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First Day of Forever

A Birthday Celebration

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.

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You Must Go On

One thing my Mother taught through word and deed was that no matter what comes your way, you must go on. She faced many trials, made ends meet with meager supplies, managed a tribe of kids, wore many hats, and encouraged our individualism. She also taught us the principle of priorities. Each day I am reminded that life is short.

This is a true story, written in verse, of an event in her young life that spoke of staunch survivalism on the open prairies of Montana. I believe that God called her name that day and gave her the determination to survive the storm. “You must go on!” – and she did time and again….

  • My Aunt & my Mother

Bundled against the wind,
they sent her on her way.
She headed off to school
on that blustery day.

Braced against the onslaught,
wind whipped the blinding snow.
No longer did she see her way –
her distance she did not know.

Icy fingers beckoned her,
drawing her from the path.
She heard voices in the wind,
but ‘twas only the blizzard’s wrath.

She wanted to turn aside,
tired from the storm.
Yet she knew that just over the hill
she would find a fire warm.

Guided by an unseen hand,
urged by a rising voice,
“You must not stop, you must go on.”
There was no other choice.

Pressed to the wind she turned to see
the one who spoke her name.
It was her father’s face she sought –
she thought the storm he’d tame.

“I was not with you child,”
he said as he heard her tale.
He took her in his arms
and stroked her face, so pale.

“A miracle from heaven,”
is all that I can say
for it was her father’s voice
that led her on that day.

Guided by an unseen hand,
urged by a rising voice,
“You must not stop, you must go on.”
Let that be your choice.

sa 2012

Urged by her father’s voice that she heard on the wind, she made it to the neighbor’s house. It was there he found her warm and safe from the storm.

  • My Aunt & my Mother
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Stop, Daddy, Stop!

taken from “Listening for God” by my Guest Author, my Daddy

Sometimes we hear but we do not really pay attention. We lack discernment.

That was discernment that my daddy had.  We lived way back in the mountains of Montana and didn’t go to town often.  When we did it was always an adventure.  

We could be coming home, I’d say, “Stop, Daddy, stop! There’s a mama pig and her babies.” Daddy didn’t stop.

Sister Barbara would say, “Stop, there’s a pinto pony.”  Daddy drove on. 

Then sister Ellen would whisper, “I gotta frow up” The car would come to a screeching halt.

That’s discernment.  

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Hope Grows in Unlikely Places

It was the early thirties and the log business was booming. Fire started in the canyon and swept down the mountainside. The livelihood of the sawmiller’s family was at stake. Could he salvage enough from the burned timber to provide for his family? The Forest Service land that adjoined the family’s property suffered damage, too. The fire kill trees needed to be cleaned up. The Forest Service made an offer to Ward & Parker Sawmill to harvest the dead trees on Forest Service soil. They sawed the trees on three sides and sold them as house logs. The thing is, the fire did not compromise the worth of the timber. In fact, the fire cured timber wouldn’t twist or bow. The heat caused the sap to harden and actually strengthened the trees and made them more valuable. Logs were sold for ranch houses, bunk houses, and other ranch buildings. Hope grew from the ashes of devastation.

  • Sawmill

Fires of adversity, sickness and uncertainty consume us and yet, they make us stronger. Hope rises from the ashes of fear. God’s light shines through the firestorm as neighbor reaches out to neighbor and strangers work together to help one another. It may be someone simply taking food to a widow or a health care provider placing themselves in harm’s way to care for another. Hope often comes in the most unlikely of places and in the hardest of times. Bloom where you are planted.

  • Hope grows in unlikely places
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Bertha – the “Black Dutch”

1918. My grandfather was overseas engaged in World War I. There was another world war raging – H1N1 virus – influenza – Spanish Flu. *“With no vaccine to protect against influenza infection and no antibiotics to treat secondary bacterial infections that can be associated with influenza infections, control efforts worldwide were limited to non-pharmaceutical interventions such as isolation, quarantine, good personal hygiene, use of disinfectants, and limitations of public gatherings, which were applied unevenly.” An estimated 500 million people were infected with the virus, about 50 million succumbed to death, 675,000 of those in the US. 

