It gets dark in the Mountains. Strange things creep around our house. Sister Ellen is afraid to go outside at night. Of course she is a girl. Not me, I’m not afraid of the dark. At night a kid is supposed to stay indoors and hope that coyotes, bears, and haunts will go away before morning.
Sister Ellen and her little brother
Sometimes Sister would say to me, “Little brother why don’t you go outside and see if the moon is shining.”
Poor girl, she should know that the moon could shine on its own. Last Halloween time Ellen came back from school telling spooky stories about witches, black cats, ghosts, and goblins. She shook her finger at me and began to sing,
Once there was a little boy, Who wouldn’t say his prayers, And when he went to bed one night, Way, away up stairs, His mama heard him holler, And his papa heard him bawl, And when they turned the kivers down He wasn’t there at all.
She’d sing about how his parents hunted high and low.
And all that they could find of him, Was waist and round-about. And the Goblins will get you, If you don’t watch out!
“Why don’t you go outside, brother. Nothing would get a kid like you.”
She didn’t know that I waited for a chance to prove how big and brave I was. Then, when winter turned into spring, I got the chance I was waiting for.
Mike came up. We were playing on the hillside back of the chicken house when a “Boom. Boom. Boom,” sounded from the little fir trees at the edge of the forest.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a Hammering Goblin,” my friend said. “If we slip up there real quiet, maybe we can see him.”
“I don’t need to see him.”
Sometimes a Goblin will just get a kid. It’s best to say your prayers every night.
“Then we can tell the girls.”
Mike was interested in doing something brave to tell the girls. We crept through the sagebrush on the hillside. Soon the hammering was close to us, right back of the first little fir trees.
“You go first,” he said.
“No, you.”
“It’s your hill.”
“You’re a special guest.”
“We’ll go together.”
We were about ten steps from the edge of the trees when the hammering stopped and a large Ruffed Grouse flew up from the bushes. The grouse must have warned the Hammering Goblin and sent him running up the hill like we went running down.
My friend was disappointed.
“Shux!” he said, “We are going to Cafilornia next week and I wanted to tell your sisters.”
“Cafilornia? Is that a long way from here? I’m going to miss you.”
We were filled with anticipation as we walked through the doors of the Montana Historical Society Library. A lady brought out our family’s file full of treasures. As I sorted through the files of documents, love letters, and other interesting tidbits of information, my cousin went to inquire about another treasure we hoped to find. Another staff member came and led us out the door and down the stairs. In the basement, we found row after row of shelves filled with thousands of Montana historical artifacts and files. The lady stopped and pointed, “there it is.” There propped against the wall was a square rosewood Steinway piano, the keyboard and soundboard on their side with four legs resting in front. Above the strings on the soundboard was the number 1863. Was this really THE piano we had heard about in family tales from childhood? The lady who led us to the basement walked off and returned with a folder. Excitedly, I looked through the papers. There it was – proof that the piano was no myth and was indeed the one brought across the country by family members one hundred fifty years earlier.
My mind erupted with questions. What events brought the piano here? What would it have been like to hear an accomplished pianist play the ivory keys of the Steinway? Was there anything we could do to have the piano and its story put on exhibit?
The next few years, details gathered from various sources, including Montana historians and the Chief Historian at Steinway and Sons, came together. I became the spectator, and the story began to unfold as events of the last century and a half rolled back like scenes on a movie reel.
Shortly after coming to America, in 1853 Heinrich Engelhard Steinweg started his own company under the name of Steinway and Sons. He came a long way since he built his first piano in 1825 in his kitchen in Seesen, Germany, as a wedding gift for his wife. It is said he had an “inherent talent for music” and an “unusual mechanical ingenuity.” That was proven as Steinway pianos rose to fame. On May 5, 1857, Steinway received his first of many patents, this one to improve “smooth repetitive action” of the keys. According to the Chief Historian at Steinway and Sons, that same year (not 1863 as family records stated) a piano went into production with the serial number 1863 and was described as being six feet eight inches long, with four sturdy shaped wooden legs, two pedals, eighty-two keys, and double strung. The completed masterpiece was shipped on October 14, 1858, to Michael Willkomm in Boonville, Missouri, who sold Steinway Pianofortes out of his sale rooms on Morgan Street. He also repaired and tuned pianos.
