The little boy walked alone on the trail home. Shadows lengthened as the sun fell lower and lower in the sky. Even the long shadow of the little boy made him seem like a giant monster. Something lurked behind the trees. Large glowing yellow eyes peered between low hanging branches in the looming evening light. The boy’s pace hastened. No matter how fast he walked, he imagined a monstrous mountain lion matching his stride step for step.
A knot of fear rose in the little boy’s throat. He began to run. Swish. Swish. The noise got louder and louder. Something was after him. The little boy ran as fast as he could. The faster he ran, the faster and louder the noise of the chase. He didn’t dare look behind him, but only kept his eyes focused ahead. Soon he saw smoke from the chimney. He knew home was just over the rise.
He ran through the gate that clanged and clanked as it bounced shut. Just a few more steps and he would be safe. The screen door slammed behind him. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath. Perspiration beaded up on his forehead. He no longer heard the sound of the mountain lion that chased him. There was his mom, apron on, as she prepared supper for a hungry little imaginative boy. He knew he was safe!
The little boy & his Daddy
As he walked to the table, he heard a faint swishing noise. He stopped. Nothing. He took a few more steps. There was that sound again. The noise seemed to come from him. He looked down and realized that with every step he took, his corduroy britches rubbed together. His Daddy wore corduroy britches that went “Swosh, Swosh,” when he walked, but corduroy britches on a little boy sounded like a mountain lion ready to pounce.
Living on the prairies was all the young girl had known. Though the automobile had brought changes to much of the country, life on the prairie remained much the same. She and her sister had to walk to school. The three miles to Knob Hill School was a lot closer than town which was only thirty miles away. Some days in the wintertime as the girls walked to school, a coyote trailed behind them in the snow. In spring and fall, they had to watch for rattlesnakes.
They lived in rattlesnake country. One of the chores the young girl had was to sweep the snakes off the porch and keep the fiery serpents out of the small fenced in yard as well as off the path that led to the outhouse. One day she went to bring the cows in and found a snake that filled the water bucket.
Rattlesnake country
To those who lived on the prairie, a prairie rattler was part of life. It was as common as the angry green clouds that hurled stones of ice to the ground and the winds that caused the golden prairie grass to ripple like waves of the ocean. Rattlers gave a warning signal if an unsuspecting passerby got too close. The hailstorms also gave a warning, as seen in the color of the clouds ready to unleash their heavy load.
The girl’s father grew up on the prairies, too, from the plains of Nebraska and Oklahoma to Montana. He knew how to handle snakes. *He claimed he could grab a rattler by the tail, crack it like a rawhide whip, and snap its head off. His youngest sister verified his story and said she saw him do it on more than one occasion. Had he been able to lasso the hail clouds and cast them back to where they came from, he might have done that, too.
The young girl grew up. She taught at Cavill School, a one room schoolhouse on the prairie. Though she eventually moved from the prairie, the prairie never completely left her.
You might think this is just some tall tale, but I can assure you this is a true story. I’m as sure as I am my mother’s daughter, these events are true accounts in the life of my mother and grandfather.
Though I have never seen a snake on the prairie, I am cautious. I jump at the sound of those little insects or birds that make rattling noises, and I always wear a pair of boots when walking in the tall prairie grass or an abandoned homestead.
My Guest Author today is my Grandfather, as he recounted his tales to my Dad. He lived on the prairies in homestead days. He was born in Nebraska, lived in Oklahoma for a period of time, then the family traveled by covered wagons to the prairies of Montana. He told many a tale of his prairie wanderings, including stories from when he worked at the Long X situated along the Montana Hi-Line.
The Long X outfit moved up from Texas with a big herd of cattle. They ran cattle all over the country and had a number of cowhands working for them. Buster worked for the Long X. Every year there would be a celebration on the Second of May. It was a May Day celebration with people coming one afternoon and not leaving until the next day. Some of them stayed in the new ranch and some stayed a few miles away in the old log ranch buildings. That was where they had their dance. All the young bachelors were supposed to get a gal to bring to the dance. Reynolds Jones didn’t find one. Fred Shoemaker knew someone across the Missouri on the mouth of the Musselshell and swam his horse across. Maybe used a boat to get her back and left her horse on the lower side and had a Long X horse stationed on the other side for her to ride on to the dance.
