We pulled into the gas station to fill up the truck. Parked at the pump beside us was a green F250 that was hard pressed to be considered green. It was covered with mud, dust, and very likely other ranch excrement. The diesel was running, and it was evident the engine had been revved a time or two.
But that wasn’t what caught my eye. There was a guy, I assumed the owner, in the back of the truck along with a four-wheeler. When he had pumped gas into the four-wheeler, he took rags and wiped off the gas cap and the seat. He took the squeegee and cleaned off the mirror, then wiped the whole thing clean. When it was to his liking, he hopped in the dirty truck and drove off into the sunset.
I thought the scene a bit amusing. As I pondered it, the modern cowboy came to mind. When I was a kid, we drove into western towns and were rewarded with seeing real cowboys – you know, the ones who wore cowboy boots with jingling spurs, cowboy hats, western pearl snap shirts, walked bowlegged, and rode the range on horseback. Their horses were well cared for – fed, brushed, and rubbed down. They not only bore their rider across the range to drive cattle, mend fences, check livestock, etc., but they were also the cowboys’ companion.
Nowadays, four-wheelers ride the range. The guy who carried his four-wheeled horse powered steed in the back of the truck was just taking care of his ride.
That was the response from the little man whenever something strange happened or something was missing.
One day I opened the microwave oven. I said, “Daddy, why is there a cup of cold coffee in the microwave?”
His reply? “The old man did it. He must have gotten it warm and forgot to take it out. I’ll drink it in the morning.”
“Daddy, your t-shirt is ripped.”
“The old man did it.”
The old man moved papers, left trails of spilled coffee on the floor, left burners on, set off the smoke alarm, hid things, and did other antics.
One morning Daddy came out of his bathroom and said, “I looked in the mirror and there was an old man staring back at me.”
That old man in the mirror hung around for a while. I guess that was good because he was company for my dad.
Note: Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I see one of my sisters in the blink of an eye, but the other day, for one split second, I thought I saw an old man in the mirror (that looked like my dad) looking back at me.
This is a remembrance of my guest author (my dad) about one of his uncles
Charles Crawford Brannin had many nicknames. Some of the neighbors called him Crawford. Dick Brannin called him Diney. Several nieces and nephews knew him as Sparky. Father and Uncle Ed called him Tommy. However, to my sisters and me he was Rube.
A load of names was bound to slow anyone down. Fortunately this didn’t go against Rube’s nature. It wasn’t that he had anything against hurry in principal; if people wanted to do a day’s work in an hour’s time that was their problem. Anybody with a lick of sense ought to know that rushing about was best reserved for memorable occasions. The three or four times we saw Rube in a rush were memorable occasions.
The winter of 1942-43 Uncle Ed and Aunt Dora stayed with us. The first week in January, Rube came steaming up the road. He busted into the shop where the stormy weather had driven us. He didn’t even bother to brush the snowballs off the bottom of his tattered trousers but went straight over to his older brother.
Rube and sister Babe
“Gu-guess wh-what?” he said, waving a chopper mitt in Ed Brannin’s face.
“What?”
Rube burst into a grin. His week’s growth of whiskers grinned with him. “B-B-Barney just married the long legged school marm.”
That was news! Barney Brannin was fifty four years old and Nella Francis was in her early twenties. “B-b-bet they have some l-l-long legged kids.”
Barney and Nella didn’t produce any children, but the marriage did change things at the Brannin Hunting Lodge. About the end of January, Rube came hobbling up the road with a sack on his back. He was mumbling to himself all the way. When he reached the barnyard, he sat the sack on a bare place on the snow spotted ground. He took a short breather, and then, wagging his finger, he began talking to whatever was in the sack. “D-don’t worry. I’ll be back after while.”
“What you got in the sack?” Dad asked as Rube came into the yard.
“It’s B-B-Bones,” Rube answered.
He untied the gunny sack and dumped a red rooster on the ground.
“Brought him up for vacation,” he explained. Then a scowl crossed his face. “I-It’s on account of N-Nella,” he said. “She’s got a h-h-hungry look in her eye.”
Bones was in charge of the Brannin hen house. Every so often the cook would crave a chicken for dinner and Rube would bring Bones up for a vacation. The rooster spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with us. Those were critical days. Luckily Bones was old and tough or he’d have never made it through the Fourth of July. That’s when the Brannin cook would poach some of the spring hatch for chicken dinner. But here it was – January.