Now it just happened that Michael Willkomm lived next door to Dr. George W. Stein who had immigrated from Hanover, Germany years earlier. At some point, Dr. Stein became the owner of the piano. In 1862, Dr. Stein married a widow by the name of Balsora Shepherd Furnish*, daughter of Mary “Mollie” Brannin. She brought two daughters to their marriage, Mary and Sarah Furnish.
As roads were forged westward, the lure of the new territory captured the hopes of pioneers. Land was available, and there was talk of gold and fortunes to be made. In March 1864, some of the Brannin family took the trail west. They traveled by wagons and faced rugged roads, storms, Indian unrest, and other perils. My great grandfather was in that number along with a sister, aunts, uncles, a house boy, and cousins among who were Balsora and Dr. Stein, and Sarah Furnish. Mary, sick at the time, followed the next spring with the piano and other furniture. The piano, that had won first prize at the St. Louis Expo, was enough of a prize to Stein that he couldn’t leave it behind. He arranged for the piano to travel with Mary by steamboat up the Missouri River to Ft. Benton, and then by oxcart to its new home in Helena.
In early May 1866, Sarah Furnish married Wilson Redding who had purchased a hot spring at Alhambra, Montana. Redding, who also had several mining interests, struck gold when he gained his bride. Not only did she bring grace and charm to their home, but she also brought the piano. Just a few weeks after they were wed, weary guests traveling from Virginia City to Helena were welcomed with a sumptuous feast to Wilson Redding’s Hot Spring. As they relaxed from their travels, their spirits were “cheered by the sweet strains of music which the piano gave forth, in obedience to the skillful touch of Mrs. Redding’s practiced fingers.” Through the years, many friends and guests enjoyed the music that flowed from the ivory keys of the Steinway.
Before Sarah Furnish Redding died, she expressed to her daughter her wish for the piano to be given to the Montana Historical Society. In 1930, her wish was fulfilled. Newspaper articles recorded the event with a brief historical account of how the piano made its way to Montana. The piano fell out of remembrance for a time until a fire stirred in the hearts of some of the family to bring her back into the limelight.
Some of Steinway’s creations are displayed in museums, some given to Presidents, others purchased or played by famous musicians before millions of awed audiences. And then, there is one lone disassembled square piano with serial number 1863 leaning against the wall in the basement of the Montana Historical Society Museum waiting for someone to clean off the dust, tune her strings, and put her on display. Even if she can’t be tuned, she is still a gorgeous instrument and deserves to have her story told and placed in the annals of history. It is a dream to have her grace the halls of history, her keys gently played to unlock her mellow tones and release her song that has been silent for far too long – a song that reminds us that silence is not always golden.
1926
note: The first husband of Balsora was Barnett Furnish, a man of some means. He died on a return trip from California in 1854 in Platte County, Missouri after he and others drove cattle to the California market.
There was a piece of ground free from rocks just immediately past the long machine shed. It set in the little swale below the barn. This had the best soil around but most of it was on the wrong side of the line fence. And so it came to pass in those days that Ward and Parker put up a deer proof eight foot high woven wire fence around a garden plot that hung into the National Forest like an appendix. There was no gate into the garden. (Perhaps they feared the deer would learn how to open it.) Instead of having a gate, the garden fence had a stile, about five steps up and over it.[1]
The good soil was amply enriched from the manure piles beside the cow barn. Two Rhubarb plants sat at one corner of the garden, and a cluster of horseradish sat on the other side. Horseradish would clear your sinuses and bring tears to your eyes when you ground it. The Uncles couldn’t raise horseradish because the goats pawed the roots out of the ground. When they ate it, it curled their hair.