Buster decided to take a young schoolteacher to the dance. He had to ride 35 miles to get her and escort her back. He had a horse called Skookie Sturgeon because of the way he acted in the water. He sank to the bottom most of the time.
It took the better part of the week to get the school marm to the two-day celebration and back to the ranch. The weather was cloudy. It began to rain, and the rain was mixed with snow. Most of the crowd hung around a couple of days longer so it was a three or four day affair at the best.
One of the party goers was One Eyed Stuart (Young Granville) whose sister issued him an allowance on a monthly basis to keep him from blowing it all at one time. One Eye wore a patch where a horse had kicked his eye out. He had a college education but was a real roper and cowhand who always caught branding calves by two hind feet at the same time. He liked to drink and gamble. At the celebration Buster counted his losses, but One Eye lost two hundred dollars at the poker part of the party.
Buster was due to lose more ‑ after the celebration. He had to leave early. The teacher just had to get back. Buster hesitated when the snow was flying, but decided it was getting safe weather to travel. He tied his new suit on behind his saddle and started back with the teacher. When they got to Telegraph Creek, it was running high and wide.
Buster put the teacher on the best horse and slapped his saddle on Skookie Sturgeon. The teacher crossed fine, but the Sturgeon got halfway and went to the bottom. Buster ended up swimming. The horse drowned and floated down the creek. The new suit and saddle were later retrieved from an island where the horse washed ashore.
A replacement horse rammed something in his foot and the teacher and Buster had to finish their journey riding double and towing a lame horse.
The teacher said, “Buster, you’re not safe to go out with,” and she didn’t go with him again.
The celebration was sort of a washout. Buster said he lost a week’s work, his horse, a new suit of clothes, and one of the best girls he had dated.
When my mother set up a burial fund through the funeral home, my daddy didn’t. I figure he thought he’d live forever. Not long after that, my mother’s fund was cashed in. Daddy became my sidekick – for almost twelve years.
Even though I suggested he change his will and make final arrangements, he kept putting it off. He finally decided it was a good idea when he understood his procrastination would put an extra burden on me.
When I asked who he would like to preach his funeral, this man, who had preached for 50+ years, said, “I don’t want a preacher.” Okay – well – that didn’t help much. “Whatever you decide will be fine.” I really didn’t like that burden of responsibility so let it slide for the time being.
The Man of the Mountains with his two oldest kids
One morning in January 2018, I gave the Man of the Mountains an assignment. I said, “Daddy, I’ve decided on a preacher for your funeral.” He looked at me a bit puzzled since he had already told me more than once that he didn’t want a preacher. “Who is it?” I paused a second and said, “You.” His eyes lit up, he got a great big smile and he chuckled that chuckle of his.
I told him I’d keep it a secret. Not even the family would know who was to speak at his funeral. He laughed. “I can say, ‘Hey, I’ve been asked to do a funeral for this old man and I know him better than anybody else.” He jiggled as he laughed, “He got old in a hurry and it was because of the company he kept. He had sisters to bring him up – his older sister,” he paused, “and his younger sister made a contribution towards bringing him up because she’d kick his slats in if he got out of line. He respected her!’”
One of these girls “kicked his slats in”
After a period of several weeks, in between many days when he could barely breathe, I recorded him telling stories of his life, his family and his ministry. Little did I know at the time that in three short months his family and a congregation of friends would be watching and listening to him preach his own funeral.
This morning as I rocked on the front porch and listened to the recording of the above conversation, I couldn’t help but chuckle a bit myself. Hearing his voice again brought back many remembrances of the sheer joy of spending time with him. We shared one last secret.
His words brought laughter and tears. He didn’t need a preacher.
A bit of history from the writings of my Guest Author, my Dad
“The good are always merry, Save by evil chance, And the merry love to frolic, And the merry love to dance.”
The earliest Melville I knew had a store, an old hotel, a tin barn, saloon, blacksmith shop and some 6-8 dwellings. The tin barn served as a dance hall and service center. Its basement was used for the dance supper. I remember it only faintly. When Stanley Hansen’s tin shed saloon burned down, he built a regular dance hall. It was a log building in the Northeast corner of town, just north of where the hotel had stood. A Delco light plant furnished the power for the lights in the saloon and dance hall. A gasoline explosion beside the Delco burned this building to the ground. Sometime, before this, two different Melville stores had burned down. One was next to the Allman home. It had a sizeable basement and Victor Allman bought the burned building. He used the basement to hold the trucking equipment for his hauling business. Then he built a dance hall on the upper part of the burned-out building.
