Category: Family History

One of the projects I assigned my dad several years ago was to write the history of all the buildings past and present at the Ward and Parker property in the Crazies. These written memories were the first part of that series. By my Daddy.

There are many places in this world which seem new to us, but someone has been there first. So it was even back up the creek on the Sweet Grass. I know of no one finding rings of rocks that had outlined teepee locations, but Indians had been there. There was a grave sized mound of dirt on the lower end of the rocky flat about 3/4^th of a mile down the valley from where we lived. Mother thought it was an Indian grave. Nobody checked it out.

 When I was ten or eleven years old I found a large buffalo skull and a brown-flint spear head that had fallen into the crevasse of an outcropping cliff beside the creek that ran out of the year round spring that furnished water for the house and sawmill that my father and his partner would build. Part of the flume they had built to carry water to the sawmill ran across the top of the outcropping cliff. If the skull and spearhead had not fallen into the cleft someone would have found it 10-12 years before I did. An Indian hunter was here and left his mark.

 I carried the skull home and Barney Brannin used it for one of the porch decorations for the Brannin Lodge. I played around with the spearhead, throwing it and maybe pounding it with a rock. It ended up becoming lost. I think I know within fifty feet of where it is. In my mind I can see an Indian brave leaving his skull and spearhead as an offering to the Master of the Hunt. As late as the 1940’s there were still signs of early pioneers. Old logging trails wandered through the fire-killed trees near the Horseshoe Prairie. One could see the stumps of trees they had cut for the Northern Pacific Railroad. I saw a man’s name and a date carved in the base of a burned-out stump. I think the date was in the 1800’s. Someone said that ties cut for the railroad were floated down the creek in high water. Maybe so, Ed Brannin had floated saw logs down the Sweet Grass to his sawmill near Basin Creek. 

C. M. Rein had a sawmill at the foot of the steep mountain west of Bruin Creek where Section 17 corners sections 18, 7, and 8. This may have been set up before 1900. We pastured cows and calves in this back corner of Section 17. I don’t think Barbara and Ralph have ever used it for a pasture. Sometimes the younger generation is wiser than their elders.

One place we knew as the “Logging Camp” was across the valley from Gommie’s Lake at base of Bruin’s Hump. Ed Brannin or C. M. Rein used this twenty or thirty years before Daddy and Ernest did in the 1930’s when they were sawing out the standing of fire-killed timber for house logs. The material from living trees would warp, and the bark on the green logs had to be peeled off. The dead timber made tough, non-shrinking timber that already had the bark removed from it. The “bunk house” cabin that nephew George uses was built from logs sawed from fire killed trees. Others went to John Moss and Carl Bussey houses on the west side of Big Timber.^[1]

For years a rotten log and the remains of a cellar pit could be seen on each side of the road near the line fence west of Gommie’s Lake. The cellar pit and rotting base log was still visible in the 1930’s. Likely the place was used by the tie cutters of the 1800’s. This is where Bud Ward and Ernest Parker set up a cookstove and slept on the ground. 

Ward and Parker’s had purchased a sawmill from Ed Brannin. They set it up at the far end of the open land up the valley from Gommie’s Lake.^[2] This was in 1916. Setting up the mill was their first construction project. They dug a watering pit for the steam engine in the swampy ground beside the field and laid down a track for the sawmill carriage to run on. In this picture the sawmill would have been located just right of midpoint of the far edge of the field. The stump in the foreground seems to be pointing at it. The place for the cook stove would be at the tree line just off the picture. 

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^[1]My Freshman year of high school Barbara, Kitty and I boarded with a Mrs. Smith in the Moss house. Mrs. Moss’s green trimmed Kalamazoo kitchen range helped pay for the Moss house. 

^[2] Nearby a rotted log showed where a cabin once stood. Nearby was a pit and mound of dirt where a root cellar had been built.  Likely these were remains of a camp used in the late 1800’s by workers cutting ties for the Northern Pacific Railroad. 

Raindrops fell and dripped from the edge of the tent that covered the gravesite. Family and friends huddled together under umbrellas, the rain mingling with tears that slid from soulful eyes. Words of comfort were spoken, and the sweet fragrances of prayers rose to the throne of heaven. 

Seven rifles split the silence with the discharge of three volleys of shots that rang out to honor the Veteran whose body laid in the casket on the funeral bier. The melancholy sound of a bugle call resounded as a man in uniform played taps. Chills ran down my spine while the mournful tones resonated then fell in the heavy Southern air.  

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With upmost respect and precision, two old soldiers folded the flag that draped the casket. One of them turned on his heels, stepped forward and presented the flag to the family. 