“Wh-when B-B-Barney gets to town, maybe he’ll buy Nella some w-wieners.”
It was cold weather and Barney didn’t get any wieners until the end of February. By then things were in a desperate condition. Rube was getting homesick for his pet rooster and so were the hens. In fact, Rube’s pullets were on strike. They hadn’t laid an egg since the end of the year and the first of March is egg laying season.
“D-danged hens fergot how to lay,” Rube announced when he came after his rooster. Hopefully old Bones would stir the hens to action. Rube hobbled down the road with a sack of live chicken over his back. A week later he came back. This time he was traveling in the express lane, coming in a dead run, which for him was twenty yards without stopping to see how far he had come.
When Rube reached the house he didn’t even go for Dad’s tobacco can. You could tell there was something important on his mind. It came pouring out in a conglomeration of words. It seemed that Bones had gone right to work getting the hen house in order. Two or three days after the rooster returned, Rube found him scratching the straw in a nest box. Later that afternoon there was an egg in the box.
“B-B-Bones laid it,” Rube boasted. “B-b-best rooster I ever had.” He shook his head in amazement.
“Whoopee” he shouted. “B-b-ones L-l-laid an egg. Wha-what a r-r-rooster. Wh-whoopee!”
He pulled his ragged jacket off, unzipped an empty tobacco pouch and headed into the middle room for Dad’s can of Prince Albert tobacco.
We played cards, but then, we were Methodists! The Baptists down the road wouldn’t be caught doing that and truth be known, Mama and Daddy didn’t want us caught at it either.
They weren’t opposed to us playing, we just couldn’t do it in view of passersby with the possibility of being the topic of conversation around someone’s dinner table that night. We had to maintain a certain appearance you know – especially since we were the preacher’s kids and were often held to a higher standard than the neighborhood kids.
One day my sister and I headed out to the front steps to play a friendly game of poker. We were quickly told that we could play in the back yard or in the house where no one could see us. I didn’t see a problem, nor did I think it was anyone’s business. Some folks even frowned on solitaire or pinocle or rummy.
Our poker playing was quite harmless. After all, we used candy corn for poker chips. If someone happened by, we could easily destroy the evidence by ingesting the sweet nuggets. Surely using candy corn ante couldn’t be considered gambling. Well, I guess it was quite a gamble for the winner who took the ante pot that had been handled by everyone at the table. You can bet that made the win not quite so sweet.
One day I decided I needed to know how to crochet and knit. It fascinated me to watch my grandmother do her handwork. I sneaked a peek at her instruction sheet, and I couldn’t read a thing. Ch 17, dc in 4th ch from hook, 15 dc; Sl st, ch 17; dc in next 4 dc, ch 1, [sk next dc, shell in next dc] 4 times; trc in each st across; repeat in rounds. What did that even mean? To me, it was a foreign language, one I would have to learn in order to read the directions.
My grandmother did not willingly divulge information on her skills. With that in mind, I formed a plan of action. One day I walked into the room where she sat and said, “I want you to teach me to crochet, and knit those dish cloths like you make.” She stiffened up and started to sputter out excuses. Her greatest excuse was that she tried once to teach someone in the family to knit and crochet and they never could get it. Well, that wasn’t me! I said, “One day you’ll be gone. Don’t you want to leave those skills as part of your legacy? Tell me what I need to purchase – the exact hook and needle sizes and the specific type of yarn you use – and then you can teach me.” I pointed to a crochet pattern and said, “This is a foreign language. It makes no sense. I want to know how to read it and how to do each stitch. Then, I will be able to read any pattern.”
She looked skeptical and told me what I needed. A day or two later, I showed up with the suggested items and took instructions under her reluctant yet capable tutelage. It wasn’t long before I would go in and show her something I was working on, and I knew she was pleased.
