Some people have strange looking noses. I know a boy named Ivan whose nose comes down right out of his forehead. One of my cousins has a new baby. Its’ got a tiny button nose just above some baby lips.
The author’s Mom. Doesn’t her nose look smart?
But I want to tell you about my mama’s nose. She has a very smart nose. Yesterday she said, “My nose itches. Someone’s coming with a hole in their britches.”
Sometimes her nose itches when she is washing dishes or peeling potatoes and nobody is coming. But, just then, the dog barked.
Someone on a black horse was riding into the yard. The man was leading another horse loaded with flour and rutabagas for a person who is herding sheep way back in the mountains. The man is called a “Camp Tender.” That means he is a traveling grocery man. He takes salt, bacon, and rutabagas to the sheepherder every week.
This keeps the sheepherder happy. Then the herder takes good care of the sheep and tells the camp tender where to catch a big fish.
The man on the black horse stopped in front of the house. I told him, “You’ve got a hole in your britches.”
He stared at me with both eyes and asked, “How did you know?”
“My Mama told me,” I said.
He just shook his head and rode his horse on up the road.
I walked back in the house to tell Mama that her nose was right. But she was still rubbing it.
I looked down the road again, and I saw Uncle Sparky coming. He walks very slowly. His right foot points straight out sideways. When he turns around to see how far he’s come, he is already half turned.
Uncle Sparky wears very holey britches.
Mama’s nose knows.
Uncle Sparky and the author’s Mom whose nose knows
Please allow me the liberty to imagine how Guadalupe may have felt as she took one last look at her home on Sapillo Creek. I have only met her through the treasure chest of stories passed on to us by our ancestors as well as the values and examples lived by her children.
Apache Hill, as they called it, rose from the valley floor where the Brannin Ranch stood. The wagons were loaded and as they made their way up the hill, Guadalupe looked back at the ranch below. She shuddered a bit. With a clear vision and the taste of fear, she could almost see the Apache scouts riding down the hill into their yard. Though that had happened years before, it was a day that lived in her memory and evoked a longing for the place of refuge she sought. She could still see little son Dick run out of the house, blonde head bobbling on the wiggling little boy. The other children had dark skin, thick black hair, and black eyes to match, but Dick had the coloring of Guadalupe’s father, called “Goldie.” That day, the braves she had provided with food stopped eating at the sight of the little gringo. “He Texicano!” They would lift his scalp!
Guadalupe’s Spanish blood and a mother’s fierce protection immediately went into action. In spite of her fear, she reacted instinctively, “He is mine. He is like my father!” That was not a lie. By the looks of Guadalupe, she could pass for an Indian. When they questioned her parentage, she claimed to be the daughter of Old Chief Victorio, a revered Apache chief. That was enough for the braves! There were stories that Victorio wasn’t an Apache but had been a little Mexican boy taken by the Indians and raised as an Apache. The Indians, known to detect a lie, believed her story. The scouts said no one would bother their place or their family again. At that, they mounted their horses, rode off and true to their word, the Apaches never bothered them again though they passed often and sometimes camped nearby.
As the horses disappeared in the distance, Guadalupe’s knees went limp. It may have been out of fear, but there is a chance it was because she told a lie.
That incident was not the first encounter they had with Indians, nor the last. On one occasion, Guadalupe ran to escape being seen by an Indian brave. She and little Ed, age two, went in search of her saddle pony. She walked up the bank and not more than thirty feet away, an Indian chewing a cornstalk sat on a rock, finger extended in front of him, counting freight wagons across the mesa. Turning quietly, she grabbed the little boy, put her hand over his usually talkative mouth, whispered, “Indians,” and fled back to the settlement where they were staying while the menfolk were gone. When she reported to one of the men left to guard the families, he said she had to be mistaken. Surely an Indian would not be so close to the settlement. He went to investigate only to find the remains of a cornstalk, horse tracks, Guadalupe’s footprints, moccasin prints near the rock where the Indian sat, and the imprint of the butt of his gun.
The Brannin family won the respect of the Apaches. The Indians camped on their property from time to time and occasionally even stayed a few days. Once when they were camped, they decided to cut their hair. Some of the braves went to the Brannin cabin and asked to borrow scissors. They brought the scissors back and before long another came along and asked to borrow them. It seemed as if all of them had made it to their door, but they always returned the shears. Surely just the thought of that brought lighthearted amusement as Guadalupe thought back to that time.