Most years the last spring frost came the first week of June and the first killing freeze came the first week in September. Mother loved green beans, but most years frost got more than she did. Daddy wanted cabbage, cauliflower and tomatoes. He started the plants in a hotbed – which was a covered pit kept warm by decaying horse manure. He could always raise good cabbages and cauliflower. In Melville they could raise good tomatoes, cucumbers, pumpkins, corn and squash. Our tomatoes were still green when the frost came. We pulled up the vines and hung them upside down in the barn or in the root cellar. In October we could go to the barn or cellar and pick red tomatoes that were as good as the wintertime tomatoes we get in the grocery store. Cabbage heads went to the cellar. So did carrots, beets, and potatoes.
In those days all Montana peas were English peas. And we had a bountiful supply of carrots, peas, and head lettuce.
I had a 4-H Club garden project. In High School I sold lettuce to Churchill and Amery’s for ten and twelve cents a head.
Down the valley, below the fence, acres and acres of fire burned trees commanded the valley. Their skeletons stood, tree after tree, line after line, east of the fence and across the valley and over the mountains. They left a waste land, a casket for dead trees, and a place where even the slightest wind moaned like the spirit of God trying to breathe life into the stark white forest. But a little patch of ground, with water and care, claimed hope and bounty once again.
[1] This was high enough that the pig couldn’t jump over it, but the housewife could climb over and cook supper for the chief gardener.
The elderly man sat quietly in his chair with a stack of Alaska magazines beside him. We walked in unnoticed at first. When he finally realized we were there, he looked up and upon seeing his nephew, he flashed a big smile. Slowly, as if willing his tall frame to stand erect, he pushed himself upward. Soon, he was almost to full height, the height of a giant of a man. His curly gray unkempt hair that at one time looked like a big black Brillo pad, rested atop a weathered, wrinkled face accentuating his black eyes and the distinguishable Spanish features of his mother.
the old Wolf Trapper
Before us stood a man larger than life. Though he had no children of his own, the kids gravitated to him. He was gentle in his speech and in the way he cared for the little ones with fierce loyalty. His protection of the kids, his family, and his neighbors, and their livelihood, was just as fierce.
Barney with a bunch of kids
Visiting Uncle Barney was one of the first things on our list and one of the highlights. Walking into his house was like walking into a museum. Glass cases were filled with relics of his younger days. My nose prints and fingerprints joined those of others who had peered into the see-through treasure chest. Antlers, guns, and pelts of mule deer and the infamous gray timber wolf Snowslide hung on his wall. Each item had a story – and what a story!
Only one word was needed to be rewarded with a fascinating, almost unbelievable, tale. Daddy knew that word, “Wolf!” He spoke louder, “Wolf!” The flood gates of adventure and intrigue opened and stories of wolf days were unleashed. Though the old Government Trapper had dull ears and clouded eyes, his memory was sharp. The shroud lifted from his eyes, and they began to sparkle. He didn’t miss any details as he began to talk. Uncle Barney’s words mounted us on the back of his saddle as we joined him in the chase. Now he was the hunter again, retracing the trails of memories to capture the elusive predators. We were entranced, a mesmerized audience drawn into the pursuit.
Barney with part of Old Cripple Creek’s pack, her mate to the left in the photo
Tale after tale followed as he told of Snowslide, the gray timber wolf that killed sixteen head of sheep in one night at one ranch, slaughtering forty-three at another ranch the next week, thirteen at another, then turned to killing calves; Old Cripple Foot, queen of the Little Belts that killed sheep for sport and then began taking down cows – three large Herefords in one week (that she didn’t eat) on the American Fork Ranch, aka “The Ghost”; and her mate and pups; Killer – the wolf that killed for pleasure, killing at least fifteen dogs in two years that were brought in to rid the ranchers of the wolf; Old Crazy Mountain Wallis, aka Loofer Wolf that easily split a dog pack, and along with another wolf killed 60 head cattle on the American Fork Ranch valued at $30,000; Lefty, of Ft. McGinnis, so named because she was missing her front left foot from a trap, and when she was taken, an old granddad wolf adopted her pups.
