The simplest of things can often bring the most comfort. It might be a silky pillowcase. It could be in just a couple of words or a tune of a song. It might be found in the corner of a blanket or a small worn-out stuffed animal. It could be in a smile or a quiet hug. Those little things, seemingly insignificant, carry big medicine.
Daddy and Brownie, the bear
You’ve heard the story of my daddy’s teddy bear, Brownie. I know just how he felt about his bear because I feel the same way about the bear my mama made for me when I was about four or five years old. He is made out of brown corduroy, with off-white velvety paws and ears, and embroidered eyes, nose and mouth. His corduroy is worn thin, his neck has been restuffed and stitched together a few times, and he has flannel patches on his tattered body. He might not look like much, but to me, he is more than special. Having him close by is comforting especially if I don’t feel good or have had a bad day. He is good medicine.
That’s not the only medicine I have. When I was quite small, my Montana grandmother came to visit. That was a treat! I never got to see her as often as I would have liked, but it never failed that when I did, it was just like we had never been apart. On that particular visit, she made a special treasure for me – a quilt. The pieced side is made from scraps of flannel. It is soft, warm, and cuddly just like my grandmother was. I didn’t use it a lot, but rather tucked it away for special times when I needed an extra dose of comfort.
My quilt has a few worn places just like my bear and me. Even though I am a grandmother, there are still times I carefully pull the quilt over me and hold my bear close.
On the day of Jack’s funeral, a man gave the kids’ mother a dollar to get something special forJack’s younger brother and sisters. They found their treasures at the Big Timber Golden Rule – three fuzzy stuffed bears – a gold one, brown one and green one at 35 cents each. Even the store clerk’s heart was pricked, and he sold the three bears for a dollar. Even though Brownie the bear offered some comfort to Jack’s little brother, loneliness still crept into his world.
To little brother Buck, that bear was special. In his young mind, that was all he had left of Jack. For a year after his brother’s death, little Buck thought they were all doomed. One night tears slid from his eyes when he said his prayers, “God, let my Teddy Bear be buried with me when I die.”
The Privy
The little boy carried his bear with him everywhere. One day when he took the bear with him to the outhouse, he set the bear beside him very carefully, but the bear toppled over and fell into the deep pit out of the boy’s reach. Indian Charlie heard him cry and scream all the way up at the sawmill. His mama heard him probably before he even screamed because mamas have premonitions and know things before they actually happen. She ran to the outhouse thinking something terrible had happened. It had.
Little Buck’s mama was a hero. He thought she was an angel. She assessed the situation, got the garden rake, and rescued Brownie, the brown fuzzy bear, out of the dark murky hole. Immediately, she tossed the bear into the horse trough. When the bear came up for air, little Buck grabbed him from his watery grave. His mama brought his teddy bear back from the dead. It was too bad she could not have done the same for his brother Jack. It took years for the little boy to get over the loss of his brother. In fact, it took all of eighty-seven.
Brownie almost lost his life again when Sister Ellen wanted to give her doll funeral rites. Not wanting the doll to be buried alone, she convinced Buck that the bear should be buried, too. It’s a good thing the bear was buried with his ear sticking out. He was soon rescued when he was pulled from the sawdust pile by his ear at the hand of a little boy.
At the old homeplace way back in the heart of the mountains, the outhouse, known to some as the privy, though it was the smallest “house”, may have been the most important building of all.
It was a place to read the “Monkey Ward” magazine, which was also used for other things. It was a place to think or make up a song. It ranked high as a place of necessity. Someone could sit and rest and hear the water piped from the spring splash into the horse trough and spill over the sides. Little kids learned how to run fast from imaginary bears that lurked behind the privy ready to pounce. In the wintertime it wasn’t much fun having to make the trek to the little house even though grown-ups cut a trail for such emergencies.
Sometimes privies were used for pranks. On one such occasion Sister Ellen sent sister BJ on a mission to run to the privy and open the door. Little did BJ know the outhouse was occupied. The door flung open and there sat Effie Bowlegs reading Monkey Ward. He didn’t get rescued! I guess he didn’t have an angel watching out for him.
When I was a kid, I liked to eat frog eggs. They were really yummy. I liked them warm right out of the pan. I liked them cold, too.
I watched my mommy put dried frog eggs in milk with some sugar, a pinch of salt and the big yellow eyes of a few chicken eggs.
Eating frog eggs didn’t scare me. My brothers thought it would. That’s just because if I was afraid, they could eat the frog eggs in my bowl.
You might ask how I knew they were really frog eggs. That’s simple! My brothers told me so. They would never try to trick a little sister, would they?
When my husband was little, he ate Pop Cereal. His mama made that just like my mommy made frog eggs, only his mama left the dried frog eggs out.
I don’t eat frog eggs now, (I can’t find them in any of the stores), but I do eat Tapioca Pudding. Did you know it’s cooked the same way my mommy made frog eggs for us?