This photo of Melville had the date of 1910 written on it
The Melville dances I remember were held in the Allman Hall. Admission was a dollar. In my first high school years, music was furnished by George Tronrud, Sr. on a fiddle; his daughter Bernice, on the piano; young George or Morris on the drums; and sometimes young Adolph with a clarinet. Later Beans Tronrud (Morris, Jr.) took over the Tronrud orchestra. Beans was a great pianist and could have done well in the music profession.
the last Melville dance hallthe dance hall is no longer standing
Melville dances were promoted by the Melville dude ranchers – especially the Harts, Van Cleves, and Donalds. The dude ranchers shared in dance promotion but not the clean up after a dance. When Janice Allman got tired of fixing dance suppers and listening to the noise of the dances, Vic Allman closed the dance hall. Then, Bob Hart held some dances on the Hart Ranch. At one of them, the youngest son of the United States Secretary of Army swam the length of the Hart swimming pool with his “go to dance” clothes on.
My father called the dances “Melville Hops.” Sometimes he hopped too much, and Mother drove home. One time Jimmy Hicks celebrated too much and sang, “Kimono, Kimono, the wind is blowing round my knees. Kimono, Kimono, if you don’t find me soon, I’ll freeze.” (This was an adoption of a song entitled, “Ramona.”) When he said, “Kiss me Virginia,” to my cousin it was time to go home. He opened the pole gate above Rein’s house, fell down, and lost the change in his pocket. The next day Mama found 57 cents and kept it for driving him home.
When I reached high school age, a Melville Hop on Saturday in the Dude season was a good social endeavor. I learned to dance “Put your Little Foot” – not as good as my uncle and aunt – Ed Brannin and Julia Cannon – but passable for a Melville Hop. I also liked Schottisches, Square Dances, Circle Two Steps, and Tags.
Some of the dancers built reputations that led to unofficial nick-names. One was “The Galloping Swede.” He was a speedy dancer that galloped his partner around the perimeter of the dance floor. He pumped out the rhythm with his left arm like he was manning a pump for a fire brigade. My wife, Jean, was one of his favorite dancing partners.
Dancing the Schottische in the kitchen
Another, a younger fellow of barely High School age, was “Backing Up McClure.” He danced all over the floor, backing up and bumping into people. He liked to navigate with my little sister, Mary Jane. Maybe he danced with his eyes closed.
World War II took me away from the Melville Hops. Shortly after that the American Legion built a Hall in Big Timber which is still a social center for community activities. None-the-less, the Melville Hops might still be going on if Bob Hart had not lost his life. After that people went to Big Timber, Harlowton, the Wild Rose School House, and the Legion Hall.
(P. S. I don’t know how wild Rose was, but I heard that her school house was a good place for Saturday night’s fist fights.)
There was a sense of slight unrest in the halls of the Romanesque Revival Victorian mansion as if there was some unfinished business. The faint silhouette of the Copper King mogul sat at the ornately decorated dining room table. The landing of the wide red carpeted stairs was lit by a prism of color reflecting through intricate stained-glass windows. Each room’s décor pointed to the period and style of the Victorian home. History came to life as story after story revealed the characteristics of those who once lived in the lavish rooms. Guests who spend the night in the mansion have a more authentic experience of the life and times of the rich and famous in that era as they get pulled into the historical vortex. It’s easy to sense and imagine the scenes that could have gone on in the household of this wealthy elite family.
Stained Glass WindowsOne of the rooms in Copper King Mansion
The scene was much different in the old western historical inn along the Upper Missouri River. It was the gateway for pioneers traveling to the great Northwest. People of all kinds walked through those doors. Stories are told of the inn being haunted which helps bring the imagination alive. The view from the top of the richly colorful stairway offers a view of the lobby below. Looking down, I could almost see shadows of the past as faint figures of women wearing button up boots, poofy dresses and feathered hats walked by. The door slammed silently as ghostly shadows of men wearing bolo ties, cowboy hats and boots with spurs that jingle entered the room. I thought I caught a glimpse of an old Indian in full head dress sitting on the bench along the wooden sidewalk just beyond the window. Maybe it was just a puff of smoke from a man’s pipe. Weary travelers just arriving from the boat ride up the Missouri merely sought a place to rest and have a meal as they waited to load the wagons headed further west over the rough wild country. Other guests, more elite, drinks in hand, mingled at the back of the inn along the river.