  • one of the family homesteads

My grandfather lived near the McNeil uncles’ homesteads in Phillips County, Montana. There was another homesteader that lived nearby – Bertha Meyer. There was something to be said for a single lady proving a homestead in that rough country. My grandfather had great admiration for Bertha, called the “Black Dutch,” a title given because of her dark complexion and German descent . To hear my grandfather tell the tale, some of the people looked down on her because she was different. He saw her as a perfect wife for Uncle Al. The matchmaking scheme worked. Al and Bertha had only been married a short time when the country was invaded by Spanish Flu. Even in those rural areas of the plains, there was no place to escape the virus that reached into the darkest recesses of the world. 

This is my grandfather’s account, “I was away in the army when the 1918 flu epidemic struck.  Al and Bertha hadn’t been married long.  Lee was staying with them.  Both Al and Lee came down with the flu.  A few miles away their brother, Uncle Claude, was coming down with pneumonia.  All three died and were buried in Sun Prairie when the ground thawed enough to dig the graves.  In the meantime, Bertha moved down to the folk’s place to nurse Ma and Leone, through the epidemic.  Later Bertha had Al’s body brought to the church cemetery in Malta.” When my grandfather recounted the story, he also added that some of the family didn’t quite approve of Bertha. She rose to the challenge and became priceless to the family and community. Their opinion of Bertha changed drastically after the flu passed. Three of the McNeil boys died, including Bertha’s husband. They all lost much and their lives were never the same.

  • My Great Grandmother with her brothers, three of which died in the epidemic

We now find ourselves being attacked by another enemy – Coronavirus. The past few weeks, mankind has become one people – not in the manner that they are all in agreement – but in the manner that disease is no respecter of persons. The playing field has become level. Old, young, rich, poor, white, black, social standing or not, clean, dirty, famous, unknown – all stand on level ground beside the other, though the older seem the most fragile.

I personally know some people who are sick with high fever, cough, and other symptoms that are shared by thousands of people across the world. I know of a young couple in our corner of the world who have been hospitalized with the same symptoms. None of these have come in known contact with anyone who has recently traveled to a foreign country. 

And I think, as mankind, do we learn anything from this? We usually don’t understand the gravity of a situation until we are directly affected. Be diligent. Be wise. Check on your neighbor. Be proactive. Learn from history. Handle with prayer. Handle with care. Don’t think it can’t happen to you or yours.

You might just be that “Bertha” to someone! Priceless.

  • Bertha, the “Black Dutch”, to the far right

Can you imagine how devastating it would have been had they had the mode of transportation we have today? My ancestors traveled mostly by horseback or wagon.

*CDC

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The Telephone

I am happy to introduce (again) one of my favorite Guest Authors –
my Daddy. The telephone was one of the topics I gave him with the
“assignment” to write a “Book of Firsts.” He shares memories of the
first phone in the heart of the mountains.

Telephones were around a long time before I was. But there wasn’t any such thing in Sweet Grass Canyon. The nearest one was thirteen miles away. The telephone there was a party line connected to neighbors on down the creek toward Melville and Big Timber. When someone got a call, all the phones on the line would ring; however, each family had a different ring. Uncle Ed’s was a long and four shorts. 

The telephones mounted on a box equipped with two bright colored telephone bells at the top front of the box, a speaker sticking out the middle front, and an ear phone receiver on the left side.  There was a ringer mechanism somewhere on the inside of the phone box. The ringer was controlled by a crank handle that stuck out to the right. A person cranked the handle about half a turn for a short ring and a couple of times for the long ring.  The far end of the telephone line was connected to the central station in Big Timber.  A person cranked out a real looong ring to get the operator.  She would answer, “Number please.” Then you would give her the telephone number of the person you wanted to talk to.  

