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Just Passing Through

The first time I remember seeing a Native American Indian was when we took a trip to North Carolina when I was a little girl. I was fascinated at the old Indian who stood in front of a store dressed in buckskin and wore some sort of headdress. I know I stared at him, but I had never seen anyone like him before. He looked tall, regal and wise in the lore of his culture. I guessed he was an Indian Chief. That image was etched into my memory.

When we traveled out west, my brothers tried to scare me by telling me that Indians would jump from behind the rocks and scalp me. I rarely believed anything my brothers told me, and that time was no different. It seems that we always went through at least one Indian Reservation. I kept my eyes opened not because of what my brothers said but because I was intrigued. We would stop at the general store, pick up a trinket or two and get a drink. Of course, the highlight was seeing the Indian people. History produced a certain romanticism of the Native Americans, some depicted as noble, some as savage. Even at that young age I thought the treatment towards the Indians was a great injustice.  

Stories of Native Americans were nothing new to us. We grew up with stories of Indians intertwined with the lives of my family. My granddad told tales of Indians following alongside his family’s wagons trailing from Oklahoma to Montana. The Indian braves were just as fascinated with the travelers as the travelers were with them. When my great grandfather and others gathered around the evening campfire and played their fiddles and other instruments, some of the Indians joined them. As the old fiddle tunes were played, Indians moved in rhythm with the music and danced around the flames that licked the night sky. They attempted to coerce my aunt to join in their merriment. One Indian brave tried to work a trade for Old Bill, my granddad’s horse, but he would not make the deal.

My great aunts and uncles and my grandmother passed down tales of when their family lived in New Mexico during the time of Apache raids. Those living on small ranches and farms were more afraid of the white men on the large ranches who tried to strong-arm them into selling their lands and herds. One of my favorite stories was that of my great grandmother who claimed to be an Indian Princess on one occasion when Apache braves rode up to their house on the ranch. Upon seeing her little blue-eyed blonde-haired boy, they threatened to bash in the little “gringo’s” head. Her quick thinking and claim as Chief Victorio’s daughter saved those at her home that day as well as offering a hedge of protection for their ranch.

My grandmother was a supporter of St. Labre Indian School in Ashland, Montana. We stopped there on occasion during our trips west, and visited the campus, museum, and gift shop. My father continued to support them after my grandmother’s death.

Even now when traveling across a reservation, I feel like an outsider, a stranger looking through a window, just passing through. 

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A Country Drive

My granddad loved to take a ride through the countryside. (So do I.) We would load him up in the car or truck and drive down country back roads. He was as happy as a lark. Leather gloves in hand, he ran them through his big hands, cowboy hat on his head, and a big smile on his face. He spoke of the “good grass” he saw and told us how many head of cattle could be raised on such a spread as opposed to how many horses could graze that same land. Whether it was North Georgia hills, or Montana prairies, the child-like wonder in his eyes never faded.

We crossed over a creek and his memories were stirred. His tale took us back to a time when horse and wagon were the mode of transportation. He and his batchin’ partner, John, saw a storm coming up. They unhitched the wagon, grabbed their gear and set up their tent. Just as the storm hit, a man, his wife and new baby came flying up in their wagon. My granddad rolled back the tarp and invited the travelers inside out of the storm. As he told the story, he pointed to a grassy place near the creek and said, “Right there is where we camped.” Of course, it wasn’t “right there” where they camped, but in his mind, he was transported to a different time and place. In his eyes, it was “right there.”

Passing a field, we heard of his days on Sun Prairie Flats and working the harvests all the way into Canada. Grazing horses evoked remembrances of working on the Long X Ranch. Stories flowed of the mountains around Calgary and celebrating the Queen’s birthday. Tale after tale followed. 

As he reminisced, he marveled at the land around him. His eyes twinkled with every recollection.

Oh, that we could see the world around us through such eyes.

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The Rancher’s Wife

How do you wrap up in a few moments the life of one who gave so unselfishly?