My grandmother was hesitant to show me how to knit because she thought it would confuse me when I tried to read a pattern. She said she learned to knit from her friend, a Dutch lady, who taught her to knit ‘like the Dutch.’ That is completely different than the American way. I told her, “I want to do it just like you.” So, she taught me. Years after she died, I was working on a knitted baby blanket that gave instructions to purl. Oh my, how do you purl like the Dutch? I had no idea and found no help. One day, I gathered up my stuff, and went to visit my great aunt which was always a treat. I said, “I need help. I’m supposed to purl and I want you to show me how.” She said, “I don’t think I can show you because I don’t knit the American way.” I got a surprised look on my face. She said, “Who taught you to knit?” I responded, “Grandma Bee.” Then she looked surprised, “Oh! I can show you then because I taught her. We knit like the Europeans.” So, I learned to purl – just like the Dutch and Europeans. When I visited China, one of my daughter’s Chinese friends showed me how to knit like the Chinese which uses three threads per stitch.
the first crocheted afghan I ever made
I especially like crocheting doilies
Every walk of life has its own language whether it’s the medical profession, cooking, engineering, construction, banking, sewing, crocheting or knitting. To speak those languages, you have to learn the unique terms and their meanings. Now if you come to my house, you will find a basket of yarn, knitting needles, and crochet hooks beside my chair, and I know how to use them. I learned the language!
knitting the European way and the Chinese way
tools of the trade
This little doll has a crocheted body as well as her clothing, horse and dolly. Hours and hours are spent crocheting one of these, but it is so satisfying when completed.
a tale of my guest author, a scared little boy who grew up to be my daddy
Cousin Anna has a cat. She calls her Kitsy-Witsy. She loves cats. Every morning she says, “Good morning Kitsy, do you want Mama to fix you some warm milk?”
Cousin Anna calls herself “Mama” when she talks to her cat. At night she says, “Do you want to sleep with Mama?”
That is Cousin Anna. She likes cats.
She won’t put Kitsy-Witsy out of doors at night because coyotes live in the forest around us. Cousin Anna thinks the coyotes might get her cat. Maybe they would. Coyotes tried to eat our turkeys.
It was night, and the turkeys were sleeping in the big fir tree behind the chicken house. The coyotes barked, and howled, and tried to climb the tree to get the turkeys.
My sisters and I were sleeping in the new bedroom way off on the end of the house. We heard the coyotes. One of them was right outside the window where we slept – that was way off out there on the far side of the new room.
We were afraid the coyote would try to get us instead of the turkeys. My big sister said, “Let’s hide under the bed so the coyotes can’t find us.”
the author and his sisters
We pulled the covers off the bed and crawled under it. We shivered and cried until Old Spot started barking at the coyotes.
He said, “Go away or I’ll eat you up.”
But the coyotes barked back, “There are six of us and only one of you.”
Then Daddy jumped out of bed and grabbed his shot gun. He went outside, right by our bedroom window. “Blood, thunder, and sudden death!” he shouted. He fired the gun. “BAM, BAM!”
A shotgun sounds very loud when you are under a bed at midnight. My mother heard us crying way down there at the far end of the house. She told us to get on top of the bed because coyotes wouldn’t hurt children anyway.
Do you think that my mother gets strange ideas?
This coyote crawled under an old house and died. How would you like those eyes staring at you?
Because there was very little snow on the mountains, which was not typical for mid-October, deer and other wildlife had not been driven to lower feeding grounds. Bare branches on trees and shrubs rattled with the slightest touch or breeze, making animals and hunters alike jumpy. Shots rang out, the barrage of gunfire too close for comfort. It was October 15, 1940, the first day of hunting season.
Four men who hunted in the Crazy Mountains that day returned to their little cabin just above the Ward & Parker place forty miles from town. There were two cabins side by side. One cabin built in 1937 or ’38 was “Gommie’s cabin” and was sometimes used by hunters. The other cabin was built by a hunting crew from Big Timber. It was sometimes referred to as the Bryan-Alden cabin. Ward & Parker furnished the logs and lumber, but the hunters provided the labor and built the cabin to use during hunting season. Other times of the year, the cabins were used for vacationers and one of them was the honeymoon home of a young couple for a time.
Gommie’s Cabin
After the long day of hunting, two of the men sat in the cabin cleaning their weapons. The scene changed in an instant. While one of the men unloaded his rifle, it accidentally discharged, hitting the other man in the right side shattering his upper arm and shoulder. Hearing the shot, the other two men ran into the cabin. The gunshot victim lay unconscious but alive on the floor.
They quickly took the wounded man to the Ward house where first aid was administered. One of the hired men at Ward & Parker drove them to Big Timber Hospital, arriving at 9 PM. Amputation was performed on the arm, but the loss of blood and shock was too much. The man died at 1:15 the following morning.
Though the old hunter’s cabin now has a leaking roof, and a door that no longer closes, it still contains memories of a life that was snuffed out in the blink of an eye. Like shattered glass scattered on the cabin floor, the lives of more than one family were shattered that mid-October day in 1940.
