Family History – Page 3 – Back Window Adventures

July 26, 2022July 26, 2022

Listening for God

an excerpt from a sermon preached on July 30, 2006

Today, my parents would have celebrated their 76^th Wedding Anniversary. Sixteen years ago, after their return from celebrating their 60^th, Mama came through the back door grinning from ear to ear. That was not my mother’s usual look, but on that particular day she beamed like a smitten teenage girl. She went on and on about what they saw, everything they did, and all their meals. I didn’t recall ever seeing her like that. Little did she know that they had celebrated their last anniversary together. In less than a month, her life was taken prematurely.

Just a few days after their return from their trip, Daddy filled the pulpit for a pastor friend. His message was entitled “Listening for God.” The following is an excerpt from that message:

“This week we celebrated our 60^th wedding anniversary by going to Helen, GA. Here’s a story I picked up about old times from those Georgia Blue Mountains” —

“On those mornings when the old wooden bridge would be covered by heavy frost, the sight of his bare footprints would make us hurt all over. He would cross the bridge first, then we would cross. The cold prints of his bare feet would appear as though they had been burned into the planks of the old wooden bridge. The girl would carefully scrape away all signs of his bare footprints with her shiny, expensive little shoes, as if that would make his feet warmer, but when we got to school his feet would still be blue from the cold. I never knew him to own or wear a pair of shoes.

She was the prettiest girl in the whole valley and her father owned one of the largest and finest farms. His family lived back in the mountains, and his father sold moonshine whisky. He believed that was the reason he had built the wall between the girls and himself. It was an invisible wall, and Grandma said that was the hardest kind to get rid of. It was as if he were doing penance for the wrongs of his father by his own suffering.

The war came on. The boy enlisted, and we never saw him gain. It was the girl’s mother who told Grandma about them seeing the boy for the last time. They had been in Atlanta and were on Peachtree Street. Everybody stopped so a company of soldiers could march by. Somebody in the crowd said they were going overseas to fight in the war. At their front was a big strapping first sergeant, who except of his uniform and his fine army shoes looked like the barefoot boy from the mountains.

When they reached the girls and her mother, the first sergeant ordered the soldiers to halt. There they stood, not 10 feet apart, and when he turned and looked into her eyes, the invisible wall came tumbling down with a roar like thunder that must have been heard way back to the valley. With all those people looking on and hearing what he said, the mountain boy, who had never spoken one word to the girl in all his life, said the three words she most wanted to hear.

He only had a one-way ticket to the hell of France, and she would never see him again. She came back to the valley. Grandma told us that you would see her come out of the house in the evenings and walk down the road as far as the old wooden bridge. There she would stand for a while, staring at the worn planks as if she hoped to see those bare frosty footprints, even in the hot summertime.”

Now, both of my parents are gone. When I visit the prairies of my mother’s youth or walk in the mountains of my father’s younger days, even then I look for their footsteps. Though I can no longer see their footprints, I often think I hear their faint voices in the wind.

July 18, 2022July 18, 2022

Eyes of the Storm

The Montana sky over the small town of Melstone grew dark as green clouds boiled over the prairies along the Musselshell River. Impregnated clouds unleased balls of hail as the storm swept through the countryside. The Knapp’s grain crop was completely destroyed but even that did not dampen their spirits for their firstborn baby girl made her appearance. That was July 18, 1927, and the newborn was my Mama.

Her eyes were like green hail clouds, and just like the gathering storm, sometimes my mom was a force to be reckoned with. She was a strict no-nonsense mama who had expectations for her kids and grandkids. Sometimes she was even a bit scary. Those cloudy green eyes could burn a hole right through you and peel back every layer to expose what lay beneath. She held the utmost of values and encouraged others to attain the same heights.

This girl from the prairie came from a long line of survivors, those who traversed across the country and forged new trails that opened the west. At a young age during a time of drought, Mama and her sister saw the countryside from the back of a covered wagon as they made their way from Montana to Idaho in search of good grass and relief from the dry barren land. The family later moved back to Montana where she and her sister attended prairie schools. When she graduated and received her teaching certificate, she taught in a one-room schoolhouse on the prairies of Montana.