Here are just a few thoughts of a special aunt:

Rancher’s wife,
mother, daughter, friend, sister, aunt,
matchmaker

Knew horses and cows before she knew people other than family
Knew the meaning of hard work 
Weathered by time
Gracious, down to earth

Artist

Woke early, stayed up late
to care for her household

No drippy words of love
but displayed it in every action

Cared for bum lambs
as well as children, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren

When someone came to visit,
she set another plate on the table
Fresh bread, real cream,
Cream puffs with raspberries
Roast beef, potatoes and gravy for weary hikers

Spoke of old days
but did not linger on the past

Even when she was injured,
nothing slowed her down

She could ride a horse or four-wheeler with best of them
Cattledriver

She was a faithful partner of her rancher husband
Always had a fuzzy companion or two

Though her brother did not live close,
she adored him

Now that she’s gone,
untold stories remain so

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Big Medicine

The simplest of things can often bring the most comfort. It might be a silky pillowcase. It could be in just a couple of words or a tune of a song. It might be found in the corner of a blanket or a small worn-out stuffed animal. It could be in a smile or a quiet hug. Those little things, seemingly insignificant, carry big medicine.

  • Daddy and Brownie, the bear

You’ve heard the story of my daddy’s teddy bear, Brownie. I know just how he felt about his bear because I feel the same way about the bear my mama made for me when I was about four or five years old. He is made out of brown corduroy, with off-white velvety paws and ears, and embroidered eyes, nose and mouth. His corduroy is worn thin, his neck has been restuffed and stitched together a few times, and he has flannel patches on his tattered body. He might not look like much, but to me, he is more than special. Having him close by is comforting especially if I don’t feel good or have had a bad day. He is good medicine.

That’s not the only medicine I have. When I was quite small, my Montana grandmother came to visit. That was a treat! I never got to see her as often as I would have liked, but it never failed that when I did, it was just like we had never been apart. On that particular visit, she made a special treasure for me – a quilt. The pieced side is made from scraps of flannel. It is soft, warm, and cuddly just like my grandmother was. I didn’t use it a lot, but rather tucked it away for special times when I needed an extra dose of comfort.

My quilt has a few worn places just like my bear and me. Even though I am a grandmother, there are still times I carefully pull the quilt over me and hold my bear close. 

You’re never too old for a dose of Big Medicine.

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Frog Eggs

When I was a kid, I liked to eat frog eggs. They were really yummy. I liked them warm right out of the pan. I liked them cold, too.

I watched my mommy put dried frog eggs in milk with some sugar, a pinch of salt and the big yellow eyes of a few chicken eggs.

Eating frog eggs didn’t scare me. My brothers thought it would. That’s just because if I was afraid, they could eat the frog eggs in my bowl.

You might ask how I knew they were really frog eggs. That’s simple! My brothers told me so. They would never try to trick a little sister, would they?

When my husband was little, he ate Pop Cereal. His mama made that just like my mommy made frog eggs, only his mama left the dried frog eggs out.

I don’t eat frog eggs now, (I can’t find them in any of the stores), but I do eat Tapioca Pudding. Did you know it’s cooked the same way my mommy made frog eggs for us?

Who knew!

  • Tapioca Pudding
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Stranded in Time

Daddy had been told to not be surprised if Uncle Rube didn’t know him. The old gentleman had suffered a stroke that affected his memory.  As we walked into the room at the Pioneer Home, Uncle Rube looked up. He took one look at Daddy, stood to his feet, raised his hand, pointed his finger and said, “Th-th-that d-d-danged sp-sp-spotted horse!” Spot, the spotted horse, had stepped on his foot thirty years earlier and left Rube’s big toenail hanging by a sliver. More than once, Daddy and Rube had shared that memory. 

  • Rube in Pioneer Home

Even without the stroke, Uncle Rube was considered slow or “retarded”. His drawn, drooping face looked much like I had remembered. Though Uncle Rube lived in a man-sized body, he was just a boy. Just one look at him turned back the hands of time to 1895 when he was a boy of five years old.

