The soldier stood guard over a detail of German prisoners as they repaired a drain field. It was getting close to lunch time when the German liaison officer hurried across the field calling to his fellow soldiers. Smiles broke out on their faces. Caps flew into the air and cheers erupted like fireworks. They didn’t cheer because it was time for lunch, they celebrated because the war was over! Soldiers on every side would go home to their families.
For years after, the soldier had flashbacks of his time in the war, especially on December 2nd, the anniversary of the day he was hit with shrapnel that he carried for the rest of his life. He returned from war, married and had a family.
One day we talked, and I asked if he had any bitterness toward those against whom he fought. He confessed that he discovered some prejudices he didn’t realize he harbored. One way he helped face those feelings was to study the language and the culture. He kept German books and his German bible close at hand.
He recounted the story of an event that made a great impact in his life. After he went into the ministry, he was called upon to serve as hospital chaplain. One day he got a call requesting him to visit a German lady in the hospital. Others had gone to see her, but they could not get past the language barrier. When he saw her and heard her German accent with her broken English, a wave of emotion and prejudice rose up in him. He stepped into the room and spoke to her in her own language. Immediately she was calmed and smiled as she heard words of hope in a language she understood.
In the process of ministering to her, he was the one who was healed of his prejudices. Had he not been through those experiences of war, he would not have been able to minister to the German woman. Had he not been in the position to minister to her he may not have come face to face with that which imprisoned him.
While looking at old photos, I asked, “Daddy, who is this in the picture?”
“That’s my Father.”
“I can’t even see his face.”
“I recognize him by his hat.”
His hat was felt and sometimes had a band around it. Hats identify people. Pipes do too.
My English Grandfather & Uncle Ed
English Grandfather
My other Granddad had two cowboy hats – a felt hat and a straw hat. Cowboys often had an everyday hat and a dress hat. They wore the dress hat on Sundays or special occasions. On that day, their face was washed, a clean shirt put on with shiny pearl snaps, clean jeans, hair combed back to reveal the tan line on their face, and their Sunday-go-meeting hat sitting neatly on their head. You can still go down to the church on Sundays and meet some of those cowboys.
My Granddad ‘s straw hat kept him cooler in the summer
Uncle Ed’s hat didn’t have a wide brim and it sat right on top of his head. Uncle Sid’s hat usually sat cockeyed on his head. Cousin George wears a cowboy hat made of felt and it droops all the way around the brim and rains sawdust on his shirt.
Some hats were neatly creased. Some hats were punched out to make the hat higher. Some had brims turned downward and some with brims turned up and curled. Some had brims straight out. Each one identified the wearer.
My mother wore lots of hats, some not visible to the eye. She wore a chef’s hat, a teacher’s hat, a hard hat, a floppy garden hat, a scarf, a fireman’s hat, a doctor’s scrub hat, a seamstress hat, a referee hat, a cleaning cap, and an artist’s hat. There were some other hats put away in her closet that she wore occasionally. On Sundays, she sometimes wore a pill box hat with netting that hung over the sides. That was her preacher’s wife hat that was held in place with bobby pins.
Though the day was hot, a cool breeze blew across the open prairie taking the sting out of the sun’s rays and scattering tumbling weeds in search of a place to rest. The dirt road stretched for miles connecting the prairie to the mountains. Occasional dusty lanes appeared out of nowhere, like long fingers beckoning us to follow. Rippling fields of wheat sent flashes of green and gold glittering in the light.
Miles of new fencing lined the road that dissected an endless sea of summer wildflowers, prickly pear and prairie grasses. The road quickly turned into a trail of ruts and jagged shale jutting from the dirt that clung stubbornly to hold the stone in place. A line of dust still lingered in the air. An antelope doe and two calves turned and ran as we got near, their white rumps disappearing in the distance.
