stranger and rub their belly or their bald head. Do you want someone to rub yours?