Four covered wagons drawn by four-horse teams, and a spring wagon pulled by a team of mules topped Apache Hill. Guadalupe turned around for one last glimpse, but the ranch along Sapillo Creek had already disappeared from view.  Eight children were born to the family in the little log cabin in the valley they left behind. Guadalupe carried those memories and many more with her as the wagons turned toward Montana Territory that morning of May 30, 1895. 

The older boys had gone on ahead with the herd of goats, burros and horses. Guadalupe, her husband, their eleven children, the youngest six months old, a son-in-law, and one-month old granddaughter, were joined by other friends who traveled with them. Little Rube rode in the wagons with the other small children.

The route from New Mexico Territory led them into Arizona and northward through Utah. A year before, Guadalupe had a dream of a long hard trip. As they approached Woodruff, Arizona, Guadalupe described that very town just as she had seen it in her dream, though she had never been there. 

It was dry and hot. Water was scarce. Drinking from the Little Colorado River, the boys tried the strain water through their teeth. They ran their finger around their gums to remove the silt. Even when they tried to filter the water through a flour sack, it did little good. 

Near Flagstaff, most of the family came down with typhoid fever after drinking contaminated well water. The oldest daughter became deathly sick. Her milk dried up and she was not able to nurse her baby. Guadalupe not only tended to the sick and nursed her own little girl, but she also shared her supply of breast milk with her granddaughter.

Little Rube had the most severe case of typhoid fever and developed double pneumonia. Rube’s father had a doctor from Flagstaff come to see the little boy. His high fevers caused brain damage, affected his speech, and left him handicapped with partial paralysis, his legs becoming so weak, his sister two years his senior had to teach him to walk again. Rube did survive. His family nurtured him, and his brothers gave him some good-natured ribbing. He never went to school or learned to read and write, but he did many of the chores, rescued his chickens from the cook, and knew how to smoke a pipe.

Uncle Rube lived to the ripe age of eight-one. To some, he was a giant among men but on the inside, he was a five-year-old little boy who wore overalls.

  • Rube & brother Sid
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O Brother!

I grew up with three brothers all older than me. I have often wondered how any of us ever survived childhood and how my mother survived motherhood. Recently after hearing my brothers tell wild tales I had never heard, I am even more convinced that their survival is a miracle of miracles.

Now understand that I cannot give you their names because I am sure there are still authorities seeking restitution for misdeeds done by the culprits. For the purpose of this story the brothers will be referred to as Brother 1, 2, and 3.

  • Brother 2, 3, 1

When the phone rang at our house, Mama would cringe. She must have been relieved when the caller turned out to be someone who called for the preacher to come visit a family member who was on their deathbed or to make a trip to the jail to council a neighbor’s kid. But, alas, that was not always the case.

Those boys got into enough trouble for all of us. Brother 3 got cigarettes from a friend who snitched them from his mama, and he was only six years old. Brother 3’s big Brother 1 even gave him the nub ends of the cigarettes he got from I-don’t-want-to-know-who. One day, Mama caught Brother 3 crawling under the house with matches to smoke his contraband and sent Daddy after him. That was aside from him smoking rabbit tobacco in his homemade corncob pipe when he made me promise not to tell on him. He must have quite grown up by then because he was all of seven.

At one of the nearby businesses that was plagued with mischievous kids, at least until the preacher moved, the boys had their fill of soda pop. They would sneak into the business after hours and open the hinged top of the chest coke machine to expose the suspended bottles hanging by their necks (which is what the owners would like to have done to the kids). Instead of putting their money into the coin slot and making their selection, they proceeded to pop the tops of the ice cold sodas and slurp out the contents with their paper straws. When the owner went to work the next morning and got his morning soda the bottles were all empty. There was little question as to who was responsible, or irresponsible, but nothing could be proven if they weren’t caught red-handed.

  • Brother 1 and 2

Some of their shenanigans were harmless enough such as playing “pocketbook.” One time, a car stopped as the driver eyed the pocketbook. When the boys tried to reel it in, the pocketbook got lodged on the railroad track. The driver of the car, the Sheriff, got out and took chase. The boys escaped. Other escapades included climbing on the train when it stopped by the cotton gin and riding it to a neighboring town. They had to wait for the return train to make their way home again.  When Brother 2 was contacted to validate these claims, he verified that this was indeed true. Brother 1 seemed very familiar with the story and I believe him to be the ringleader. (Brother 1 is also the one responsible for my broken collar bone.)