On the way to take my son to school one day, we were talking about learning a new language. I told him it was easier to learn a language at a young age. He was quiet for a minute then said, “I guess it’s harder for older people to learn a new language because their brain is already full.”
Though Daddy’s brain contained lots of data, he was still a master at remembering people. When he met someone, he somehow made a connection with them. Later he not only knew the person’s name, but he also knew about the family, where they were from, who they were related to, and various other bits of information.
As Daddy aged, he remarked that he just couldn’t remember like he used to. Even with his short-term memory loss, as he called it, his memory was better than almost anyone I knew. It distressed him whenever he forgot someone’s name. Usually later that day or the next, he would randomly call out the person’s name and was very pleased with himself. He had no problem remembering stories from his childhood. His tales included dates, names of people and places, and history. He was always coming up with songs from school days or from his time in the war. Somehow, he sifted through all the files of information in his head and pulled out the right one.
You’re never too old to learn something new
One day when he was discouraged because of a memory lapse, he asked why he could remember things from years ago but not from earlier that day. I told him his brain was getting full. His old memories connected to the roots of time were deeply embedded. He had drawn them from his memory bank for so many years, they were always fresh. The latest happenings of his life lay in a shallow layer on the top of his database. Kind of like dust on a table, or a thin layer of snow on a sunny day, they were easily melted and wiped away.
I loved hearing his old tales over and over again. It seemed each time, he found another nugget to add to his story. By retelling events of his childhood, he kept his mind active. He spoke bits and pieces of several other languages and would often answer a question in one of those languages. My great aunt took a language course in her later years and Daddy kept his German books handy so he could refresh those things he had learned. But his greatest language was one we should all try to learn at any age – it was the language of love and acceptance for others.
These two siblings contain a wealth of information on a plethora of topics and family history
My mother was almost deaf, in fact, according to the charts, she was legally deaf. Sometimes it was very difficult to communicate with her. I’m afraid to say that many times she was ignored. She often felt alienated because she missed so much of the conversation. Her lack of hearing really hit me when the grandkids were small. I told her one day, “I’m so sorry that you can’t hear that sweet little voice.” How sad to not hear those little sounds we all take for granted – a chirping bird, a child’s soft song, or a little voice saying, “I love you.”
She and Daddy had their own way to talk to one another. They made up their own method of sign language. Someone came up with the idea for us to take a sign language class. Daddy, Mama, my daughter, husband, and I signed up. We went to the Technical School and took the course for American Sign Language.
After we completed the course, we tried to put the language into action. I will admit that I didn’t use it as much as I should have, so most of that has left me now. Mama and Daddy used it, but Daddy’s sign language was much like his writing – sloppy. They managed though Daddy added his own quirky signs for various things.
Fifteen years ago, Mama and Daddy were in a serious car accident, one that claimed the life of my mother. Mama was flown to a hospital that had a trauma unit. After she was situated, I went in to visit her. They had her arms strapped down but she could move her hands. I noticed her making some kind of motion with her hands. Immediately I called for my daughter to come in. She was faster at reading sign than me. Mama was saying, “I hurt.” She signed letters and words so we were able to at least have some idea of how to help her. The nurse came in and I explained the reason she was moving her arms was not because she was a bad patient, but because it was her only way to communicate. I also told the nurse that she was hard of hearing. If they wanted her cooperation, they should all speak loudly, clearly, and in front of her face where she could watch their mouths move. Then, she would be compliant. I asked if there was anyone available on the nursing staff who knew sign language. There was none. A friend of the family who knew sign language fluently came to our aid and was able to help translate messages. We felt that at least gave Mama a bit of comfort during those last moments.
After her death, Daddy insisted I write letters to some of the universities with well know nursing programs, one being the University of Georgia. In the letters, I relayed to them to situation Mama and the family faced, suggesting that basic sign language be part of their curriculum. It would be easy enough to have a chart of basic signs posted in the rooms so patients could voice their needs. Of all sections of the hospitals, the trauma units and ICUs have patients that cannot speak because of tubes and other obstructions. If you’ve ever been in a foreign country where you are the only one speaking your language, it can be a bit frightening. What if you were deaf and there was no one to communicate with you, especially if you had an urgent need? I never received a response from any of my letters, but hopefully, someone took it to heart and maybe, just somewhere, there is a nurse who learned the language of sign.
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.”