Lobby of the Grand Union Front desk
These aren’t just the stories of others. Rather, I find their history intertwined with my own. The Copper King was an acquaintance of my Great Grandfather. He was a frequent guest at the hotel in Virginia City that was owned by my cousins. One family story is that the “Copper King” was sponsored as a candidate for entrance into the Masonic order by either my Great Grandfather or one of the cousins who owned the hotel. After his acceptance into the Masons, he forged relationships that were instrumental in his climb to fame, wealth and shrewdness. Years later, my Great Grandfather went to visit the Copper King who refused to see him or even acknowledge him in any way. Maybe that’s why I had a feeling of unrest in the halls of the Copper King’s mansion.
Another part of my history of that era was that of Mary Furnish, my 2C2R (second cousin twice removed). Her sister, mother and stepfather were among the group of Brannin relatives that traveled to Montana in 1864 (along with my Great Grandfather, Aunt and other cousins). Mary could not make the trip because of illness. The following spring, she headed west to Helena bringing with her the furniture and Steinway piano. She traveled by boat up the Missouri River. The boat could go no further than Ft. Benton, Montana. From there, travelers had to continue their westward journey by wagon. I have little doubt that Mary Furnish entered the very doors I went through as she stepped into the old Grand Union Hotel.
Grand Union stairway
I love to stay in old historic inns or homes that have been preserved to their former glory. It’s not so much the buildings but the foundations upon which they stand – the history and the stories, some of which are woven into mine. It’s easy to be transported to a different world and imagine how it must have looked. Even the sounds come to life. As I think of it, I remember that some of those scenes are even from my childhood – bowlegged cowboys with their spurs reflecting in the sun and Indians along the boardwalks of Western towns.
Whether it’s preserving the past and keeping our history alive, or those things from my memories, each causes my heart to skip a beat.
My Guest Author today is my Dad in his recounting of the Logger’s Cabin
Ours was the last place on the Sweet Grass, and then a logger’s cabin was built on the Forest Section about three-quarters of a mile west of Gommie’s Lake and maybe a quarter of a mile beyond Ward and Parkers’ boundary fence. The cabin was located down under the hill below the road. It was put up in the fall or late summer and was right next to the steep bank that led up to the road. Billy Briner and two Reynolds boys from Melville were the first residents. They had a log contract for two dollars a thousand feet. That would give them more than a dollar a day for each one, which was a dollar more than they could make any place else in those depression days.
There hadn’t been much rain or snow for two years, but after they moved in snow started falling. The wind blasted out of the northwest, and the snow blowing out of the trees made it so a person couldn’t see more than fifty yards. The temperature dropped below zero and the Reynolds brothers got homesick for downtown Melville and home cooking, and besides, they knew that when October came, they could get some really bad weather. They moved back to town and Riley Doore became their replacement.
Riley was a good worker, a good storyteller, and a passable cook. He had anti-freeze in his veins and wasn’t afraid of bad weather. Besides that, he needed a job. The round-roofed cabin was well protected from the wind, and it faced the south. This suited the needs of Briner and Doore as they reduced forest service trees to ten, twelve, fourteen, and sixteen-foot logs. They were allowed to scatter the tree limbs, but the top of the tree stumps had to be no more that fourteen inches from the ground. This caused trouble because the snow lay about two feet deep. But like Mother asked, “What can you expect if you work all winter back in the wilderness?”
Riley Doore and Billy Briner batched all winter in the cabin. Sometimes they hiked the mile and a half down to the sawmill or the next two miles to the Brannin Ranch where Anna Doore hung out. They seemed to enjoy a woman cooked meal.
Winter wore the lumberjacks down, but, worse luck, that year spring came. The water in the Sweet Grass rose, and a fresh water spring creek sprung up beside the bank. The hole, which was dug under the cabin floor for potato storage, became filled with water. They had to wade to get to the cabins’ front door. And it was worse on the outside. The cabin had to be moved to higher ground about thirty feet away.