Some raise their eyebrows thinking it a great injustice. Uncle Barney said, “From my experience wolves didn’t kill sheep unless they were hungry or wanted revenge.” What could a wolf do with sixteen sheep in one night? That was not for food, it was for pure sport and revenge. In 1915, Barney was hired by the Bureau of Biological Survey as a Predatory Animal Trapper. His job was to end the predation plague that spread throughout the ranches in Montana. He was to rid them of stock killing bears, bobcats, coyotes, and wolves. Government Hunter Brannin was hailed as a hero and the stockmen rejoiced as the wolves were removed from their herds. Some of the captured wolf pups were sent to the State Fair, or to a wolf sanctuary in the East.
Brother Gus, Peaches the Bear and Barney, 1916, Crazy Mountains
Many of Uncle Barney’s exploits are contained in various newspaper articles, government documents, family stories, and various books. There are other tales of goats in the Crazies, taming bears, helping raise kids, stocking creeks and lakes with upwards of 850,000 live trout and eye eggs in the Crazy Mountains, and then… there’s Alaska…
I stood in front of the sign that displayed the name, “Kingfisher.” To most that holds little or no importance even in light of the history it contains. To me, it is a place that connects a lifeline to my heritage, that of the great pioneers forging West for a place to call home.
In April 1889, thousands of pioneers rushed through Oklahoma Territory to stake a homestead claim. The McNeil wagon raced across the prairie leaving a trail of dust whirling behind. A stake was pounded in the ground and the three-year process of “proving” the homestead began. You may have read their account in a previous post. Once a homestead was proven, it was then registered.
You see, the little town of Kingfisher was the location where the pioneers in the area registered their claim. Stopping at this exact location may have been of little significance to others, maybe even with a hint of annoyance, but I knew if we blew through town without stopping, I would regret it. I may never pass that way again.
Not only did the McNeil family claim a homestead in the area, but also the man who became the patriarch of the Knapp family – my great grandfather. Here in Oklahoma Territory, Charles Knapp set his stake in the ground and married the daughter of the determined, fearless McNeil lady who rushed west with her family. Here, the lives of Charles & Florence joined together resulting in seven children. One of the children, a girl, remains, for she rests in a little cemetery not too far from Kingfisher.
As I stood on that very spot, possibly where my great grandparents and my great great grandmother had walked, I envisioned the scene from the past as homesteaders came holding their papers of proof verified by testimonies of neighbors and friends. They left with a big smile and documents in their hand that gave them clear title to the land they had worked tirelessly to improve and make a home.
Some 20+ years later, the family loaded their wagons and once again started a long trek to claim a homestead, but this time in the wide-open prairies of Montana. That’s another story!
The branches of my family tree extend from roots secured by my ancestors. Roots travel deep and stretch in all directions. They provide a foundation for the limbs that spread beyond, upward and outward. Some folks have no idea of the treasures that are hidden among the branches, twigs and leaves. I don’t want to miss those seemingly insignificant moments of the past that help ensure our heritage continuing into the next generation.
What extends beyond your roots – or do you know even know where your roots are planted?
The Fourth of July has always been a day of celebration for our family.
When I was a kid, we had family reunions on the Fourth. We loaded up in the car and drove to Aunt Leone’s where there was always a pile of food stretched out on tables under the big shade trees, and a pile of kids to match. Cousins and more cousins showed up along with aunts, uncles, and grandparents.
Aunt Leone with sis and Bella
Old timers reminiscing of homestead days
After a time of playing on the old grist stones, playing ball with cow patty bases, and listening to the old timers tell their old tales, it was time for watermelon. My granddad always picked out a watermelon or two just for the occasion. It was not a quick choice. He turned the watermelon, inspecting all sides and the stem end. Then came the real test. He would lodge his middle finger behind his thumb, and then release the trigger, “Thump.” A “thump” sound was what he wanted to hear. If it made a “thud” sound, he would place the watermelon back and grab another. As a side note, when I was nearing the time of delivery of my children, I asked him to do the watermelon test to see if I was about ripe for delivery. His method worked!