If you were desperate you could also give the Big Timber operator the name of a person or place. Jimmy Anderson’s mama knew everybody in town, and she would connect you. 

When we went to town, we watched the lines on the telephone poles.  There was just one telephone line until after you passed Melville.  Then there was a wire attached to each side of the telephone pole. When you got to Big Timber Creek there were two more lines coming in and the poles had cross arms. 

Some folks in town had a private line instead of a party line.  In town itself there would be telephone poles, cross arms, and wires all up and down the streets.

Here’s some happenings that led to a phone line into the mountains: 

The ladies west of Melville had a community project – finding Loyd Rein a wife. By the early thirties, Red Mac and Buddy Brannin were married, but Loyd Rein was as elusive as a trap wise coyote. And then, in the late thirties Ruth Anderson got asking age, and they married. Then Loyd and Ruth moved to Rein’s upper place on the Sweet Grass just five miles away. They had a telephone line installed.  

It wasn’t until after Gary was born that the telephone was extended the rest of the way into the mountains.  We cut the telephone poles off the forest reserve on the American Fork.  Uncle Gus used Adolph Tronrud’s post hole digger, and we set up telephone poles from Reins to Brannins and to Ward and Parkers. We paid Haas in Big Timber for the wire and the wiring work, and Sweet Grass Canyon had telephones. 

Jean and I had a connection line to Gommy’s house. Messages such as, “Are Lynn and David over there?” became more familiar than Alexander Graham Bell’s words to his assistant, “Mr. Watson, come here, I need You.” 

Although the first telephones were in existence long before I was, there was no such thing as the transmission of pictures over telephone lines or even over radio waves. Our sixth-grade teacher told us, that this was something that would never happen. Even teachers make mistakes.  That ridiculous thing has invaded all our homes! Now we even have cell phones like Dick Tracy had!  

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Pass the Torch

I stood on my tiptoes and tried to peek into my Great Grandmother’s casket, but I was too short to see inside. I tugged on Daddy’s suit jacket and told him I wanted to see her. Mama was nearby and gave Daddy a look that said, “Don’t do it. She’ll be warped for life.” He picked me up. I looked inside and that satisfied me. 

  • my Great Grandmother with her brothers

Though I don’t remember a lot about Great Grandma, I do have faint glimpses that float across my mind on occasion. She was oldest person I knew at my young age. She was born in 1874. At the age of fifteen, along with her mother, grandmother and brothers, she took part in the Oklahoma Land Rush of 1889. At that time her mother claimed to be widowed but in actuality her husband had deserted the family – twice. My Great Grandmother’s grandmother was a Civil War widow who had a “visit” from her husband at the moment he was killed in the Battle of Vicksburg in 1863. I have no trouble envisioning these two “widowed” women along with their children as they raced their loaded wagons into the Great Plains when the shot signaled the start of the rush.

  • my Great Grandmother’s grandmother
  • my Great Grandmother’s mother

The stories of my ancestors have not all been lost to younger generations. I have been fortunate to be in a family of storytellers. They must have understood the importance of passing on their priceless family heritage and spiritual heritage. As a child and an adult, I have never tired of stories of my ancestors. In fact, those stories serve as fuel to keep my love of family history burning. 

Since I knew my great grandmother, touching her life is like reaching back to 1874. That is 146 years to date. In my lifetime, I have touched six living generations in my direct line thus far. I’m amazed when I look back at the people who have shaped my life. I can follow the footsteps of those who went before me; footsteps that led me to where I am today; footsteps that have influenced physical and spiritual attributes; DNA fingerprints that determine looks and various characteristics. I leave footprints of my own as my children and grandchildren follow behind looking into the next generation.  

 I stand in the present with arms outstretched and span the years. To one side, I reach into the past. I can reach back even further through documents and stories that have passed on from one generation to the next. To the other side, I reach into the future. I can reach even further into the future by assuring that family stories and the history of my ancestors are archived for those who follow our footsteps. 