The empty shell of a man was lowered in the ground. In that solemn moment amid many emotions and thoughts, one came to the forefront, “He is not there.” He joined the ranks of others gone before him and reunited with loved ones. He answered the bugle call.

With a final salute, the honor guard spun and marched off the grounds as family and friends joined together to celebrate the life of the old soldier.

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Six redheaded preacher’s kids peered from the balcony of the Lutheran Church in Livingston. Their eyes were fixed on the bride and groom as the preacher said, “You may kiss the bride,” and then the newlyweds walked back down the aisle and down the steps of the church.

Guests had already gathered for a celebration at the Knapp home on Tin Can Hill. After a meal was shared, and congratulations and well wishes were given, the couple returned to Livingston. There were no rooms available at any of the motels and hotels. 

On a side street, a brightly lettered sign at the bottom of a flight of stairs read, “Rooms.” They enter through the door and were met by a matronly lady. She said,“There is one room left,” to which the groom said, “We’ll take it.” The landlady led them down the narrow hallway to the room, and opened the door. Someone had beat them to the room and was sleeping in the single bed, and it wasn’t Goldilocks. It was a drunk who had found the last bed in town before the paying guests arrived. The lady ran him out, changed the sheets, and left the honeymooners in peace. They locked the door just in case the drunk man returned.

When morning broke, the young couple was off to Yellowstone National Park for their honeymoon. Alas, once again there were no rooms to be found. They made their bed on the ground that night. 

It’s a good thing the uncles weren’t around, or they might have made it a family affair. It was reminiscent of the honeymoon of Uncle Ed and his bride when the family joined the after-wedding-party. Had Uncle Ed been there, he might have put fish heads under their blankets in hopes of enticing a bear just like he did to Jess and Julia forty-one years earlier.

After their short honeymoon, the bride and groom made their way to their first home together – a little log cabin twelve feet square. The tiny honeymoon house was furnished with a bed, flat-topped stove, table, two chairs, a cupboard made of wooden apple boxes, chest of drawers, and a washstand.

Nowadays many couples put more emphasis on a fairy tale wedding with little thought to the marriage that follows. Though the wedding of the newlyweds in this story was not an elaborate one, their marriage lasted until they were parted at death. They put each other first and made a life and family together. The sight of the six redheaded kids in the balcony that July day may have been a premonition of things to come for the couple did indeed have six kids, but they weren’t redheaded.

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In the animal world, males often perform rituals or do something flashy to attract females. It’s not much different in the human world. Apparently even the strangest of rituals, such as drinking seven glasses of water, has the power to turn a girl’s head. At least it worked for Buck because after his display she even agreed to a first date. 

By their fourth date, Buck got the nerve to give a kiss to the girl from the prairie. She didn’t knock his teeth out, so he moved closer, put his arm around her, and gave her another kiss.

Buck had another date to keep – with Uncle Sam. The Army made other living arrangements for him. After several months, he was eligible for a furlough. He headed home and reunited with his prairie girl.  They spent some time in the mountains with Buck’s family. 

One of the highlights was the dance at Basin Creek School. When Buck and his date drove down to the school, a chaperone was on board, a wee little chaperone, Buck’s little sister. They all had a great time at the dance but soon the escort became sleepy. Buck grabbed her up and took her to the car. While she slept in the back seat, Buck stole a kiss and proposed to the prairie girl. She said yes! (I wonder if the chaperone was fired)

Buck returned to fulfill his military duty. The next few months their courtship was done by mail. One letter included a diamond ring. 

Buck was discharged in March of 1946. He soon found his way to the Sherod’s where his prairie girl was staying. The two were reunited, but no wedding date had been set. That was about to change. 

Buck tells this story, “One day, about the first of July, we were driving down a rutted lane.  We were sitting close to each other.  I handled the gas petal, and Jean handled the steering wheel. We waved at my Uncle Sid and Byron Grossfield, who were working in a hay field. We passed the bend in the road and the car slid into a rut, missed a bridge, flew off the road and ended up in the dike which carried water around the Gunderson Hill.  Barbara and her date hooked a chain on us to pull us out of the water. Then we had plenty of help. For fifteen miles, there had been no traffic on the road.  However, immediately, Byron and Uncle Sid came to supervise our rescue, and Uncle Barney and a van load of guests drove up the other way.  Uncle Sid remarked that, if it took two people to drive the car, maybe they ought to get married!”

The wedding date was set for the last Friday in July.