Family gathering
a pile of kids
There were other Fourth of July celebrations when we were away from our Southern home. Those family gatherings were at Aunt Barbara’s house. Food was stretched out under the old willow trees in the back yard. Not only did we celebrate the holiday, but we also celebrated Aunt Ellen’s birthday. My daddy declared that was “another important holiday,” and Aunt Barbara always made her famous cinnamon rolls for her sister’s birthday on the Fourth.
Here are some Fourth of July stories from my dad’s memories as a little boy:
Another Important Holiday
The Fourth of July is Sister Ellen’s birthday. We celebrate it every year.
Sometimes three carloads of friends come up to have a picnic. They always bring a watermelon. We make ice cream in our rebuiltice cream freezer. The porcupines ate the outside of the old freezer because it tasted salty. Daddy made a new outside out of boards. After the picnic he hides the rebuilt freezer in the closet where the porcupines won’t find it.
Some years we don’t have a picnic. Instead, we go to town and watch a parade. Men who had been soldiers march in the parade. A retired army Colonel tells them how to march, and the city band marches in front of them.
When I get big, I will watch a parade without having to peek between someone’s knees to see it.
The Fourth of July is important. That is the day when American leaders signed the Declaration of Independence and told GeneralGeorge Washing to go chase the British soldiers back to their boats. You should always remember the Fourth of July for that.
I have to remember it because it is my sister’s birthday.
I looked out the window. The neighbors’ house was completely dark. It was the middle of the night in the early morning hours. Well, I guess I couldn’t call the neighbors to see if they wanted to leave early for our adventure. I was up so figured everybody else should be, too.
In the quiet of the night, I could almost hear my dad say in a whispered voice, “Are you girls awake? Do you want to leave early?” Back then, we were usually wide awake and already dressed before our feet hit the floor. As became our custom, we always left earlier than planned because none of us could sleep. But that was when I was a kid! I’m no longer a kid – well, in age at least. And yet, even after all these years, the night before we are to leave on a trip, I can’t sleep.
So, here we are on the road.
I looked out the back window but all I could see was a loaded U-Haul trailer attached to our big Ram. I still look through my childhood’s eyes, but instead of seeing a big truck, I see a ’57 Dodge with me laying in the back window. And just like my childhood, I am still amazed at the shining golden wheat and lush green corn fields in flat wide country.
Today as we approached the Midwest, we took some country roads and slid by the skirt tails of St. Louis. Many areas along the rivers were flooded. We cross over small creeks about the size of an irrigation ditch, swollen dark muddy rivers, and larger rivers like the Tennessee, Ohio, Mississippi, and Missouri Rivers. Our road took us through Boonville, which is where my great grandfather, one of his sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins began their wagon train trip. They journeyed along sections of the Oregon Trail as they made their way to Montana, and endured many hardships. Who knows? We may have traveled some of the same road.
We took a short cut and bypassed Kansas City altogether. Daddy would have been proud. Our route was akin to some of his shortcuts. The ride down Missouri country back roads was definitely a bonus. We drove through some gorgeous farmland. Our road led through some old small towns that looked like great places to explore. One of the towns we went through had all but folded up its streets as abandoned buildings overgrown with trees and weeds, and broken windows baring glass teeth shards barely hung on the frames. I wondered what those little towns were like in their heyday when life roamed the streets as families went in and out of stores along main street and teens gathered in front of drive-ins. Sorting through my memories, I knew what some of them were once like.
Somehow, I think no matter how old I get, I will still be that little girl filled with wide-eyed wonder.
Our adventure continues – new memories to be made – old memories to share.
Sheer exhaustion pulled the man to his feet and dragged him to his bedroom. His shoulders sagged under an unseen weight. He pulled back the covers as anguish and shock slid between the sheets, spent emotions falling to the floor.
It had happened so quickly. It seemed as if thirty-five years spiraled into a spinning vortex. The whirlwind tossed memories round and round. And then, as quickly as it spun, it came to a stop – a dreaded sudden stop.
Loneliness swept over the tired figure of a man who lay still and depleted of strength. He fell into a semblance of sleep and woke with the realization that it had not been just a bad dream. No, it was real.
