Category: Childhood Memories

Cousin Benny was kind of fun to have around. He was always good for entertainment and maybe even a bit of harmless trouble. My oldest sister might not agree with that.

We were headed to the mountains for a day of tromping around the old home place, wading in freezing creeks, hiking to the lake and beyond, and, of course, a picnic. Mama stayed back in town. I just can’t figure out why she didn’t want to go to the heart of the mountains with her husband and a car full of kids stacked on top of one another. One of those kids was Cousin Benny. When his face wore that cheesy smile that turned up at the corners, his eyes danced with mischief.

All went well. No one fell and busted a limb. No one got cut jumping from rock to rock in the creek. No one froze to death in the ice cold water. No one drowned in the lake. We had our picnic with no incident, and we all drank a belly full of fresh spring water. Back then, we could even belly flop and drink straight from the fast-flowing stream. Cousin Babs once said that the water ran so fast it purified itself every few feet. I believed her! Our bellies believed it, too, and we never got sick.

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As the sun gave its warning that it had to rest soon, we all piled into the car for the return trip to town. Big Sis got to sit in the front seat because she was the oldest kid with us – and the most reserved and refined. She was a no-nonsense teenager. There may have been another kid or two crammed in the front, but the rest of us scrawny, wet, dirty kids climbed in the back seat, including Cousin Benny.

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Those old cars could go anywhere. It didn’t matter if it was a smooth paved road or two parallel dirt trails with tall grass growing in between. There was no trouble fording the creeks. If we hit a rock, that old car just bounced up onto another and off we’d go, the crunching sound of river rocks beneath as they spit out from under the tires. Hitting the rocks and bumps in the road was like riding a bucking bronc. 

We hit a deep hole and catapulted out. Cousin Benny let out a shriek. Daddy stopped the car, “What’s the matter?” He didn’t see any blood and no one was missing. Cousin Benny said, “My snake got loose.” My refined, reserved big sister let out a scream. We all stumbled over one another getting out of the car. Well – all but my big sister. She was glued to her seat but threw her feet up on the dashboard quicker than greased lightning.

We looked under the seats. We looked in cracks. We called, “Here snake.” That poor snake was scared to death and he buried himself where no hand could reach. There was no choice but for us to pile back into the car and continue our journey. I will have to admit that my feet were pulled up on my seat, too.

It was quiet on the trip to town. Well, I take that back. My sister complained all the way back. She released her arsenal of fiery darts at Cousin Benny as she muttered threats under her breath, casting backward glances as often as she could without getting a crick in her neck. Her feet never touched the floorboard. The snake didn’t show his little green head or any other part of him. We pulled into the driveway and big sis shot out of the car like a rocket, even before the car came to a complete stop. The search for the snake continued. With sis out of the way, he thought it was safe to emerge from his hiding place. He was released from his prison with a stack of kids and an angry teenager. He slithered away to find a peaceful refuge. And so ends my story of Snake in the Car!!!!

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This is my 195^thpost since I started my blog one year ago today. For those who have read some of the stories, I hope they have given you a reprieve from the events going on around us. Hopefully some of the tales have given you a smile and a glimpse of places you’ve never seen. Maybe some have been educational or prompted you to connect with your ancestors. 

Prior to starting my blog, I jotted down topics, notes, places visited, etc., to determine if I had enough material and stories to write about. I wasn’t sure, but thought I’d give it a try. Growing up in a family of story tellers, I was a bit jealous that I didn’t have wild tales and memories like they did. They always told stories of wild west adventures of those great pioneers who forged trails in the wilderness and survived to tell it. Little did I know that I would be able to muster up 195 posts, to date, and I have barely marked anything off the list! 

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Since my first post, you have traveled with me across the country to swamps, deserts, oceans, streams, mountains, and National Parks. We have camped, cruised, hiked, backpacked, spelunked, skydived, rode in boats, fished, kayaked, and flown. We’ve met family, made friends, and seen lots of wild animals. We’ve gone on “destination unknown” adventures, eaten good food, took a trip to the moon, visited ghost towns and historical sights. We’ve chased bandits, walked among tombstones, met heroes, and retraced our ancestors’ steps. We have traveled over hills, mountains, buttes, and prairies. You have met some of my family, sat in my Granddad’s lap and dunked in his coffee, read stories by my Dad and other guest authors, made quilts, and shared memories of my childhood. 

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Thank you for sharing my “Back Window Adventures.” I hope you will join me for more. I might have another story or two.

Stay tuned…..

I will admit that my sister was more of an avid fisherman than me. If I was getting a bite, I was all in, but if not, I could think of a million other things I could be doing. One of those things was exploring. I would wander off and climb on  logs, watch for animals, play in the water, examine various flowers and plants, pick berries, and simply enjoy the scenery. Most of our fishing was in the mountains by cold streams. If you haven’t figured it out by now, that setting suits me fine. As I got older, my wandering included a camera. That would (and still does) satisfy me for countless hours. 