Not only did Guadalupe earn their favor, they also had great regard for the patriarch of the family. He was known to be fair and generous with them. One morning, he heard the Apaches were coming through. It is said that Victorio, the chief, and his son Nana were among the number as they were being escorted through the country by an Indian agent. Stanton rode out to check the herd of cattle when he heard a shot. He spurred his horse and galloped in the direction of the sound. One of his three-year-old steers lay on the ground kicking. He put the steer out of its misery as ten Apaches popped out of the brush. A young brave admitted to the deed saying he didn’t know there were any ranches nearby and thought he would get some fresh meat. The agent was furious, but Stanton told them they could have it. He had meat hanging at his house and couldn’t use anymore. That one act of kindness went a long way and earned him the title of being a big-hearted man. In a country where many families suffered loss of possessions or life, the Brannin family was spared. They didn’t treat the Indians as savages, but as people without a home.
As the wagon wheels left tracks behind in New Mexico Territory, Guadalupe’s hope of a place of refuge drew closer. Maybe as she took a final look, her mind was flooded with thoughts of the place they called home for many years. She didn’t leave everything behind for she carried those memories with her, moments that had quickly turned into heroic memories. Though she faced other hardships and loss, she did not face them alone.
The story of Guadalupe’s only lie as recorded in family history along with a plethora of other memories continues to echo through the years as it travels from generation to generation. Now, we are responsible to share the family legacy.
Sometimes, someone comes along and joins a family though there is no blood relation. Such was the case with Ernest. He needed a family and a family needed him.
Ernest was born in Illinois in the spring of 1877 to Louis and Sylvina Toland Parker. His parents divorced a few years later, and he was sent from one relative to another. When a cousin headed west in 1888, eleven year old Ernest went with him. My mother’s heart breaks at the thought of him being cast aside by family to face the hardships and dangers of the trail. Crossing the country in the 1800’s looked a lot different than today.
The cousins made their way to Chehalis County, Washington. Ernest stayed with the Keiler family. Ten years later in April of 1898, he enlisted at Camp Rogers, Tacoma, Washington, to serve in the Spanish American War. He had a narrow escape when his horse was shot out from under him, and even survived drinking water from which maggots were skimmed off the top. His discharge came in March of 1901 in San Francisco.
Ernest on the left
Upon his return from war, Ernest worked in the timber business in Washington. He is listed in the 1910 census in Thurston County, Washington as working in a sawmill. He reunited with his brothers and spent time farming with them in Milton, Kansas. Still, he did not find a place to settle down and call home, that is, until he found his way to Montana.
He first landed a job with Leo Cremer in 1913. From there, he worked on the Blakeman ranch where he met the little Englishman, Bud Ward. The two became fast friends, business partners and family. It is said that Ernest, “studied a map of Montana, saw a spot where mountains circled valleys like a horse shoe, put his finger in the middle of the circle and said, ‘By the Great Horn Spoon – that’s where I’m going to live.’” He did and discovered a place called home.
Ernest was more than just a partner to Bud. He was more than the resident of the bunkhouse, he was family. Just months after forming the partnership in the Ward & Parker Sawmill, he was initiated for baby duty. In March of 1917, little Jack decided to surprise Bud and ‘Niter and make an early appearance. Even though the snow was up to the roof of the house, Ernest was sent to the ranch to get Granny Brannin. They had to cut steps into the snow in order to get out. Though the ranch was only two miles away, it took quite some time for the journey. It was the next day before Granny was able to get there. By that time, tiny Jack was sleeping in a tiny shoe box near the stove.
War broke out again and Ernest, along with Bud, enlisted for duty in World War I. Enlisted at Ft. George Wright, Washington on November 29, 1917, Ernest was assigned to the 20th Engineers. His years of working in timber and sawmilling was a needed skill. After being discharged, he headed back to the mountains that called his name. His home was with the Ward family.
Ernest was the one who taught “Niter” to cook and filled in when she was sick or away. When the kids came along, he got the title of babysitter. He even taught little Barbara her first words, “Shut up.” In all fairness, it was because he had the duty to calm the little tyke down when she had colic. Ernest laid the little girl on her belly across his lap, patted her, and said, “Shut up Squall cat.”
The place up the canyon was always busy with comings and goings. As he worked, whether it was firing up the steam boiler at the sawmill, doing chores, herding kids, or whatever, it was done with vigorous whistling accompanied with colorful language that painted the wind.