Over the hill, a row of Russian Olive trees planted as a windbreak years ago lined the grassy drive of the old homeplace. Remnants of the old corral and cattle chute barely stood with most of the fence in ruins. The old yellow house that defied time for so long finally succumbed and fell into a pile of rubble. A lump rose in my throat at the emotion of the moment. Another era seemed to disappear before my eyes.
As the road led up the long slow hill, I dared look back. Remains of the fence and corral threatened to join the other weathered pieces of wood that lay half buried in the tall grass. The scraggly row of Russian Olives dug their roots deeper and stood determined and immovable. Through misty eyes, I saw the house stood tall and strong once again – if only in my memories.
My Guest Author today is my Daddy as he shares memories of his wedding day seventy-four years ago.
Nineteen forty-six was in the aftermath of War. Like lots of reunited lovers, we planned for marriages but not weddings. We asked my sister, Barbara, and Jean’s sister, Betty, to be our wedding party. Then we told Jean’s folks and my folks about the wedding date. Jean’s mother decided she’d cook us a wedding supper.
On the appointed day I dressed in the brown Sears wool suit I’d worn for high school graduation. On the way to town I stopped and bought Cousin Jim’s ‘35 Chevrolet for $300. The transmission had tore out of it, and Jim had abandoned it near the Olsen Field beaver ponds. I hired Chub Fisher to repair the automobile. Then Barbara and I drove up Tin Can Hill to pick up Jean. Betty was going to Normal School in Billings. Jean’s cousin Ralph would pick her up. We’d meet them in Big Timber to get a marriage license and find the Lutheran minister.
Jean and Barbara had ordered three Talisman Rose corsages earlier. When we picked them up there were six instead of three. Betty brought up a gardenia corsage. The bride wore it, and we had flowers to share with the mothers and Jean’s grandma. Ralph was with us to see that the wedding knot was tied right.
And then we ran into a problem. All the ministers had left town. The nearest clergyman was in Livingston.
At that time a marriage license was only valid for the county in which it was issued. We returned to the Sweet Grass County courthouse and I got our money back on the first marriage license I had ever bought. We got another license in Park County fifteen minutes before the courthouse closed. Then we went to the Livingston Lutheran Church.
The regular preacher was on vacation – but he had a substitute from Wisconsin. A telephone call indicated he could legally marry us. We trooped into the Lutheran Church and stood before the altar. “Altar” is a good word, there are few things that can “alter” a person more.
The pastor lined us up. Although Ralph, Barbara, and Betty promised to object, we repeated our vows. The three members of our wedding party failed to keep their promise, and the knot was securely tied.
A balcony was behind us. When we looked around, the balcony was lined with the minister’s red headed children. Six of them. Did they offer the bride and groom a challenge? Perhaps they were a sign of things to come.
* the wedding couple would indeed have six children but none of them were redheaded
My Guest Author is my granddad. He was a kind gentleman. He never met a stranger and never turned his nose down on anyone regardless of color, status, or even smell. Meet “Old Stink” who was one of the many characters my granddad met along his prairie wanderings.
Old Stink earned his name. He lived in a cave in the Little Rockies not far from the mining town of Zortman. He didn’t speak good English. He was probably a French Canadian Half Breed. Rumor had it he had got in some trouble with the law in Wyoming, maybe killed a fellow or robbed a bank or Post Office, who knows, but he seems to have had some money when the mail carrier came by to visit with him. Old Stink had worked for the Flying L and when the old foreman was in charge, he furnished him with staples. Stink had a hide tent in front of his cave, used it in the summer and always slept outside for fear that someone would surround his cave while he was asleep. Never did, he was too old, and you couldn’t get that close to him for the smell. I know. One time I stopped by and saw Old Stink.
One day, after hearing rumors about the old man’s diet, the sheriff came by and asked Stink what he lived on. He pointed to some of the neighbor’s cattle running on the open range. When asked what he did with the hides, he led the sheriff to the edge of a cut bank above the Missouri and pointed to the river. He lived off of antelope, too. The folks didn’t mind his eating their beef. Someone had to keep the old rascal.