Now what? Could he go through the motions demanded of the day and the days ahead? Would the pain ever ease?
Everywhere he looked, he saw her – or glimpses of her. He had tried to give her the things she wanted. Sure, they had moments of disagreement, as every couple on their journey of marriage. Their years together had been worth it all. The companionship and love shared through joys and tears had been spent well. He would willingly pay the price again.
He no longer stepped over the oxygen lifeline she had sometimes used. He no longer would go to town to grab her favorite burger to satisfy her taste. He no longer would relinquish the tv remote to her control. He no longer would discuss the world’s events or laugh with her over the antics and pictures of the grandkids.
Where did the time go? It too, had been swallowed into the whirlpool that spun out of control as it consumed the last grain of sand in the hourglass. One marriage ended with “until death do us part.”
Just a couple of days before, another couple stood on the brink of marriage. A ceremony filled with tender, sweet, innocent love was performed before witnesses as newlyweds began their life’s journey together. They made that same vow, “until death do us part.” The course of life continues – one marriage closes a chapter – another begins.
Though we don’t understand why things happen as they do, it is a blessing to close a chapter filled with love and devotion and know, “it was worth it all.”
Talk about excitement. We had a new car, and we were going to town. Going to town made our day. Sometimes it made our month. A trip to town in the early thirties meant a three hour drive over dusty roads, an overnight stay in a hotel, and eating in a restaurant.
Bud and ‘Niter with the kids
The new car was a second hand Studebaker that Gib McFarland had tipped over. That automobile was a speedster! Story was that McFarland had driven FIFTY miles and hour. Fortunately, he wasn’t going that fast when he ran in the ditch and tipped the automobile its side. Daddy didn’t run into ditches, and, when he drove too fast, Mama would scream, “Bud, you’re doing thirty‑five!”
We hadn’t expected to go to town. It was July, and we had already been to town in June. The surprise trip came about because of the new hired man.
This new hand was a cowboy type who had worked on a neighboring ranch. After branding time, he got laid off. He came up to the sawmill for work to hold him over until haying season. The would be cowboy didn’t bring a horse with him, but we could tell that his heart was in riding and not in stacking lumber. He was outfitted with a big hat, shiny spurs, and chaps. He took his spurs off, but he kept the chaps on. They were leather chaps with floppy legs. He wore them every day, even on Sundays. He wore them to breakfast. He wore them to dinner. He wore them to supper. Maybe he slept in them. Anyway he earned the name of “Chaps”. (Pronounced, “SHAPS”). If it wasn’t for him we’d have waited until August to go to Big Timber.
The hired man was a neat fellow with good teeth. After every meal, Chaps picked his teeth. He was polite and put his toothpick back in the holder when he was through with it. The rest of the logging crew tried to get their toothpicks before the new man put his back. Chaps combed his hair and brushed his teeth twice a day. On the day we went to town, he came out of washroom with a toothbrush. He held it up and said, “I’ve tried them all and like this one best.”
It was Daddy’s tooth brush. My father turned to mother and said, “Niter, get a clean dress on, we’re going to town.”
I came across a folder that contained a whole stack of papers. Page after of page of cover letters accompanied by returned manuscripts all had one word in common, “rejected.” Why did Daddy keep all those rejection letters? After all, he was a published author who wrote across a broad spectrum of topics.
Some of the publication companies required a fee to even read a manuscript for consideration. That could get quite expensive, especially considering the number of “returned” letters as well as those approved for publication.
On one such letter, Daddy wrote, “Don’t give up!” Further down the page another notation caught my eye, “Rejection? A $50.00 possibility.” Wow! That’s why he kept the letters! They were reminders of all the possibilities literally at his fingertips. Just below that note was some more of his scribbling, “This article was sold to Scouting for ten times what High Adventure could pay!” Had he given in to rejection, he never would have tried again. Sometimes rejection comes in disguise as blessings.
I guess we can learn some life lessons. If you’ve been rejected, it might a blessing in disguise. There may be something better in store. Or maybe, if you have invested in something – money, time, caregiving, love, compassion – the return is far greater than the investment.