He attacked life with vigor. One time the bunk house was plagued with bedbugs, no doubt brought in by some of the lumber haulers who often bunked down for the night. Ernest lit smudge pots of sulphur. All that did was make the bedbugs mad and hungry. He said, “Now that’s the Devil to pay and no pitch hot.” He got just as mad at those bedbugs. He closed the windows, filled the crack under the door and threw more wood on the fire. Throughout the morning, he left the steam boiler at the sawmill and headed to the bunkhouse to add more fuel to the fire. The plan worked. After the bunkhouse roof burst into flames, the bedbugs raised their white flag in surrender. Ernest won that war!
Ernest was a member of Sweet Grass American Legion Post No. 19. He served as post commander, district commander, department adjutant and attended several national conventions. He as served as commander of the Montana Spanish American War Veterans.
Though I only saw Ernest a few times, he was as much family as anyone else. He was very fond of my grandmother which was reason enough to earn my endearment. After Bud died, ‘Niter and Ernest moved to town. He lived in the little pink house beside the big house. I remember him always wearing the khaki colored pants and shirt. He was a small man and had wrinkles. I guess the last time I saw him was after he went to live in the nursing home. Through the years, I have heard many tales of him. He left a legacy of giving. He had a heart as big as the whole outdoors. Ernest maintained a special bond with the little “Squall cat” all of his life. An occasional letter to my dad was filled with compassion and concern for others. What a special member of the family!
It is said he was a “hardy pioneer breed who understood how to live life with a zest and twinkle,” and he knew how to find a family.
taken from the Book on Uglies by my Guest Author, Sage Brush
This is mostly a true story, or I wouldn’t tell it.
Most of the girls I know are called names like Missie, or Sissie, or Princess, which is a name that fools people. There are lots of girls with those names. If someone says, “Here comes Missy”, you don’t know who is coming. But if they say, “Here comes The Claw,” you know that Boo is coming.
That is sad.
Mama says we should call her Mary, or even Missie. But Boo is called “Boo the Claw”.
That is a very bad name. But sometimes children do bad things. Someday, I’ll call her another name. If you know why, don’t tell anyone or I’ll say:
Sage Brush with two of his sisters
“Tattle tale, tattle tale. You won’t never get no mail.”
And you won’t.
Did you know why children call her “Boo the Claw?” It’s because she got caught in a fire. One side of her face was left red. There are scars on her arm. Her right hand got burned. She has three fingers left. They are bent like a hawk’s claw when he’s trying to catch a mouse. They are ugly.
Ugh! It made me feel funny the first time I saw it.
Last year there was picnic across the creek from where Uncle Ed lived before he became sheriff and moved to town to put horse thieves in jail.
The girl named Boo came with some of the neighbors. When it got dark, we sat around a bon fire to roast wieners on a stick.
Wieners are really “Hot Dogs”. They get black and crack open. They are very good that way, and you get dirty hands when you eat them.
Some children were sitting on a log. I could hardly see it in the dark, but I found a place to sit. There was a girl that sat beside me. I felt all right because it was dark, and Sister Ellen couldn’t see me.
The girl beside me started talking. “My mama doesn’t want me to put mustard on hot dogs,” she said. “It drops on my dress.”
“My mama don’t care,” I told her. “Mustard don’t count when it’s dark”
“You’re funny,” she said.
Cousin Virginia with mushy eyes
We sat in the dark while Red Mac sang a song. He liked to yodel. Cousin Virginia looked at him with mushy eyes.
Then someone threw a chunk on the fire and sparks flew up in the air. “Look.” The girl beside me pointed to the sparks. “Those are baby stars.”
“Now you’re being funny” I said.
If you’ve been to a wiener roast at night you know that a cool wind makes people sit closer to each other.
“I like to look at the real stars. My sister thinks they have people on them.”
“I have two sisters,” I said. “I think you’d like them.”
“Maybe I’d like you, just a little. You talk to me.”
“You’re easy to talk to,” I said.
“I think you are nice.”
Wow!
I never had a live girl tell me that. Have you?
I reached over and took her hand.
Ugh.
She only had three fingers. But I squeezed them anyway, and she squeezed me back.
It felt good.
For a while we didn’t say anything. She just leaned against my shoulder. She shook a little bit like she was crying.
If I told that I loved her, do you think she would cry more?
But don’t you tell anybody I said this. Remember, tattle tales don’t get mail. And you won’t.