Other misdeeds were vandalism, like when they the broke the windows out of the back of one of the shops. Brother 2 said, “We got our butts beat.” Other neighborhood boys were involved, and each family had to pay for the windows to be replaced.

As several of us listened to their tales, Sister 2 said, “Why didn’t they run us out of town?” Brother 3’s response was a classic, “We were preacher’s kids.” There was a short pause and he giggled, “It was hard to get a preacher.”

Now we know!

These tales were just a drop in bucket that was filled with stolen watermelons, a record sized big snake, broom straw lit on fire, pigs, picked tulips, burning bags of manure, rocks, phone calls, kids in trunks to sneak into drive-in movies, etc., and some tales you’ll never know.

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Shopping Trip

When I say, “big sister,” that means my oldest sister. You can find out more about her as you peruse through some of my other tales. We are the bookends of the kids with ten years in the middle. She liked to go to school. Me? Not so much. I thought she might even make a career out of it.

  • This is what big sis looked like when she got us to go shopping with her.

I remember her coming home in between educational stints and ask if my other sister and I wanted to go “shopping.” Of course, we said, “YES!” I’m not quite sure why we agreed because every shopping trip turned out the same way, but if lunch was on the menu, we’d go. This is how it went: she shopped, and we watched. She had this shopping thing down pat. We would go into a store and she looked at EVERYTHING in the clothing section and the shoe section. She loved to look at shoes! It seems that she never found what she wanted in the first store. That continued from store to store. 

While she shopped, I sat near the entrance of the store and watched people. I found that very entertaining. That is where I learned the skill of people watching. I saw people of all shapes and sizes and colors. Some were oblivious to what was going on. They were just along because someone dragged them to the store. Others carried loads of bags full of stuff. Some were loud while others just peeked out from under their eyelids so they wouldn’t stumble. There were people who were not so attractive and some guys that were very attractive. When big sis was done in that store, I got to watch from another store front.

  • This is me and my other sis after we get to eat lunch.

Now, I tell you the truth, mostly, when she got done at the last store, she invariably said, “I didn’t find what I wanted. Let’s go back to the first store.” And when we did, you might guess that what she picked up and carried to the cash register was the very first item she had looked at. Geesh! 

At least we got lunch out of it!

To this day, shopping is not my favorite activity. I usually know what I want and am in and out of the store a flash. However, I do find folks amusing and if you throw lunch in the invitation, I might just go along if you want to go shopping.

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Miss Roberta

My dad was one of those preachers who visited his parishioners, but he didn’t just limit his visits to the church folks. He visited the hospitals and those in the community as well. Often when he came back home, he had stories to tell. Many of his stories began with a chuckle. Such was his story of Miss Roberta.

By my Guest Author, my Daddy

I speak of her as Miss Roberta. She was a bedridden lady of memories. With the help of daily visits from another woman, she was able to live alone. She could get to her stove, refrigerator, and kitchen table. Most of her time was spent in her bed or on the nearby sofa.

Miss Roberta was from a small town – a small Christian College town near the edge of the North Georgia Mountains. She could move from her bed to the cook stove and refrigerator. However, she lived alone, and I was her pastor. Through her memories I became a child in the small town of Demorest. I could pick up dreams and hopes and memories which kept her going. Sometimes, I thought maybe the lady was lonely. But then again, maybe she wasn’t. She had friends that I did not know.

One day I saw a mouse running across the corner of her room. I think it had been nibbling at leftovers on the kitchen table. I didn’t say anything about it. Maybe I should have. A few checkups later that mouse jumped off the top over of her bed. “Did you know that you have a mouse?” I exclaimed.

She answered, “Oh yes, that’s my friend. He even comes to my pillow and talks to me.”