Story inspired by an old, abandoned Michigan homestead
Faded curtains flapped in the breeze through broken panes of glass. I saw no other movement in the big old house. It stood empty except for the memories that lingered there. My mind wandered as I envisioned another time when laughter tickled the rafters and sweet aromas drifted from the cook stove, a time when hopes and dreams were alive.
The old shed that stood nearby was shy a few boards while others just barely hung on by rusty nails. Rotting shingles hung precariously from the edge of the roof. Other outbuildings threatened to lean all the way to ground as they rotted into the soil. Stones lined the opening to the cellar, now forgotten as a larder for the family that once lived in the big house. Fields, long since plowed and seeded, produced a yield of briars and weeds among patches of broom straw waving in the breeze. Snow lay in dark recesses protected from the warming sun. A thin layer of translucent clouds hung like sheer curtains beneath billowing gray clouds drifting slowly across the sky. A gust of wind parted the clouds briefly to reveal a canopy of blue before closing tight again.
As the wind blew across the open fields, I heard a door slam. The sounds of hurried footsteps echoed on the floor of the porch. The door creaked as it opened and slammed again. Voices mingled with sounds of running feet. Children’s laughter floated on the breeze. The humming engine of a tractor making its round in the field joined the sounds of the family. Little ones played in the yard as the lady of the house took towels and freshly laundered bedsheets from the clothesline. She folded them, placed them in a basket that she hoisted on her hip, and walked back to the house. Some children headed to the chicken house to gather eggs. The door of the coop slammed and the hens bawked in protest as their nests were disturbed. Two older boys strolled to the barn to do the evening milking. Metallic cow bells clanked as the milk cows headed toward their stanchions to be relieved of their excess baggage. The evening sun faded and cast long golden rays on the house. Dark shadows from scattered trees loomed large across the countryside.
The sound of a bell on the back porch clanged as the clapper on the string was jerked back and forth. Kids ran to the back of the house and up the steps. Boys emerged from the barn with full buckets of milk that sloshed and threatened to spill over the sides. The tractor spit and sputtered and came to a stop with one last lingering groan. Soon the sound of work boots could be heard on the wooden planks of the porch.
Light streamed from the kitchen window. Everything got quiet just briefly before the sounds of laughter, light bantering, and clanging forks escaped the walls. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, canned beans and biscuits with homemade butter and jam were placed on the table among all the plates. Egg custard sat cooling on the windowsill. There was lots of chatter. Kids talked about their day of adventure and told on their siblings for their misdeeds. The father talked with the older boys and gave instructions concerning the farm equipment, fields and the cows. The mother talked of the garden spot that needed to be plowed so it would be ready for the seeds as soon as the soil warmed up a bit more.
Though I had envisioned life on the old farm, the abandoned homestead lay eerily quiet with an occasional creak and crack from the forsaken walls and floors of the old house. I took in the scene before me and wondered what had happened to this family. What had driven them from their home? The dad didn’t come in from the fields one day. He left his widow with all those kids. At least the bigger kids were able to continue to take care of the crops and livestock for a while. It wasn’t long before the kids had grown. They left one by one and found a new life in the big city. The mom could no longer care for the place nor did she have the heart to do so. She ended up in town in a home for the elderly. Now she was gone, too. The old homestead only lived in the memories of the kids who had grown up there. An old neighbor would reminisce from time to time and mention the family that had once lived down the road.
As we turned around the bend, I heard a door slam one last time. I turned back for a final look. Through the dust I saw a fleeting shadow. A light flickered in the window just briefly – and then it was gone.
Daddy had been told to not be surprised if Uncle Rube didn’t know him. The old gentleman had suffered a stroke that affected his memory. As we walked into the room at the Pioneer Home, Uncle Rube looked up. He took one look at Daddy, stood to his feet, raised his hand, pointed his finger and said, “Th-th-that d-d-danged sp-sp-spotted horse!” Spot, the spotted horse, had stepped on his foot thirty years earlier and left Rube’s big toenail hanging by a sliver. More than once, Daddy and Rube had shared that memory.
Rube in Pioneer Home
Even without the stroke, Uncle Rube was considered slow or “retarded”. His drawn, drooping face looked much like I had remembered. Though Uncle Rube lived in a man-sized body, he was just a boy. Just one look at him turned back the hands of time to 1895when he was a boy of five years old.
Four covered wagons drawn by four-horse teams, and a spring wagon pulled by a team of mules topped Apache Hill. Guadalupe turned around for one last glimpse, but the ranch along Sapillo Creek had already disappeared from view. Eight children were born to the family in the little log cabin in the valley they left behind. Guadalupe carried those memories and many more with her as the wagons turned toward Montana Territory that morning of May 30, 1895.