One day a rider came by and didn’t see him sitting in the fresh air. He told some of the folks that the old man was missing. They came out and found him in the cave about half dead. They talked over what they should do with him. He couldn’t live 24 hours like he was, but if they got him to town he might last 36. The sheriff came out and got him and put him in a little house behind the jail. The old fellow got so he liked it and he lived on a while. They said he was 101 when he died.
He was an old man, Indian and Frenchman. Strong! Strong smelling feller!
My Guest Author is my Granddad. You’ve heard, and maybe even said, “I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.” That takes on new meaning with this tale.
My brother, Buster, worked for a fellow named Loomis. He had the job of keeping his place one winter while Loomis went back east. The deal was to keep things going until, “You run out of meat.”
Buster moved in and found the flour, salt, sugar, and coffee. The meat was in the meat house. He went down to cut a piece for supper. The carcass was skilled out and hanging high. The hind legs still had the critter’s feet on it, feet with fetlocks and horse hooves! Buster hesitated until his stomach growled. Then he whetted the butcher knife and started cutting steak. His job lasted until the meat was gone. When Loomis came back, he saw me in town and told me, “I’d not do what Buster done this winter. I’m going to give him more than he expected.”
The Montana winter snows that covered the countryside could not cool the spirits of my great aunt and uncle as they rolled into my grandmother’s yard in Big Timber, Montana that mid-March day of 1951. They had their own unbelievable wild tale to tell. How could bushes and flowers of every color imaginable be blooming and flourishing in the south? Nevertheless, they said it was true and that settled it, they were selling out and moving to Georgia.
They found the perfect place to raise cattle and the perfect place to build their home. Driving up the rise to their house, you would think they lived on the Montana prairie. Only a few trees near the house offered a bit of shade. The rest were cleared from much of the land. One could stand of the brim of the hill and see for miles. Like my mom, I think my aunt did not like to be penned in and surrounded by trees. Those prairie girls liked to be able to see wide open country.
one of my favorite pictures of Kenneth next to my mom
Down the hill and within view of the house on the hill was the home of their son Kenneth, one of my mom’s favorite cousins, and his wife. He exhibited some of the same family characteristics as his mom’s family – a big booming voice. When the family gathered, their resonant voices echoed in the great outdoors just as well as within four walls of a room. There was great comfort in being around those folks. Along with their loud voices was deep laughter that gurgled all the way up from the tips of their toes. My, how they loved to laugh! That family characteristic has passed down to some of the other generations of cousins as well.
Cousin Kenneth and his mom, my great aunt
A few years after my aunt and uncle arrived in the south, my parents followed suit. That is where they got me. I think they figured they needed as much help as possible and since Godparents were a custom in our family, I needed some as well. Mama chose her special cousin, Kenneth, and his wife as my Godparents. Through the years our families gathered together on various occasions, for reunions, or just to visit. They always stayed in contact with one another and kept up with the happenings of the family.
me with my Godparents
I recently received word that Cousin Kenneth left on another journey to meet up with family members who have been enjoying the scenery for some time now. He will be greatly missed. He joined the ranks of those who lived before us a life of honor and integrity. May we honor his memory by following suit and continuing to share our rich family heritage. There must be quite a reunion going on with stories and deep resonating laughter unleashed and flowing freely. Oh, the scene that must be! I wonder, who got the first slice of watermelon?