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One summer we headed to the mountains for a day of fishing and a picnic. My sister had good luck that day. She caught the biggest fattest trout. As soon as we got back to town, she pulled out her prize fish to show everyone. That was a mistake!

There was another fisherman, “Grumpy John,” who didn’t go with us and even though he wasn’t along, he didn’t like anyone to catch a bigger fish than he could – especially a scrawny little girl. His eyes were green with envy and he said, “I’ll take care of those fish for you.” Sis had decided she wanted to take her fish home. In fact, the whole mess was heading south. The fish were put in water and made into fish ice cubes. All the fish would fit in the cooler perfectly for the trip home.

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Just a few days later, it was time to head home. Grumpy John said, “I’ll get your fish out of the freezer and put them in the cooler.” It was usually a three-day trip back home. Either the first or second night we stopped to get a room. Daddy was not a big spender when it came to motels. We stayed in a room that looked like a cozy home for bedbugs and other critters. The cooler with the fish was taken into the room. The fish ice cubes needed to be iced down a bit more for the rest of the trip. The lid came off and after a more thorough inspection, it seemed something was missing. Instead of the fish we caught, including the prize fish, there were smaller ones in their place that he had frozen previously.

“Where is my fish?” You talk about mad, my sister was mad! We were too far away to turn around and go back to get her fish. If she thought she could have gotten by without being slapped, she would have said a few choice words. “He did that on purpose!” she said. We all agreed. 

I’m not sure, but I think she might still be holding a grudge against Grumpy John for “stealing” her prize fish. After all, that was the one that got away. 

I thought my dad was a master fisherman, I guess just because he was my daddy. He used a casting rod in earlier years and then he graduated to a fly rod. I wouldn’t say he had the greatest form, but I sure enjoyed watching him fly fish. He cast out his line, then pulled and eased out the line with his other hand, letting it flow with the rippling river, teasing the fish and luring them to take his bait. Sometimes it even worked.

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He didn’t mind taking us kids fishing – or his grandkids – even though I think he spent most of his time getting hooks out of trees or kids’ hats, or unsnarling a stick we caught. When it was time to go fishing, we were all excited. We gathered up our gear, piled into the back of the truck and headed to the mountains where the fresh streams were home to rainbow and brown trout. Daddy fished those creeks many-a-time. He knew where the good fishing holes were. 

The rule was, “You clean what you catch.” Another rule was, “Bait your own hook.” We would catch grasshoppers or buy a little cup of worms if we weren’t able to dig some out of the garden or from under a rock. I’d bait my hook and some of the worm’s guts or grasshopper brains would squish out. After we caught and cleaned a mess of trout, it was time to eat them. The best fish were fresh and cooked over an open campfire. They were pretty good just taken to the house, battered with seasoned flour, and fried in a cast iron skillet. 

We ate the trout like a sandwich. We held the tail in one hand and the head in the other (unless it had the head cut off). Gingerly, lightly, our teeth sank into the back of the trout. It was so tender the meat slid right off the bones. Yum, yum. By the time we were done, there was a pyramid of intact fish skeletons with tails and heads still attached.

The fishing bug passed down the family tree. My nephew is a master fisherman. He can catch a fish almost anywhere. One year, while traveling out west, we stopped to mine for gems at a roadside stop. We bought a bag of gem gravel and poured some onto a screen. After shaking out the excess dirt, then came the process of dipping the screen in water to wash away the rest of the sediment. We found several sapphires, garnets, and other gems. My nephew shared a bag with some of his family. He shook his screen and dipped it in the water, shaking out the extra dirt. When he lifted his screen, lo and behold, he had caught a fish! No fishing pole required.

In my next stage of life, I plan to take up fishing again. My husband will be joining me. I need someone to get the hook out of my hat or my britches. After all, I did learn some great skills from my daddy. Here’s to you, Man of the Mountains!

I awoke to the soothing song of the ice-cold mountain stream as it leapt from rock to rock on its journey to the plains. Everything else was still. The tent sagged from the moisture that rested on top. It was so quiet I could almost hear each little drop of water that beaded up and fell. I gently pulled back the flap of the tent and was greeted with the sun already smiling as it approached the valley. It was only 5:00 am but the day was anxious to make its grand entrance and shake us from our rocky beds. I emerged from the tent that shook just enough to shower me with the night’s dew.

Soon the fire was started. Flames licked the sky as tiny sparks shot out from the burning wood and flew into the air. A kettle filled with freshly dipped water from the creek was placed near the fire to get hot. Campers emerged from the tents and lean-to, some clad in long johns, some already shimmied into jeans and wiping sleep from their eyes. They backed up to the fire then found a rock or stump to sit on for their first tin mug of hot Tang or coffee.

Rocks that served as burners had already been strategically placed within the fire ring. Before long, our breakfast was cooking. A few Snow Under the Mountain roots were sizzling in the skillet over hot embers. Those were shifted to the edge of the pan to make room for the hotcake batter. Squeeze butter and honey sat on ready to be slathered over fresh hot hotcakes. We ate our breakfast and discussed where our path would lead us that day and whether or not we would have fresh trout for supper. I never depended on that and carried a supply of other supper options. You eat what you catch, you know, and usually that was nothing.