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Buck suffered from a sickness – lovesickness – and it was all because of a girl from the prairie. The first time he saw her, she was in a line of eighth grade graduates. She was the top of her class and Valedictorian of the rural schools. He was intrigued. She might be smart, but could she saddle a horse or milk a cow? 

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He expected to see the prairie girl that fall when he started his senior year at Sweet Grass High School. She wasn’t there. Instead, she and her sister went to school in Rappleje. The following year, the sisters started Sweet Grass High. Change was on the horizon and Cupid’s arrow was ready to fly. 

Buck’s sister Barbara, who boarded in town, also attended high school. One weekend when she went home to the mountains forty miles away, she reported that the two Knapp girls (the girls from the prairie), were batching in the other half of the house where she stayed. Buck felt butterflies in his belly. Could it be? The girl from the prairie?

It wasn’t long before Sister Barbara brought the girls to the mountains for the weekend. The Valedictorian tugged at Buck’s heart, but could he win hers? She was a spunky gal with spark and wasn’t afraid to say what was on her mind or to stand up for what she believed. He described her as “something like a spirited bronco.” Not only could she milk a whole string of cows and saddle a horse, but she rode bareback and could fly like the wind.

On the way to an elk hunting trip with a couple of the uncles, Buck stopped in town to visit Sister Barbara – and of course, to get a glimpse of the girl from the prairie. In the house was an old piano. The prairie girl sat at the piano and her fingers flew over the keys. Buck was so impressed, he wanted to do something to get her attention. He showed his great skill of drinking seven glasses of water without stopping. It was then that he discovered her musical skills were not quite what they seemed for her fingers tickled the ivories of a player piano, and she wasn’t the player. It was a long night.

And so began the courtship of the girl from the prairie.

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A tale by a frontier gentleman, my granddad

Yep, that’s me all right.  Looks just like I did back when I was farming and raising a few head of cattle in Montana. The hat in that picture is a genuine straw hat.  Not a dress straw hat, but a real one, the kind a feller could use every day, and, by golly, when it was new you could wear it to town and look just as good as the banker. Of course, a straw hat gets kind of old after a busy summer, and you have to replace them. Luckily, they don’t cost as much as those felt hats like my brother, Buster, wore. Neither can they stand the wear and tear that he gives them when he’s slapping the meanness out of a horse from his rough bunch. 

Buster wears those felt hats, Stetsons, that are plum hot in the summertime. One will last him three or four years, by that time he’ll have a hole in the top of his hat right at the front of the crease, and the sweat and grease from his hat band will have leached through to the outside. The top of a light gray Stetson will have a black ring around its bottom, and it won’t do to wear at a community dance.  But Buster wears one anyway. 

By golly, you notice that hat in my picture?  It’s a straw hat. Instead of getting hot and sweat bound, the older it gets the more it lets in a fresh stream of air.  That is right nice on the hot days in July and August when a feller is thrashing out his wheat crop. 

About 1920, after I came back from the war, John and I put in about thirty acres of wheat.  That doesn’t sound like much now-a-days, but we were doing it all with two shifts of horsepower, three or four hitched up together when breaking new ground. More for pulling a binder. Some of our horses was well broke, and when we run short of good ones, we’d round up one from the half wild herd that Buster had roaming those sagebrush hills. Some of Buster’s horses were pretty juicy, but John could ride anything with hair on it, and I was a fair hand with work horses. By the end of a farming season, we’d have a good string of horses and a lot of broken harness.

At first, we did pretty good farming.  But then, by golly, we hit a couple of bad years.  Two in a row.  Glanders was going around the horse herds. My straw hat was in its third year and was in bad shape.  If it hadn’t been for the antelope roaming the hills we’d have starved to death..

Come spring, when we got our crop in, John says, “The third time’s a charm.” Sure enough, the rains came, and the grass grew, and the wheat had big, full, heavy heads. When the threshing crew came, we made over forty bushels to the acre. On the last day of threshing, when that threshing rig was kicking out the last of the straw, Old John said that we need something to clean out the rig.

I threw in my old hat. With a bumper crop, I’d get new one. I might even wear it for Phipps harvest party.  I’d fiddle for dance.  By golly those folks might take up a collection.  Any hat that pays a feller back is a good hat.

The sound of horse hooves on the Montana prairie caught the attention of the man who tended the stock. A smile played on his lips as he watched his two daughters riding bareback, “By Golly! Those girls look like a couple of wild Indians.” His eyes twinkled with admiration as he chuckled.

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There was a time when the sisters, just one year apart, were inseparable from their horses. Darky belonged to the oldest girl, Jean. You might guess that Darky was dark brown, sleek and shiny. He wasn’t just for pleasure, but also for work. Her sister’s horse was Goldie.