Covered wagons made the trip from Montana to Idaho

Though she loved the prairies, she had a greater love for her little Man of the Mountains and made the Crazy Mountain wilderness her home for a time. Living in the heart of the mountains was no small feat. With harsh winters and few necessities, Mama made a home for her husband and their Montana born children. Encouraging her husband “Buck” to follow God’s call into the ministry, they gathered up their family for the trek South. They added another child, their “Georgia peach,” to their collection of kids and there, she finished her days.

Mama was an industrious lady. She made most of our clothes and excelled as a seamstress. She was an artist, calligrapher, homemaker, quilter, made her own bread, canned her own produce, and managed the household. Her home was always a place of open hospitality. Idleness was not an option in her home and any spare time was used in her love of reading.

Had Mama lived, she would be 95 years old today. Her journey had been a long one from the Montana prairies to the wilderness to the deep South. She lived those years well. Though her life ended abruptly sixteen years ago, I can still see those cloudy green eyes of a storm. Her love of her family and her giving spirit continue to rise over us and bathe us with memories of a gracious lady.

July 5, 2022July 5, 2022

The Last Drive

We pulled into the driveway and parked the dusty four-wheelers. I pried my fingers loose from the handlebars and sat for a few minutes before throwing one leg over the seat and slowly sliding off. It had been a 10 ½ hour day trailing cattle to summer pastures. Two more days of trailing and that part of the herd was settled for a while. When we reached the end of the last drive, though I had offered little, I wore a look of satisfaction while completely and contentedly exhausted. I think I even walked a bit bowlegged just like the time I helped drive cattle over the mountains on horseback with my cousin, her crew, and my sister.

Somewhere along the ride back home the last day on the trail, a thought came to mind, and with the thought was a sense of renewed wonder and respect for my ancestors. Many years ago, they went on a long goat drive. The end of May 1895, the Brannin family left Sapillo Creek, New Mexico and began the long trek by wagons and horseback to Marysville, Montana. Just going that distance of about 1400 miles (by today’s road) was quite a task for the Brannin family and others who traveled with them, but they also trailed a herd of 900 angora goats, 360 horses, and 90 burros. They treasured joys of the journey as they tucked away memories of their time together and made lifelong friends. They also faced many challenges and disappointments along the way, but what others considered obstacles merely spurred them on.

Brannin descendants in 2012 at Lee’s Ferry where the Brannin family crossed in summer of 1895 on their trek from New Mexico to Montana.

Can you imagine seeing that exodus come your way and passing by? Four covered wagons drawn by horse teams and a mule drawn spring wagon driven by one of the girls followed behind the Brannin “boys” driving the goats, horses, and burros that scattered across the landscape. Any of those alone would have been fascinating to see, but all together must have made quite a picture. I can almost hear the sounds of hooves and the bleats, neighs, and brays of the animals. I can almost see dust rolling behind the company as they pass through deserts and prairies and hear echoes from canyon walls as they descend into valleys and climb steep mountain passes.

Over one year after their departure, the Brannin clan arrived at their Montana destination, but even that wasn’t the end. Years later, wide-eyed children sat in silent awe as family gathered around the table or sat in front of the stone fireplace in the Brannin Ranch lodge and listened to firsthand stories of the historic drive north. The legacy continues to be passed on to later generations as family history is repeated in oral tales and written memories of those long gone.

As I walked away from the four-wheeled steed, a light breeze tugged at my memories, and the stories I’ve heard so many times seemed a bit more real. My step became a bit lighter. I shook the dust from my hat. It had been a good day!

May 31, 2022May 31, 2022

Branding Day

I opened the gate and made my way past the bawling cows and calves that wandered restlessly around the barnyard kicking up dust. They complained about being driven from their pasture. After they settled down a bit the calves were separated from the cows. A couple of guys persuaded, guided, and pushed each calf through an opening between the gates that led to the hydraulic calf table. In less than a minute the calf was lifted on the table, branded, tagged, banded if required, and vaccinated. The cows bellowed and hollered as they waited for their calves to be returned. Within a short period of time, they were reunited and soon in the pasture grazing once again.

That is much different than it was in days of long ago when my dad watched his uncles on branding day. That was a time when family and friends gathered for the branding and the festivities that followed.