Fresh cool air filled our lungs and our spirits as we packed up our gear and started up the trail edged with bluebells. Some of the path was smooth and carpeted with evergreen needles. Other parts of the trail were rocky, steep, and jagged. Narrow wildlife trails led through alpine meadows donned with lupine, sticky geraniums, harebells, penstemon, Brown-eyed Susans, and an occasional Indian paintbrush among other wildflowers. As we hiked deeper into the mountains, alpine lakes that looked like they were formed from a giant’s footsteps came into view. They sparkled as a myriad of diamonds danced in rhythm with the breeze on the surface of water.

The sun sank lower in the sky, giving the signal to set up camp. We pitched our tents and started the fire to cook the evening meal. It is a good thing we did not rely solely on the fishermen’s skill (or luck). We managed to salvage enough from the campers’ packs to supplement the meager catch of the day. With the meal finished, everything was washed up and food items hoisted high in a tree to avoid any unwanted furry guests. The evening fire was a time for reflection on the days behind us and expectations for the morrow. Retelling of the day’s events grew with vivid animation and laughter. As the fire died down so did our energy. We banked the embers to keep enough spark alive for the morning kindling.

As the last light faded behind the mountains, I bid the day farewell. With a smile of satisfaction, I pulled back the flap of the tent and crawled into my rocky bed as the mountain stream sang its evening lullaby.

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The pictures are from 4 generations

Cross Country (Part Fifteen)

Uncle Buster and Aunt Viola wanted us to stay a few more days, but our time was quickly passing like sands through the hourglass. Our cross-country adventure had taken us many extraordinary places – oceans, canyons, deserts, waterfalls, trees, mountains, caverns, prairies and rainforests, and we met many extraordinary people including relatives. But there were still a few places to go and we wanted more time to spend with our grandmother before heading south.

I didn’t grow up near my Montana Grandmother but every time we went to visit, we just picked up where we had left off. The best place in the house to sit was right beside her on the sofa. She wore a cotton dress with a narrow little belt, thick stockings, lace up shoes, and a sweater. An afghan or two was draped over the sofa to be used for her afternoon nap.  She always had a story to tell about family or friends and neighbors. She would talk a while, then click her teeth together, blink her eyes, and smile.

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Our cross-country trip would not be complete without going “up the canyon.” Our aunt did the driving. We all piled into her truck and headed to the mountains to the old homeplace. Sis and I rode in the back of the truck and held on as we hit bumps and rocks and forded creeks.  As always, we were in awe of the mountains, streams, wildflowers, antelope and deer, and the fresh air. We pulled into the yard and hopped out of the truck. As my grandmother went into the log house, I could imagine her living there with kids under foot and cooking on the old wood cookstove for whoever showed up at her door. Living in the mountains were for people who were tough as nails. They had to be able to survive long winters and make do with what they had. I had great admiration for her. In fact, everyone I knew had the highest regard and respect for her. She was kind, hospitable, giving, loving, feisty, adventurous and forgiving. Plus, she was soft and squishy and cuddly, and had arms long enough to wrap around a kid or two..

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The old cookstove was fed some kindling and a match lit to get the fire going, Sis and I hauled water from the horse trough where the best water in the world flowed out of the pipe that led from the spring. Soon the tea kettle was whistling, and a pan of water was heating for washing dishes. We had our lunch and hot tea at the long handmade wooden table where the family had eaten for years along with lumberjacks, sawmillers, neighbors and friends. After a day in the mountains, we headed back to town. I never tired of going to the mountains. There was always an adventure, even if it were only bumping up and down in the back of the truck or hopping out to open and shut the gates. I don’t recall any time when I didn’t leave the mountains without an ache in my chest. 

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My Daddy grew up in the mountains, but my Mother grew up on the prairies. She loved the wide-open spaces where you could see for miles. We couldn’t leave until we visited the house on Tin Can Hill where my grandparents lived for several years. We never knew how the road would be. Sourdough Road is definitely the road less traveled, riddled with deep ruts and stretches of gumbo when it rains.

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There was nothing to obstruct the view while driving through the prairie. Prairie grass swayed in the breeze and eagles rode on the wind. After cresting a hill at the curve in the road, a house that looked like a miniature was seen in the distance. There was an old barn that was a work of art. An old willow grew behind the house, indicating that there may have been spring. On one side of the house was a row of Russian Olive trees my Grandfather planted as a wind break. The old house, not so regal, still stands, at least on the outside. It has been used for a shooting range, but the old walls of the house still manage to stand erect. Some of the wooden shingles seem to hang on for life while others are held precariously by one little nail. There’s just something special about that place. I can visualize my Granddad’s old truck sitting beside the house and my mom, aunt and uncle on their horses, clothes blowing sideways on the line. 

The trip down memory lane was over. We drank one last milkshake at the old soda fountain in town.  One more night and then we would head home. The night ended too quickly. With one final look at the mountains, our car turned the opposite direction and headed south. 

Part Fourteen

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