Another set-back, when the snow melted those fourteen inch stumps were two or three feet high and had to be cut off again. It was like sawing the trees down twice. You couldn’t blame Riley for deciding that Van Cleve’s Lazy K Bar offered a better way to make a living.
That summer the Forest Ranger marked more trees. Another logging crew was needed. Two young Swedes came down from Canada. They were tree cutting dynamos who thought that the severest winter was like a Canadian spring.
When Pearl Harbor was bombed, the available log cutters went into the army – all but one. He became known as Bunyon. He worked alone with a Swede bow saw. Suspicion had it that he was dodging the draft. Some time, in the warring forties, he left for parts unknown. Barney Brannin built a cabin for Bunyon. It is the one between Brannins and our place.
A bald-headed man took up a homestead in Northern Montana west of where the Musselshell and the Missouri meet. The man called himself “Beetlehead”. When the year 1920 rolled around, he was getting up in years – about fifty. He had never had a hair on his head, and he had never married. Other men might ride fifteen miles horseback to go to a dance at a country schoolhouse and meet young ladies. Beetlehead went for other reasons. He’d rather fight than court.
“Ain’t nobody can whip Old Beetle,” he boasted. “When I get a challenge, I just duck my head in between my shoulders and plunge in headfirst.”
But one day Beetlehead met his match! A woman! He got married.
“How did a thing like that happen?” Bee Knapp, a neighboring homesteader and bachelor asked.
“It’s on account of Blood Pudding,” Beetlehead replied. “Old man Johnson comes by every time a fellow butchers and gets a bucket of blood. He takes it home and his wife cooks up a batch of pudding.”
Knapp nodded.
“Well, I went home and tried that blood pudding. Made me feel ten years younger. Felt so young I proposed to his daughter and she accepted.”
Bee Bell Knapp went back to his homestead shack and thought things over. Whether you live in the mountains or on the prairies, marriage is one of those things that’s catching. The marriage virus was going around. Bee Knapp had escaped it for thirty years, but in 1926 it caught with him. Twenty years later, I caught the marriage virus. Mr. Bee Bell Knapp became my father-in-law. A person never can tell where the virus will strike next.
My Guest Author today is Aunt Ellen via a manuscript written by my Daddy in which this poem was featured.
note written by my Daddy: Here is a note from Ellen in January of 1944. The flu bug was going around in the Crazy Mountains. Here’s a piece of her poetry: I have left the punctuation and spelling the same.
The first time Pa got the flue T’Was January the Twelth Up to that time He enjoyed perfect health He would work and he would cus And he would wallow the snow And travel the ridges Where the south wind does blow.
Oh he is tough And he is wiry Always on the go Up in the hills In the ice and snow With four kids and a wife And an axe and a saw That cussing old fellow My lumberjack Pa
Two weeks have gone by But dear father is not dead He coughs and he sputters And has pains in his head His bones almost rattle His eyes almost glaze As he suffers around in a kind of a daze
The next time I see him Will be early spring He’ll be pulling the saw Making an axe ring The logs will be rolling The river up high The hole outfit busy And the flue long gone by.
written by Sister Ellen
Poppy & Sister Ellen
The Influenza Epidemic of the Winter of 1943-44 in the United States: A Preliminary Summary Public Health Report, September 1, 1944, Dorothy F. Holland & Selwyn D. Collins
The influenza that hit the mountains of Montana was part of the influenza epidemic in the winter of 1943-44. “An outbreak of a mild type of influenza started in Minnesota and the Great Lakes region about the middle of November 1943.” “The epidemic spread eastward to New England, the Middle Atlantic States, and Kentucky, Virginia, West Virginia, Delaware, and Maryland, outbreaks being reported subsequently in the Mountain and Pacific States, the Southeast (Central and Atlantic) and, finally, in the West South Central States.” “ The disease in the epidemic “were the sudden onset, moderate prostration, ever and general pains, followed by marked weakness. The duration has been variously reported as between 3 and 5 days. As a result of the characteristic short duration of the illness, the term “lightning” influence was used in newspaper reports of the epidemic in England.” “The excess mortality associated with the epidemic resulted from the high incidence of cases rather than a high case fatality rate.”