  • Grandfather
  • Mother

If only one person in my direct line wasn’t in place, I wouldn’t be here. What if my grandfather had not lied about his age and gone to war leaving behind several of his family members who died in the flu epidemic back home? What if my parents had not moved south when they did? What if? If any of various factors happened along the way, I wouldn’t be telling my story.  

Don’t let your family story and spiritual heritage be lost. Tell your story. Pass the torch. Span the years.

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Electric Lights

Today my Daddy is my Guest Author again. I had given him the assignment to write about “firsts.” This story is about getting electricity for the first time in the heart of the mountains miles from town.

In the beginning of creation, the LORD GOD said, “Let there be light and there was light.” But not all the time. 

On cloudy winter nights (the adults couldn’t see this) an angel gathered up ALL of the left-over patches of light and stored them in a black bucket until the next morning. The mountains were especially dark and spooky. They were filled with creatures that sneaked through the trees at night.  Outside there was no emptiness because the darkness filled up everything. It opened enough to let you walk through it like the Children of Israel walking through the Red Sea. 

Indoors, it could be nearly as bad. When we were adding a parlor and a bedroom for Mama and Daddy, the new addition encircled an area of darkness which brought a haunt into our house.  That was in the daytime.  At night THERE WERE TWO HAUNTS. 

Sister Ellen braved the darkness to run back into the new addition. She screamed in fright and came back crying. Poor Sister.  She didn’t learn things right away. The next night she would try her excursion again!

The big room that served as kitchen, dining room, and sitting room was lighted by a gas burning Coleman lamp which had flimsy mantles that moths liked to battle. The lamp hung from the ceiling. In other parts of the house we used candles or kerosene lamps that had wicks and smoky chimneys which had to be washed regularly. Luckily for children, at nighttime, we had a candle-lighted indoor toilet which was a bucket we pulled out from under the bed. 

AND THEN! Along about 1929 the uncles built a new lodge and furnished it with electric lights! Their lights only worked when the gas-powered power plant was started and running. However, advances were coming to the Crazy Mountains! Thanks to motivation from the uncles and thanks to Thomas Edison and several decades of development. Our family, living in a log house in the mountains forty miles from a paved road, experienced a first:  ELECTRIC LIGHTS!  LIGHTS ALL OVER THE HOUSE.  And in the shop. At the sawmill. And on both sides of the barn – one set of lights for the milk cows and one for the horses. Before that, in the dark of winter nights, chores were done, and the cows were milked by the light of a hand carried gas lantern. 

Our electric lights came by way of a Delco Remy charger and sixteen glass storage batteries. We didn’t even have to start the Delco generator to get our lights. 

The uncles had electricity and running water in their house. We had electric lights in all our immediate buildings except one. Loretta and Victor had a building like that.  She kept a note on its wall:

This little shack is all I’ve got,
I try to keep it neat.
So please be kind with your behind,
And don’t shoot on the seat.

Ours had a Sears Catalogue and no poetry on the wall. But we had a back-up. In the cold of a winter night we had an enameled bucket under the bed.

  • Outhouse 1975
  • Outhouse 1996
  • The Delco generator house is on the right

Thanks to the beginning of rural electrification, a secondhand power plant had been advertised in the MONTANA FARMER MAGAZINE. Victor Allman hauled it down from Whitehall, Montana – quite a ways across the state. Lowell Galbreath was working for us, and he knew all about wiring houses, cow barns and sawmills. He soldered eight-gauge electric lines with silver solder. And on a magic day – we had lights controlled by pull strings that were too high for a child to reach. The gasoline powered Coleman lamp was put away and the moths went back to sulking in the clothes closet. 

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Sweet Grass Canyon Winter

This was written by my grandfather, Poppy, after a Sweet Grass Canyon winter. He recorded that it took “45 gallons of gasoline in 42 miles of driving to feed cattle.” Poppy made a trip to Two Dot in December, 1916. He arrived home on Christmas Eve. The road couldn’t be traveled by wagon again until May, 1917. In March of that year, there was a home delivery. Jack was born and Poppy was the mid-wife.