My Guest author today is my Granddad as he recounts tales of life on the Montana prairie. I can still see his face as he told tales of sheepherders. A shadow passed over him as he told of the old sheepherder losing his life, but his whole face lit up when he told about the Cotter brothers.
the storyteller
Charlie Leap was a sheepherder up along the Missouri River in Montana. He hadn’t started out that way, he got in some sort of a jackpot back east and joined the cavalry. They put his outfit out west protecting the builders of the Great Northern Railroad. After the rail line was built, Leap became a cowboy. He had cursed up and down about the people who were bringing sheep into the country. But when he got so crippled up he couldn’t ride anymore, he got a job herding sheep. The sheep in the northern plains came in by the thousands. The Veseth outfit was big into sheep. Some of the cowhands, who used to run their horses through the sheep scattering them every which way, ended up as Veseth’s herders. They didn’t know that the coming of the sheep would be all that would give them a job when they got too stove up to ride.
The Phillips outfit must have had 30-40,000 sheep. Jim Cotter had only four bands. His partner, Marvin Jones, was with him in the business. When the bad winter hit, their herd was almost wiped out. One night they were following the sheep. The wind was blowing snow. They couldn’t see anything. The partner stopped Cotter. “Don’t go any further,” he said. In the dark they knew something was wrong. The whole band had gone over a bluff. By the time the winter was over most of the sheep were gone.
That was the “bad winter.” There were several bad winters. I believe the worse one was ’87. It changed the livestock industry in the Northern Plains. Until then some cattle and sheep herds were wintered without hay. After that the livestock men started making hay while it was summer. The livestock killing winter would long be remembered.
A herder stays with his flock. Sometimes the sheep will leave the bedground on a stormy night. One herder followed his sheep on a blizzardy night. They came to a drift fence. The herder held out one arm and let it ride against the top wire. The arm was freezing and without feeling. He’d raise it up at each post. They found him the next day, frozen to death, his arm sawed deeply from barb wire.
sheep wagon
Jimmy Cotter came over from Ireland. He knew about sheep. He didn’t have any money, so he got a job herding sheep on shares. After a few years the share was doing so good that the boss said, “You ought to be paying me. You’re doing as good as I am. Maybe you better get off on your own.” So Jimmy got a partner and went off on his own. His brother, Mickey, came over from the old country and helped Jimmy.
When Jimmy married the Indian girl that was doing the cooking, Mick moved out of the house. But he still kept working for his brother. One winter, after several weeks being snowed in and running short on supplies, Jimmy sent Mickey to town. That was Malta, forty miles away. When Mick didn’t show up at the end of ten days, I went after him. When I found him, he was having a good time in one of the saloons and saying, “Me brother James will foot the bill.” I think that may have been the same time that Mickey failed to get the groceries. “Me brother, James, gave me sixty dollars for grocery money,” he said, “and I spent eighty of it for whiskey.”
Mickey was quite a herder. He stuck with his sheep during a storm and froze his feet. He lost his toes and the balls of his feet and stumped around on the end of his legs. He managed to get out in public and took in a dance, but he wouldn’t get on the dance floor. A lady by the name of Stella said, “I’ll get old Mickey out on the floor.” She went over to coax him to dance.
He declined the favor. “I can’t do it,” he said. “I’ve lost me balls you know.”
Stella spread the news of why Mick couldn’t dance.
Some of my favorite stories are those my granddad told of his batchin’ days. He and his batchin’ partner, John, traveled the Montana prairies from place to place as they followed the harvest and worked with threshing crews all the way into Canada. Sometimes his brother, my Uncle Buster, was his sidekick. My granddad had a homestead in Phillips County near his uncles.
His tales took us from Sun Prairie Flats to Malta, the Missouri River Breaks, Landusky, Zortman, the Long X Ranch, to Calgary and many places in between. We heard names such as Kid Curry, Pike Landusky, Granville Stuart and Charlie Russell.