I crawled up in the chair and squeezed in beside the little man. In younger days, I would have plopped down right onto his lap. He looked over at me and gave a weak smile. His chest rose and fell sharply as he fought for every labored breath. He had only been on oxygen for a short time, progressing from a nightly routine to a valuable lifeline. Still, he struggled to breathe. The pneumonia filling his lungs was slowly drowning him. Antibiotics couldn’t even touch the rampant infection that threatened to take control of his body.
It was evident the little man was uncomfortable. He could find no rest whether lying in bed propped up or sitting in the recliner. He had gone with us months earlier to select his recliner. The requirement for the perfect chair wasn’t a matter of comfort. It had to be the right size for one little man and one little girl who brought him a smile and shared his blueberries every morning. That little ray of sunshine was a miracle worker. She brought him life – gave him something to live for.
There was something special going on that day – a birthday celebration. Several family members were already gathered, some came to visit the failing little man, and some came for the birthday party. We all buzzed in and out of the bedroom where he lay in the hospital bed. I took his hand and chatted a minute or just rubbed his little face when I checked on him. Sometimes I just sat by him and held his clammy hand in mine. His words were few. It took too much strength to even try to talk. In fact, it was almost impossible to say anything between gasps for breath. He tried to muster up a smile, his eyes darting back and forth, as oxygen was depleted from his lungs.
Earlier, my daughter had suggested that I had not given him permission to “go on.” Well, I had, but said I would give him permission again. I suggested that she do the same thing. She looked a bit sheepish and made her way to his side and gave her consent. And then, as I sat with him in his chair sharing just a quiet moment, our eyes met. His eyes held a steady gaze. I rubbed his little hand that was in mine and said, “Daddy, it’s okay if you want to go on now.” He gave me a smile and his eyes twinkled a bit. My eyes twinkled a bit, too, but it was because they held tears that began to spill over. I told him, “Daddy, I will miss you.” He whispered, “I will miss you, too.” “I love you, Daddy.” “I love you, too.” That was about all he could muster. Though the words were brief, they forever hold a place in eternity and in my heart.
More times than I can count, the little man had said his goodbyes. For almost twelve years, after my mother’s death, he tried to check out. Every time he was sick, and often when he wasn’t, he said, “I won’t see you in morning.” I would roll my eyes and say, “Sorry, but you will see me in the morning. That just isn’t your choice. When God says it’s time for you to go, then you can go. Until then – same song, same dance.” As time approached for a little girl to turn three years old, the little man promised that he would stick around for her birthday celebration.
That day had come. The tables set up outside, spread with birthday cake, snacks and drinks, were in full view from his bedroom window. Everyone filled his room and we sang “Happy Birthday” to the birthday girl. He managed a slight grin and a slight movement of his hand as if he was mustering the strength to raise it. That was a familiar sight. I had been with him numerous times, as a child and as an adult, to visit parishioners at home or in hospitals. At various times during the visit and before we left, he raised his hand and pronounced a blessing on them. It seemed as we were all gathered around his bed, he was sending himself off with a blessing. Maybe the blessing was for him, but I believe it was intended for all of us as a blessing and a goodbye. It wasn’t long before he seemed agitated. I could tell the crescendo of the chatter bothered him. I suggested everyone leave the room so he could rest. After we left the room, I sneaked back in and just sat with him.
Someone came and delivered a larger oxygen tank and increased the level. I was called out of the room. Reluctantly, I went out the door. I was only gone about two minutes or so. When I returned, there was no sound of labored breath. His chest did not rise and fall gasping for air. His hands were slightly crossed, his glasses laced in his fingers. He was at complete peace. I touched his hand, then his face, and knew that life had left his body. I had wanted to be with him when he left us, but he waited until I stepped out of the room. I needed a deep breath myself before calling the others. It was okay for him to go. He had kept his promise to a little girl.
We celebrated life that day – the life of a little girl and the life of a little man who was endeared by all. Life and death were intertwined in the lives of those two who were the best of buddies. He was invited to another celebration that day. He stepped over the threshold and was met by loved ones and friends. I wonder if they gathered around him along with a choir of angels and sang, “Happy second birthday in heaven” as he raised his hand.
Two years have passed since that day and not a day passes without thoughts of him going through my mind. There are so many things I still want to tell him, so many songs and stories to hear, and so many questions I want to ask.