Ropers, wranglers, and those wielding branding irons made their way to the corral along with the spectators who hung on the fence or peered through the log rails. Then, the excitement really began. One of the ropers threw their lasso around a calf’s neck and another cowboy wrestled it to the ground and tied its legs together. A couple of guys held the calf down while the hot iron was applied and burned its identifying mark on the rump. Smoke from the iron mingled with dust that hung heavy over the corral as the smell of burning hair and flesh was blown away in the breeze. When all was done, everyone headed to the lodge. Recounted tales of the day mingled with good natured laughter and the aroma of food coming from the kitchen. It has been a good day.

Uncle Dick on horse,Uncle Ed, Buck (my daddy)

Times and methods change but branding day is still a vital part of the cowboy culture. What once required many people now takes only a few. Branding irons heated by fire are now replaced with electric irons, but brands are applied the same way to burn marks of ownership that cannot be removed.

On branding day, I didn’t peer through the fence rails and see ropers and wranglers in action, but I still got to be a spectator. Somehow, amid the noise and the smoke, I imagined how it might have been in the days of my father’s youth. I think I caught a glimpse of him standing in the middle of the corral, Uncle Dick on the horse, Uncle Sid and Uncle Barney holding down a calf, and a youngster bending over to watch Uncle Ed wield the hot iron to apply the brand. Yes, it was a good day!

Uncle Sid on Pat, Uncle Dick on Buster, Uncle Barney & Uncle Gus holding calf, Bud Ward

May 25, 2022May 24, 2022

Poppy

I never knew my paternal grandfather, but I heard many stories. My father gave a tribute to him in one of the books he gave to us kids one year. Included is one of the poems Poppy wrote.

My grandfather, “Whose pioneer instinct led him to unsettled lands in the mountains of Montana. This paved the way for a whole family of FIRSTS. Did he get homesick?” This is what he wrote:

Take me back to old Montana
Where there is plenty room and air,
Where the hand clasp is the firmer
And the latch string’s open there

Where the boys wear chaps for breeches,
Buckskin gloves and Stetson hats,
Where they throw the diamond hitches
And brand cattle on the flats.

Land of promise, Land of sunshine,
The finest land on all the earth,
Take me back, let me recline
Land that gave my children birth.

– Bud Ward, 1927

May 21, 2022May 21, 2022

Trail of History

As you turn onto our Montana road from the main highway there is a brown sign depicting the figures of two men, one pointing, and an Indian woman with a baby on her back. That is, of course, Lewis & Clark, and Sacagawea with her son.

William Clark was an explorer, soldier, Indian Agent, territorial Governor and was appointed as Superintendent of Indian Affairs in 1822. Clark and Lewis’ expedition opened the West to fur and lumber trade, and made the way for an influx of settlers who soon followed. The expedition of Lewis & Clark not only was of great importance in our nation’s history, but it holds another fascination for me – family history.

In July 1806, Clark and Sacagawea along with the party who accompanied them, traveled through our part of the country along the north side of the Yellowstone River. That is where our house will be. The path they traveled is very close to our door. As the red-tailed hawk flies, Yellowstone River is just under one mile from where our house is being built.

Recently a cousin doing research came across the William Clark Papers housed at the Kansas Historical Society which includes correspondence referencing Captain Richard Brannin, my 3^rd Great Grandfather, as well as a letter from Captain Brannin to Captain Clark (of Lewis & Clark), who was then the Superintendent of Indian Affairs. Captain Brannin was appointed as Indian agent and agriculturist to the Osage Indians by President Monroe in 1822, serving from 1826 to 1833. His wife, Margaret, my 3^rd Great Grandmother, was an instructress to the Osage women.

When Captain Brannin first met Captain Clark, there was no way to know that in just a few years, in 1864, some the Brannin family would cross into Montana territory. Not long after that, members of the family took up permanent residence here along the Lewis & Clark Trail in Montana.

As I look out across the countryside, the scene is not much different than when Sacagawea stood near the banks of the Yellowstone River and gazed at the mountains around her. Suddenly, the Clark/Brannin connection from 200 years ago somehow narrows the gap of time as the trail of history makes its way right past our door.

This scene is not much different than when Clark and Sacagawea were here.

May 11, 2022May 12, 2022

Gumbo Anyone?

Though I was raised in the South, some Southern foods are not suitable to my palate. Grits and greens are not on my menu, and I don’t get excited about a pot of gumbo thickened with slimy okra. See, I heard about gumbo from my mom, and she had a different story about gumbo, and it had nothing to do with food.