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Touch of the Master’s Hand

I laid down on the sofa with my legs pulled up, covered myself with a thin blanket, tucked the pillow under my head and took an afternoon nap – just like my grandmother had done for years. All snuggled down, I felt a sense of complete satisfaction. The old sofa that was covered in cloth that rotted over the years was made good as new – maybe even better.

There is more to this story than a sofa in disrepair that needed to be fixed. This is the story of a master artisan.

One day I received a call, “Hey. Do you want Gommie’s sofa? It needs to be recovered.” What kind of question was that? “Yep. I sure do.”

  • Before… I tried to salvage some of the fabric but it almost disintegrated.
    The fabric was prickly like dry stubble. Now I know why Gommie always had it covered with blankets.

I had not seen the sofa in years – not since my Grandmother last sat on it or had taken her last afternoon nap on it. I knew it would cost something to get it repaired, but to me, it was worth it. Immediately I called a dear friend whose husband did upholstery. They were very special friends to me. Mr. Charles was one of the most gifted craftsmen I have ever known. My mother would certainly have approved of his precise skills. My friend is an expert artist herself and a mentor. Fabric is her gift, quilts in particular. [How I have wished she would have come along earlier so she could have met my mother. They would have been close friends.] When I told them of the sofa that needed to be reupholstered, Mr. Charles said, “I’ll do it for you as long as you don’t give me a deadline. Just go pick out the fabric.” After speaking with him, I was elated!

  • Rich tones of deep red, black, and a bit of gold

When I found just the perfect fabric, I sent them a picture. Mr. Charles said the paisley designed fabric in deep red tones with a bit of gold was perfect for the “contemporary” style sofa made in the 20’s – 30’s era. Even the texture and weave of fabric was fitting.  I left the sofa and fabric in their care and waited very patiently.

It wasn’t long before they called me to come check on the progress. The sofa was sitting on sawhorses and was stripped down to its skeleton. Springs in the back and seat of the sofa were laid bare. Only four of the myriads of springs were tied together. All the other strings that had once held the network of springs had rotted and fallen off causing some of the springs to lie cockeyed. The batting that had been in the sofa was so rotten, a sawdust-like residue seeped through the seams and cushions. One section of the back of the frame was busted. Woodwork on one of the arms was split. The cushions were no good and were so hard, it was not comfortable in the slightest. The sofa needed a complete makeover.

I can tell you, this was a labor of love. Mr. Charles was on oxygen most of the time. He had a long tube that was his lifeline, but he didn’t let that get in his way of doing what he loved. In fact, he thanked me.

When I got the call that he was done, I couldn’t get there quick enough. It was gorgeous. It was perfect. My friend had stripped and refinished all the woodwork. The rich tones of the wood just gleamed next to the posh fabric. The cushions were comfy yet firm. The piping was even and neat. He did leave one thing though; he left the memories intact. I could not have asked for anything greater. Maybe the sofa will last for another hundred years. Mr. Charles was a truly gifted artisan. He was a master!

  • Finished sofa still on the saw horses

When I look at the sofa that is just my size, I see the work of the master’s hands. There is expertise in every stitch. The colors, the craftsmanship, and the refinished wood all compliment one another. More than seeing the work of the master artisan’s hands, I see a work of the master’s heart, an act of love.

I often sit on the cushions and rest a bit while having a cup of hot tea or while telling stories to the kids. Sometimes I even lie down for a few minutes and might even steal a quick nap. Memories ooze from the seams and every stitch whispers memories of time spent with Gommie, warm fuzzy memories of cuddling up beside her and listening to her stories. I can see her look at me, smile, squint her eyes, and click her teeth.

Among the memories that fill the room, I am also reminded that I have witnessed the touch of the master’s hand and heart. The gift of a master artisan is a special treasure, but the gift given from the heart is priceless.

  • Finished and where it belongs

A couple of years ago, I took a couple of friends with me to Montana. One day we walked into the Grand Hotel in Big Timber to grab a bite of lunch. Had they seen my face they would have known I was surprised. I asked them, “Do you notice anything particular about the booth seats?” The fabric was exactly like the fabric I selected for Gommie’s sofa. Good choice!