Seventy five years ago the Armistice was signed marking the end of the First World War. By golly, I can remember that day. I was a wireless operator with the 65th Artillery Battalion in north eastern France. Wireless communications played a big part in ordering and controlling artillery fire. We also received communications from the higher command, some of which was sent out from the communications system on top of the Eifel Tower in Paris.
On the 11th of November (1918) I was on the wireless and was the first to hear that the Armistice was signed. I got to spread the good news! By golly, joy broke out! Soldiers started shooting their rifles in celebration. Pretty soon some heavier equipment joined in. Then I got another message. We were ordered to stop the firing. Horse meat had been a part of the army diet. After eating all the cows and half the horses in France, the army had finished their job. They moved us to Brest to the staging area for going home. We boarded a ship and landed in New York. From there a train took me back to the west coast for discharge.
I had picked up some of the mustard gas which the Germans used. It made me decide to keep in the great out of doors after discharge. Maybe that’s why I’ve been keeping good health and have a birthday with 97 candles on it. That’s like blowing out a fireplace.
Guest Author is my Daddy, written Dec 21, 1997 (submitted by my big sis)
The first time I saw Grannie’s kitchen, there was a fire in the black cook stove and something was boiling in a pot. As far as I remember, there was little furniture in the kitchen, just a stove and a cupboard, but the room it was in had six or seven chairs, a table, a bench and deer heads all over the wall. They were in the same room, but the kitchen was just the stove and the cupboard. And, oh yes, a dishpan on a low bench with a water bucket. And most important of all there was my grandmother. She was the same size as the stove and warm and had lots of hugging room and she cooked peedoes on top of the stove. They were sort of a batter bread with maybe some cornmeal in them and you ate them hot with some butter and also sugar.
The real part of the kitchen though was Grannie. She was a cook stove walking around and she made peedoes and we ate them like kittens waiting for a bowl of milk.
There was a well on the back porch, through the kitchen door. A bucket and rope were by the well, and the water was so clear you could hardly see it. When Grannie walked out on the porch to get water, it became part of the kitchen, too.
One time I saw a dead gopher in the well. He was not part of the kitchen and no one cooked him.
In my journey tracing family history, I often come across intriguing individuals or families that transport me into a different era. So it is with the Osborne (aka Osbourne) family. It was through this line that I qualified for membership in the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution).
I wonder what Sarah Wade Osborne thought and felt as her husband, George, and sons stepped onto the path that led to war. To have her husband and older sons enter into military service was one thing, but what about the young sons who joined at ages eleven and fourteen, as well as her other sons in between?
George Osborne was forty-two years of age when the Revolution broke out. The first military record for George and his sons, George Jr., and Thomas are found on a list in a company of Minutemen. Maybe their enthusiasm was driven by compelling love and responsibility to be ready at a minute’s notice to protect their families and towns. Minutemen were civilian colonists organized independently for militia campaigns. The men were chosen for their zeal, reliability and strength. They certainly did not lack in enthusiasm and readiness.
Azuba Osburn Brewer, great granddaughter of George Osborne, Sr
The night of April 18, 1775, Paul Revere, on a borrowed horse, began his midnight ride to alert the colonial militia of approaching British forces. The next morning George and his sons marched to war as other men emerged from their homes to join the ranks gathered to face the enemy. Soldiers and militia forces stood before the British army, and so began the battle of the revolution, with George Osborne and his two oldest sons by his side. Other sons of George and Sarah soon joined the fight. Seven of their eight sons served terms of various lengths throughout the war. Military documents record their places and times of service.
George, Jr. was twenty-one years of age at his first enlistment. He reentered the army in 1780 and served under two enlistments until the end of the war.
Thomas entered the army at age seventeen. He marched with his father on the alarm of Lexington and took part during the entire siege of Boston. Following that stint, he was under General Washington’s command in other battles. While in service on the armed vessel, the Protector, he was wounded, captured, and detained as a prisoner of war. After his release he enlisted on the frigate Deane where he joined some of his brothers. He was transferred to the Alliance and served until the ship went out of commission in March 1783.
Peleg was fourteen years of age when he began his military service in 1777 and served under three different enlistments. In 1781, he enlisted as a marine of the frigate Deane. He, too, was transferred to the Alliance. On December 25, 1781, the Alliance sailed for L’Orient, France, where the passengers Marquis de la Fayette and the Count de Noalles disembarked before the Alliance began its homeward journey. Peleg and his brother, William died at sea on the return trip in June of 1782.