Uncle Buster on his homestead
When he first came to Montana, he landed a job with the B D Phillips outfit north of the Missouri River. Phillips had several bands of sheep. My granddad said, “I got on as Camp Tender. Phillips had several ranches that I worked out of. One was the Black Ranch. It was near the Little Rockies up by the towns of Zortman and Landusky.” Landusky was a wild west town just like its namesake, Pike Landusky, who was killed by Kid Curry in Jew Jake’s Saloon. (That was before my granddad was in that part of the country.) My grandfather said, “Kid Curry came in and slapped Pike on the back and floored him with a punch to the jaw. Landusky raised up and drew his pistol but Kid outdrew him. I don’t know if this was the first time anyone outdrew Landusky, but it was the last time. They carried his corpse to boot hill. It is told that Kid Curry left for Missouri where he joined Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid.”
He continued his story, “One old timer I knew had been the corral tender for the Curry outfit. He was the chore boy. He saddled their horses and had them ready for the outfit to ride. One day he said to me, ‘Slim, I want to show you something.’”
“The fellow took me to the barn at the Black place and pointed to a saddle. ‘My saddle,’ the old man explained. ‘I just want you to look at the back of it.’ I looked. By golly it had a bullet hole as neat as a pin. ‘Ever hear of getting your pants shot off?’ the old fellow asked. ‘Part of my job was to drive a team and wagon from one sheep camp to the next. B. D. Phillips had some Swede sheepherders. They were good men who had to have rutabagas.’”
These stories and other tales make Montana history come to life for me. From the time of the arrival of my family into Montana Territory, they have rubbed elbows with those who helped shape the state and have become part of history itself.
One connection was Uncle Buster who worked for a time at Circle C Ranch near Zortman. Circle C was owned by Robert Coburn and his sons, purchased from Granville Stuart, aka “Mr. Montana.” One of the boys was Wallace Coburn. He was a rancher, an actor and author.
Sarah Furnish Redding, mother of Mary Balsorah Redding Logan
Wallace Coburn also had a friendship with Major William Logan who married a cousin of mine, Mary Balsorah Redding, on my father’s side of my family. In 1902, he was appointed supervisor of the Agency of Belknap Indian Reservation on Milk River. The same year, he was given the job of superintendent in charge of road construction in Glacier National Park. The next year, he was appointed the first superintendent and chief ranger for the newly formed Glacier National Park. I imagine some of my family know nothing about this familial connection with one of the greatest National Parks in our country.
Will Logan photo on file at Buffalo Bill Center of the West in Cody, Wyoming
There is another twist of historical note that may well be controversial, disapproved and pretty much disregarded. It is interesting, none-the-less. A small book, The Battle of Little Bighorn, written by Wallace David Coburn as told by Major Will Logan, gives a different view of this battle event in history.
Each of these relationships, no matter how seemingly insignificant, gives an overwhelming sense of the community of kinship that connects us all.
My Guest Author today is my Dad as he shares memories of his Freshmen year at Sweet Grass High School. Go Sheepherders!
My 1925 beginning was in a mountain wilderness twenty miles from a country store, a post office or a telephone. Electric lights were something magic which they had in town forty miles away. My older brother died when I was six years old. I had two sisters, and there were two girl cousins who lived two miles down the road, but the nearest boy my age lived nine miles away. Sometimes, I knew what lonely was.
After seven years and eight grades of education in a log cabin school with a top enrollment of six, I was sent forty miles away to a mind-bending 150 student high school in Big Timber, Montana.
In those days they initiated the freshmen class by marching us down Main Street. The boys were dressed in dresses and the girls in boys clothes. I won the honor as being the best dressed freshman boy in the Initiation Parade. I wore one of sister Barbara’s dresses.
The next day the freshmen were herded up the airport hill to repaint the school logo. “SGHS”. That done we were officially accepted as the Big Timber Sheepherders – except for the “pantsing”, an informal part of high school initiation where Sophomore boys stripped the Freshmen of their pants and hosed them down with that cold Big Timber water. A few favored freshmen had to run down main street to retrieve their britches. I boarded at the far edge of town and missed the pantsing, but the next day the Sophomores caught up to me at the high school and hung me up by my belt on a coat hanger in the hall. A teacher came along and set me free before my first class.