The family supplemented their income by milking cows. Each of the girls had their string of Shorthorns. The girls would run and jump on the back of their horses and ride across the prairie to gather the cows in for milking. Jean was known to wrestle the cows that were reluctant to cooperate. Some of them ended up on the ground, legs tied together, while Jean relieved their burden and filled her bucket with milk.

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When the girls went off to school and boarded in town, the horses had to be left behind, but they still rode whenever they had the opportunity.

The day came when Jean married her mountain sweetheart. Along with just a few possessions, she brought a cat and her beloved Darky to the marriage. On moving day, the cat rode up the canyon in the car, but not Darky. There was only one way worthy of transporting a horse like him. 

Leaving the home place on Tin Can Hill, Jean rode Darky bareback across the prairie. Her new sisters-in-law, Barbara and Mary Jane, rode down and met her in Melville. From there, the girls cut across the hills and into the mountains. They stayed the night at the Brannin Ranch before completing their journey the next day. When Darky entered the gate at the Ward and Parker place, he was at his new mountain home.

Years later as I imagine Darky’s ride, I see just a wisp of a girl riding bareback over hills covered with prairie grass swaying in the breeze. Splashes of color dot the countryside as wildflowers lift their faces toward the sun. A wave of emotion washes over me as I see the girl of the prairie riding alone into adulthood. As she neared the mountains, with the passing of each mile, she left childhood behind and was transformed into a young bride. 

And so began another journey…

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Cars stopped on the road to allow the horses and wagons to pass. Though wagons were a common sight in Yellowstone National Park, this particular procession was different. I don’t know if there were any banners flying that read “Just Married”, or tin cans trailing from the back of the wagons, but I can almost guarantee that onlookers soon learned that this procession was part of a special celebration.

It was the summer of 1905. Wedding bells rang for the second son of Stanton and Guadalupe Brannin. 

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The bride and groom stood before the Justice of the Peace. The groom’s sister and brother-in-law attended them while several family members witnessed the event. 

Family was important, so important that they were part of the wedding party – the after-wedding party.  After the “I do’s” were exchanged, the family made their way back to their camp set up along the river. It didn’t end there. The honeymoon became a family affair. Their destination? Yellowstone National Park. 

The wedding entourage must have been quite a sight. The bride and groom were on horseback. Some of the family rode in the top buggy, some in the spring wagon, some on horseback, and some on the lumber wagon loaded with their camping gear.

Their first night in the Park was at Mammoth Hot Springs. They visited Old Faithful, Yellowstone Lake, the stinky paint pots, Tower Falls, and other sights. Among other wildlife viewing, they watched grizzlies feast on scraps of food tossed in garbage cans.

With this group came their own entertainment. There was always good-natured bantering and teasing going on along with lots of laughter. 

One day, the groom caught a mess of fish for supper. He cleaned them for the cook and managed to hide the fish heads. When no one was looking, he took the heads and hid them under the bedding of his sister and brother-in-law. In the middle of the night, the campers awakened to a low grumbling sound and sniffling near the tent. The fish head bait worked. A resident bear showed up for an evening meal. The campsite buzzed with the family trying to drive the bear away.

After about two weeks, the newlyweds and the family returned to their first camp along the river for one last night together. The next day, they went their separate ways. There would be other opportunities for them to gather again. That’s the way it is when it’s a Family Affair.

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While talking with a cousin the other day, he said, “We aren’t good neighbors anymore.” I thought, “He is exactly right.” Often, we don’t even know our neighbors. An age old question is, “Who is my neighbor?” Well, it can be anyone.

Once upon a time, neighbors needed one another. Neighbors weren’t necessarily close in distance but were essential. They would stop what they were doing to help others. 

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A neighbor might make a five-mile trip in the middle of the night to deliver a birth announcement or rescue an expectant couple when the bridge was out. Neighbors gathered to help raise a barn, fight fires, help in the fields, brand cattle, sew and quilt, or make home repairs. They were there for funerals, weddings, tragedies, in time of sickness, and times of great joy. They pooled their resources, worshipped and fellowshipped together, and made time for each other even in the busiest of times. Neighbors were a necessity. They became friends and valuable treasures.

My great grandmother was such a friend. She was midwife to expectant mothers, doctored neighbors with her herbal remedies, and considered the matriarch of the community as well as her own family. They knew what it meant to be a neighbor and a friend.

William Butler Keats said, “There are no strangers here; only friends you haven’t met yet.”