You may talk about your winters,
And rave about your snow.
But for the world’s worst winter,
Up Sweet Grass Canyon go.

  • standing on the roof of the house in the winter of 1917

For endless drifts and blizzards,
And everlasting snow,
Don’t go to Nome, Alaska,
But up Sweet Grass Canyon go.

The South Pole and Antarctica
Are just a hothouse plant
Compared to Sweet Grass Canyon
When the weather is on the rant.

For one hundred days successively
You never see the sun.
And when you think it shines at last,
Winter has just begun.

Twenty miles to mail a letter,
Forty miles to go to town.
Ten miles out is the nearest road,
With grades straight up and down.

No telephone, no snowplow –
You’re really on your own.
When you start up Sweet Grass Canyon,
The place that you call home.

  • a typical winter scene in Sweet Grass Canyon

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Two Dot

Two Dot is a cow town in Montana. It got its name from “Two Dot Wilson.” His given name was George R. Wilson. He was called “Two Dot” because his brand was two dots, placed side by side on each hip of his cattle. He donated the land for the town which was founded in 1900 as a station on the Jawbone Railway. It was part of the Milwaukee Railroad system that pulled up tracks in central Montana in the late 1970’s. The little town is somewhat of a Western legend and even made its way into the Country Music world through Hank Williams’ song Twodot Montana. In 1915 it was the site of one of the substations of the railroad’s electrification project. Ranchers drove their cattle to the railway station and loaded them on cattle cars to be shipped to other parts of the country. At its prime, the bustling town had two grain elevators, a lumber yard, a ball team, a hotel, a bank and other businesses. The hotel was always busy as passengers and railroad workers came through. The town is much different now, but that Western charm lingers.

Though the streets of Two Dot are relatively quiet now, whispers of the past echo from the hills and the old buildings. Tumbleweeds were not all that once blew onto the dusty streets of Two Dot. In 1915, a cowboy by the name of Mel Jowell blew into town. He was described as a handsome cowboy of eloquent speech, but he was not exactly as he appeared, especially to the fairer sex. Beneath his politely mannered façade was a conniving scoundrel. He was a horse thief, a cattle rustler and along with a cousin, killed an ex-Sheriff in 1901 in Arizona. According to a newspaper article of April 1901, Jowell was suspected to be part of a gang of cattle rustlers and murderers who “cut a wide criminal swath through Southern Utah and Apache County” Arizona in 1899. 

Jowell rustled Two Dot Wilson’s cattle and altered the brands. Rustlers used a running iron to forge brands. A few lines or curves could be made to turn someone else’s cattle as their own. It was bad news to be caught with such an iron. Jowell was eventually convicted of his crime and sent up to the Montana State Prison in Deer Lodge. After serving four years, Jowell was paroled. Seven months later he was arrested again when he broke parole and stole cattle again. He returned to Montana State Prison but only served about one year before he was released again. 

Two Dot Wilson’s branding iron on display at the Montana Historical Society Museum

That wasn’t the end of the story. It was at Deer Lodge that Jowell (alias Rex Roberts and Dalton I Sparks) met George Ricketts, and Harvey Whitton (alias James Hall, James B O’Neal and Jim Ross), both convicted of murder. That alliance meant death for Deputy Sheriff Joseph Brannin. Ricketts assisted Jowell in the murder of the Deputy Sheriff on November 16, 1911. A few months later when Jowell escaped from a moving train after testifying at the trial of Ricketts, he was aided by Whitton who was using the alias of Jim Ross. 

There is much more to that tale, but I wonder, “What if Two Dot Wilson’s brand had not been two dots that could be relatively easy to alter with a running iron? If Jowell had not formed an alliance with the other men in prison, would he have followed a path that brought the death of “Uncle Joe?” I guess we will never know. 

So, the next time you’re in Two Dot, remember that Two Dot is more than just another Western cow town.