I grew up in the Bible Belt. You know, the place where there was a church on every corner. Well, that might be a bit of exaggeration, but there were lots of churches. If you took a drive through the countryside, a church would appear out of nowhere, no houses in view. If you took a drive into town, you could see a first, second, or even a third Baptist church once removed. You might find a United Methodist, a Congregational Methodist, Church of God, Assembly of God, Pentecostal, and the list goes on. Some of those old country churches now have their doors closed.
Some parishioners change churches as easily as changing a pair of pants. They are called church hoppers. Whenever our family changed churches, we had a slight disadvantage, or maybe it was an advantage, because we couldn’t get away from the preacher. Nope, he went with us.
Through the years, I have heard lots of prayers float to the rafters and beyond. Some folks have “unspoken requests” while others voice prayer requests publicly, many that should remain silent and held in strict confidence. One man in a church I attended had his own way with prayer. He spoke loudly and much too clearly as he began his prayer, “Lord, you know Sister Sally is having a hard time since she found out her husband is seeing Jane Thermabotham. You know they have been seen together out on the town…..” And the “prayer” continued. (names have been changed as to not incriminate someone) By the time the last “Amen” was given, word was all over town. Of course, the man who prayed wondered how everybody in town knew about Sally’s situation. The damage was done. Every time he prayed, I thought, “you don’t have to tell God what he already knows and no one else needs to know it, true or not!”
There are people I love to hear pray. One of my special ladies prays and when she says, “Amen,” all eyes open wide just knowing that God will be sitting right there beside her. Who knows? She might even be found sitting in His lap! Another of my special girls prays and a sense of reverence and awe flow into the room. Her words draw a clear picture of holiness. An exemplary gracious lady who has now gone on prayed quietly. She was one known as a “prayer warrior.” Never did anyone hear her repeat something in prayer that pointed a finger of judgment. She silently reached the gates of heaven with her sincere requests, but it didn’t end there. Her prayers were accompanied with action. If there was a need she could help meet, she did it quietly with no recognition. She learned what many others know – there is power in prayer and accompanied with love, it reaches the throne room of heaven.
Our first stop was Hobby Lobby. I just needed to pick up some sewing needles and one piece of fabric. My little sidekick decided she needed some fabric, too. She settled for two pre-cut pieces and some trim to make a purse.
For lunch, we decided to pick up something from a drive-thru and find a place for a picnic. We like picnics. I pulled into Steak and Shake for a couple of burgers and drinks and then drove to find our lunch spot. We stopped in a pull-off along a side road in the park. My little sidekick and I got out, walked to the back of the jeep, opened the hatch, and climbed up. As we ate our lunch, feet dangling, I told her that was a special spot. Daddy Buck’s favorite place for lunch was Steak and Shake. Many times, we got it to go, and we stopped along that same road, sat in the back of the jeep, and let our feet dangle as we at our burgers. My sidekick seemed excited to share that special place. We were even rewarded with three deer having lunch in the woods beside us.
A few days later, the other kids were with us. My little sidekick said, “Let’s get our lunch and eat in our special spot.” I said, “Nope. That’s our secret place now!”
I took the girls on an adventure – girls as in the Judge, Red, and Maud. That particular trip required us to wash our clothes a couple of times. You can tell by the picture below that we were in a place with dirt roads zigzagging through the countryside. It wasn’t just our vehicle that was dusty.
We gathered up our dirty clothes and headed to town. As usual, we plan a meal with any occasion, and laundry day was no exception. The first stop was the laundromat. We loaded up three washers with clothes, started our walk through town, grabbed some lunch, and popped into various shops along main street. By the time we got back to the laundromat the clothes were ready for the dryers. I gathered up a few things and went to our vehicle to put it in the back. I will admit that even I was surprised to see a couple of items hanging in the back to dry. Let me just say that those things didn’t belong to me. We laughed about our ornaments, closed the hatch, and walked down the street to get our milkshakes.
If you see a SUV with an Idaho tag, with two bras hanging, one on each side of the back window – I don’t know anything about it. I can’t take those girls anywhere!
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.
After the accident that took the life of my mother and threatened to take my father’s as well, I was bombarded with a myriad of emotions and decisions. Life as I knew it changed in the blink of an eye. Along with the shock of the tragedy was the responsibility that followed. It was months before Daddy healed from his wounds and even then, he was ready to give up from time to time.
I tried not to borrow trouble, for each day has enough trouble of its own, but I did (and do) like to plan ahead. Thoughts rushed through my mind of situations I might face, and I wanted a plan of action in the event that happened. Though Daddy had not mentioned driving, one day, I said, “Daddy, if you want to drive again, we will go look for a car. It’s okay if you want to drive, but I don’t you going any further than our little town.” My brother brought one of his vehicles over but it just sat in the carport. Daddy never mentioned driving. (One of my previous thoughts had been, “What am I going to do if Daddy wants to drive and I have to hide his keys?”) I made Daddy’s appointments on my days off. For the ones not available on those days, I made other arrangements of transportation for him.
one of our outings
I pondered the situation, and his lack of desire to drive. A first thought might be that he was afraid to drive again, but I didn’t sense fear. It was then that I came to a conclusion. If Daddy drove, he would maintain a sense of independence, but what would he forfeit? Aha! That was the key! He didn’t want to be by himself. If someone else took him to appointments, to pastors’ meetings, out to eat, to visit, to the store, etc., he would have someone to talk to – someone to spend time with him. That was not a forfeiture but a blessing.
While working in a public office for many years, I saw customers come in, some on a daily basis, just to have coffee and chat with employees and other people coming through the doors. I received phone calls from customers who asked some insignificant question just to have someone to talk to. Often, someone asked the question, “Why do they come in every day and just hang around?”
If you run across someone like that, remember, they might just be a bit lonely, and just maybe, you might be the blessing.
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?
Charlie lived across the field, 100 yards. One of his grandsons was quite a football player of the same name. Charlie had a mule. It was summer. Hot. No air conditioning in the little white church. Doors open. Windows open. Charlie’s mule got out and decided to visit the church yard. Charlie came after the mule. He didn’t want him to use the church for a barn or a shady place. Figured that would disrupt the congregation.
“Sometimes we need a social dispensation.”
“Whoa mule!”
One bald headed gentleman had his chin on his chest so that his head reflected the light. He jerked his head up. “Whoa there mule!” The mule trotted behind the church to the cemetery.
“Get out of that place, mule!” Charlie trotted around behind him. The mule ambled around the church again, back on the other side and past the front door. “Don’t go in there mule! Those are white folks.” The mule paused and went on. By this time the people had lost the sermon. It was just as well, I’d lost it too, and when the mule went back across the road with Charlie after him, I got hold of another part – and nobody missed it.
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.