William enlisted with his brothers Thomas, Hugh, John and Peleg on the frigate Deane in December 1781. He was transferred to the Alliance on which he died in June 1782.
Michael served with Colonel Nathan Tyler’s Regiment between July and December 1779. He served another short stint and later in Washington’s army. He was also on the frigate Deane between December 1781 and May 1782.
John was eleven years old when he began his military service. He enlisted as a “boy” and served three times in the navy, one of his tours of duty on the frigate Deane. He was wounded in battle and was listed as “lame.” How his mother’s heart must have hurt as she watched him march out the door of their home.
Hugh was thirteen years of age when he began his military career serving alongside his father in Captain Joseph Stetson’s company of Colonel Nicholas Dyke’s Regiment at Dorchester Heights in November of 1776. He marched again with his father from Pembroke to Bristol, RI. He had the opportunity to serve alongside his brothers at various times as well. While on the Deane, he served with Thomas, Peleg, John and William. Four of the brothers were transferred to the Alliance where Peleg and William died on board. At full stature, Hugh was only 5 feet 4 inches tall.
The Osborne family knew what it meant to sacrifice. They volunteered service to their country to claim freedom and were willing to do what was necessary to protect their families and communities.
Ezra Osborne, son of Hugh
Hugh is my 5thGreat Grandfather, George Osborne, Sr. is my 6thGreat Grandfather.
Living in a horse raising environment favored SOME OF Mother’s expressions. One day when she was “feeling her oats,” a hearing aid man asked her how old she was, she replied, “Look at my teeth.”
Mother in her more feeble days when she was approaching ninety: “Don’t help me. I’ll fall down by myself”
Are you surprised? Then say, “Holy Cow!”
Some words change in meaning when they are passed down from one generation to the next, take “gay” for instance. Once it was a twin to “gayety.” Even the most proper people could get together and have a gay old time.
“Whoopee” was word of great joy, a secular Hallelujah. “Making whoopee” is quite a different term. “Whoopee pants” referred to corduroy pants which made a “whoop, whoop, whoop” sound as you walked.
“Sneakers” were a soft soled tennis shoe that silenced your footsteps so you could sneak up on someone.
Little Sister Barbara, about three years old, held her own physically with a threat, “I’ll kick your slats in.” One time, when she was having a bad time, Daddy tried to comfort her. “Quit fussing and I’ll get you a pinto pony.” She, at three, replied, “Like so much mud you will.”
Ernest Parker used some colorful expressions. He may have picked some of them up while working on a Canadian Merchant ship that went to Japan and China. Others may have been from his early years in Kansas and at lumber camps in Washington State. He said, “By the Great Horn Spoon,” and “Jumped up Jehoshaphat.” A rare happening was “Once in a blue moon.” I’ve heard other old timers use that expression. I think that a blue moon occurred when there were two full moons in the same month.
My father used various quotes and misquotes from The Bible and from Shakespeare. “Blood, thunder, and sudden death” was one of his common sayings. “To horse, to horse,” called someone on a riding task. “Blood of the Lamb,” or “Red eye” might be used at the table if he wanted something red.
Sometimes someone was “just standing around with their teeth in their mouth.”
At one of the Brannin family gatherings, where they ate frijoles and yate, someone might ask, “Pot,(Pat) where are you going?” The answer would come back, “Watta my hoss, whatta you spose.”
A person needed to keep away from a snake with two legs.
In the West, one still hears, a goodly supply of “You bet” and “You betcha. ”
Working with the public for 36 years, I’ve met lots of folks from different walks of life. Living in the South in an area steeped with Civil War history, some of those I’ve crossed paths with boast of great Civil War heritage.
One such sweet Southern lady openly spoke of her love of history. Her Southern drawl was as thick and slow as honey dripping from a cold spoon, and as proper as neatly creased and folded white starched napkins. She was a short stocky lady with a walk that indicated she was someone of social standing in the local societies with which she associated. When I was considering pursuing DAR membership, I asked her about the requirements, and she referred me to someone who could assist me.
Shortly after, she came to my desk one day and told me all about her UDC chapter (that is United Daughters of the Confederacy). An invitation was extended to attend as her guest to their meeting with the intent of trying to get me to join to the UDC.
I looked at the kind Southern lady briefly and mustered up the courage to say, “Ma’am, I don’t think you want me at your meeting. My Civil War ancestors were Union soldiers.”
As she walked away, she didn’t look quite so starched and proper.
Some time later, I applied for membership in the DUV (Daughters of Union Veterans).