Mama grew up on the prairies of Montana. That meant times of drought. When the rains came, the ground slurped up the moisture like a sponge, grass turned green, and flowers sprouted up. But the rain brought something else – gumbo – thick, heavy, sticky, gooey, slimy mud. Mama told stories about getting mired down in gumbo. She said if you got stuck in gumbo, you might be there a while. When it dried, the ruts were left in its place, and if you got stuck in a rut, you could be in it for a long time, too.

The other day, we took a drive down one of the dirt roads through the countryside – one of those that turns to gumbo at the mere mention of rain. As we drove down the country lane, we stirred up as many memories as the clouds of dust that rolled behind us. Parts of the road were not much more than a grass centered lane full of ruts and rocks. When it’s wet, it’s gumbo just like in the days of Mama’s youth, and can be almost impassable. Yet that rutty road took us to places that were dear to my mom’s heart.

When when Mama heard “gumbo”, memories of younger days came to mind, some of which she shared with us. Here are a couple of events from her youth.

On the way to their Baccalaureate, my mom, her sister, and friend (who became her sister-in-law), headed to town. Most of the roads in the country were dirt except when it rained, then it was gumbo. This happened to be such a day. As the girls neared a hill, they saw one of the neighbor ladies stuck in the mud. The girls stripped off their dress clothes, waded in the sticky mud, and pushed the car up the hill. That’s what neighbors do. They had to go wash up and get dressed again before their Baccalaureate.

Another such incident might make your cheeks rosy. One day my dad’s sisters headed to Cavill School to pick up my mother where she taught in the one-room schoolhouse. As they headed to the mountains, the clouds opened up and poured out their wet wrath. The road immediately turned to gumbo. It wasn’t long before the car was stuck. One of the girls crawled out of the car and wallowed in the mud trying to get the chains on the tires. By the time she was done, she was as mired down and muddy as the tires. Her clothes were ruined. There was nothing else to do but strip off her clothes, and just put on her coat. The girls headed on as the day began to get dark. Up ahead, a neighbor waving a lantern stopped them and said the bridge was out. He invited the girls into his family’s house for the night. All the girls but one took their coat off, and I’ll bet you know which one. I guess they failed put an extra set of clothes in the car for such emergencies.

My dad claimed to grow three inches taller if he was lucky enough to cake the bottoms of his boots with gumbo. That was unless he got his boots sucked off his feet instead, then he lost an inch or two. So much for gumbo.

Gumbo, anyone? No thanks. I don’t care for any gumbo.

April 16, 2022April 15, 2022

A Boy’s Favorite Tree

The little boy played in the winter snow as the day neared an end. Soft flakes that looked like silver glitter in the fading sun floated aimlessly to the ground. The call came, “Supper time!” It took no time at all for the kids to run to the house, wash up, and get ready for supper. The warmth of the fire and wood cookstove drove the chill from the squirmy little bodies and the sawmillers that sat around the long dining room table.

Excitement was in the air. It resonated throughout the log cabin in the heart of the mountains. Christmas was coming! A few decorations were hung, special treats were made and set aside, and whispers seeped through the walls to fill the kids with great anticipation of gifts that would be under their Christmas tree.

As the little boy got ready for bed, something caught his eye. The dark of night was interrupted by twinkling lights. He peered out the cabin window that looked out over the kitchen sink. The moon had made its appearance. Just beyond the chicken coop was a wondrous sight. The white boughs of an evergreen hung lazily under the weight of freshly fallen snow. The ultimate Christmas tree! It seemed as if every flake reflected the colors of the prism. The lights sparkled like miniature diamonds lighting up the world of a little boy on his path to manhood.

When the little boy grew into an old man, he reminisced of his growing up years in the Montana mountains. Even then his favorite Christmas tree was white with colored lights. You see, whenever he saw the colored lights sparkling against the white tree, he was transported to a time filled with warmth and unconditional love. Maybe that childhood tree was the greatest gift of all for it continued to bring light, love, and joy for a lifetime.

March 31, 2022March 30, 2022

Where the Magic Lives

My Guest Author, my dad, grew up where the magic lives

The sky was covered with storm clouds. The January day was short without the thick clouds blanketing the afternoon light. Snow had been falling for the last two hours. Now, the wind was whipping it across the long open flat. The horses faced into it. The family huddled in the wagon. The heavy robes, made from Angora goat hides, failed to keep out all the cold.

At times the wagon trail was wiped out. The Thompson hills had disappeared. The mountains behind them were blotted out. The team moved slowly ahead. They knew the way even when they could not see the ground ten feet ahead. They stopped at a gate in a barbwire fence which stretched from the hills on the left to the drop off in the canyon on the right.

One of the boys opened the gate and the team plodded through. They had three hours to go. The light was gone.

More than the light was gone. The woman fought against a quiet despair made worse by the howling blizzard. Her husband was gone.

The children were not gone – the wagon was full of her children. The older boys, now grown into men, took turns facing the wind while the others covered themselves the best they could.

That was the way the day was ending. That was the way the week was ending. If she had any tears left Guadalupe Brannin did not share them at this time.

Her husband was dead. He was gone.

She had a foreboding of that when he left some weeks earlier to get to a town with some medical help. He had on his corduroy trousers. The crown of his hat was pushed down in Texas style. He rode old Bob. He’d been invincible, but now, the invincibility was claimed by a grave on the far side of town thirty miles back and across the river.

“Mama,” one of the boys said, “Mama, we’re in no shape to make it home tonight.”

The Grossfield cabin was just up ahead.

“We’d better stop.”

The team pulled off to the right where a log cabin huddled against the rolling hills. A dog barked a welcome from his nest in the barn. The door of the cabin opened. Abram Grossfield looked like an angel from heaven, and the family came in out of the storm.

They would remember that night. They would remember that there was a welcome after a storm, that there was hope after a graveyard.

The fire was warm. The children were fed. Condolences were given. There was talk of the mountains and the news from the settlement. And the house was warm.

The next morning the storm had eased up. The wagon was loaded. The team plodded up the draw and over the hill that broke down to the Sweet Grass. By then the sky had cleared. From the top of the ridge Guadalupe Brannin looked down into the mountain valley. She saw the log house on the far side of the valley, and the root cellar that the boys had dug into the hillside just in time to hold a wagon load of potatoes for the winters supply.

She’d been there only two years, but this was home, and home is where the magic lives.

March 17, 2022March 17, 2022

Time in a Bottle

The little man held the open canteen under the lips of the pipe that rested on the side of the horse trough. Well, actually, the trough was the belly of an old bathtub into which pure, fresh spring water flowed continually.

To him, it wasn’t just a drink of sparkling, clear, cold water from the spring of his youth, it was a lifeline to his past, to his childhood. Just a sip of water not only cooled his parched throat, but it warmed his soul all the way to his toes. He drowned himself in memories – those of his folks, of fun and mischievous times with his sisters, recollections of his grandmother, uncles, aunts, cousins, and neighbors. Thoughts of his brother crashed around him like the unstoppable rush of the tide’s waves releasing its salty spray. As I looked, I even thought I saw a few salty drops leak from his eyes as he was transported back to that day, when at almost six years old, he stood at his brother’s grave. As if to capture time, the little man tightened the lid when the container was full of a wellspring of memories of the many treasures and tragedies of life.

For many years, the number I do not know, he continued the ritual. Once he returned from each trip, the canteen took its place in the door of the refrigerator. Occasionally, he loosened the lid and took a sip, releasing time from the bottle of pure goodness along with a barrage of memories that echoed within his very being. With every trip back to his home place in the mountains, the canteen went along to be replenished and to fill the man of the mountains with all the memories that ran fresh and clear once again.

When the little man left us, memories in tow, he didn’t take the canteen. No, it sat alone in the door of the refrigerator as if lost in time. It is now in the possession of another who treasures the canteen for what it contains and for the memories of the one who religiously bottled it with love.

The green canteen, wrapped in its olive green canvas cover, still holds water from the little man’s last trip to the mountains and place of his birth. My daughter and I dared take a sip of remembrance after the canteen came into my possession. And, do you know what, the magic was still there. As I unscrewed the lid, an explosion of thoughts and reminiscences spewed out.

Soon, the canteen will be replenished and the memories of life – and death – will continue. After all, the little man no longer needs the canteen that holds time to stir his memories for the water of life flows freely.