The older boys had gone on ahead with the herd of goats, burros and horses. Guadalupe, her husband, their eleven children, the youngest six months old, a son-in-law, and one-month old granddaughter, were joined by other friends who traveled with them. Little Rube rode in the wagons with the other small children.
The route from New Mexico Territory led them into Arizona and northward through Utah. A year before, Guadalupe had a dream of a long hard trip. As they approached Woodruff, Arizona, Guadalupe described that very town just as she had seen it in her dream, though she had never been there.
It was dry and hot. Water was scarce. Drinking from the Little Colorado River, the boys tried the strain water through their teeth. They ran their finger around their gums to remove the silt. Even when they tried to filter the water through a flour sack, it did little good.
Near Flagstaff, most of the family came down with typhoid fever after drinking contaminated well water. The oldest daughter became deathly sick. Her milk dried up and she was not able to nurse her baby. Guadalupe not only tended to the sick and nursed her own little girl, but she also shared her supply of breast milk with her granddaughter.
Little Rube had the most severe case of typhoid fever and developed double pneumonia. Rube’s father had a doctor from Flagstaff come to see the little boy. His high fevers caused brain damage, affected his speech, and left him handicapped with partial paralysis, his legs becoming so weak, his sister two years his senior had to teach him to walk again. Rube did survive. His family nurtured him, and his brothers gave him some good-natured ribbing. He never went to school or learned to read and write, but he did many of the chores, rescued his chickens from the cook, and knew how to smoke a pipe.
Uncle Rube lived to the ripe age of eight-one. To some, he was a giant among men but on the inside, he was a five-year-old little boy who wore overalls.
Yesterday (Saturday) I watched the tail end of the Kentucky Derby. I was pleased to see the super bred, expensive, racehorses beaten by the offspring of an $8,000 mare and a $2,500 stallion. It reminded me of the Melville Derby at rodeo time in the 1930’s when the work horse from Ma Franklin’s rake team beat the well promoted Thoroughbred and Standard Bred horses from the Melville area Dude Ranchers.
Cowboys in front of Melville Hotel
The area Dude Ranchers had invested in some well-blooded horses in order to beat one another in the annual rodeo races. Thoroughbred and Standard Bred horses were famed and trained to develop their racing ability. Mrs. Franklin’s horse was bred as a draft horse. He was a valuable worker on a hay ranch. He was trained to obey “Gettup and Whoa” when on the tongue of a wagon or hay rake. But his heart was in beating his teammate to the oat box at the barn. The farm hands trained him for that, but they were so impressed with his ability that, CAN YOU IMAGINE IT, they entered their Dark Horse in the Melville Derby. And he won going away.
Fortunately the rider got him turned at the end of the track and he headed back to the rodeo stands and not to the can of oats in a barn a mile and a half away.
Some of the Melville Cowboys and my Grandmother Cowgirl
A faint sound interrupted the silence as branches snapped back in place as if they had been pulled like a rubber band and released. Quick footsteps ran along the trail that wound through the woods. As they neared the edge of the trees, the sound stopped suddenly, and everything was still and quiet.
In the black of night, the figure of a man in shabby clothes and worn-out shoes cautiously emerged from the trees and bushes. If he read the signs right, it was safe. Looking around, he was on the run again in case unwanted eyes had followed his movements. He made his way to a safehouse where he was given a change of clothes before continuing his journey north. With his slave garments cast aside, he was given further instructions.
The way to freedom was a long, dangerous, and arduous road. The majority of those seeking freedom were uneducated and illiterate. They communicated by word of mouth and signs.
An Underground Railroad Quilt Code was put in place as a sign to guide fugitives to freedom. Various blocks were used, each sending a secret message. There might be a quilt draped over a porch railing, a portion of one hanging like a flag, or even a quilt block design drawn in the dirt. A block painted on a wagon might indicate there was a secret compartment for them to hide and be transported to another location.
Each diagram had a different code to indicate if it was safe to travel, when to pack, and where to go. Some blocks served as a compass, indicating the direction they needed to go. Some quilt patterns told slaves to continue north into Canada. Others let them know where the safehouses were.
A Wagon Wheel quilt pattern signaled slaves to pack provisions for their journey. They had very few belongings and gathered only the things necessary for survival.
The Carpenter’s Wheel design indicated it was time to go. To the slaves, the master carpenter was Christ. Slaves sang songs while working in the fields not only to worship, but also to send messages. “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”, referred to the wagon wheel, which indicated it was time to travel. Another song used to give them the signal to go was “Steal Away.” The Carpenters Wheel pattern as well as songs they sang encouraged the slaves to “run with faith” to the northwest. Slave owners thought they sang of going to heaven, but the soulful, sometimes sorrowful, rhythmic Negro Spirituals urged their people to go northwest. The road to freedom usually took them through Cleveland, Ohio, which was the main crossroad.
The Bear’s Paw pattern let the slaves know to follow paths of the bears or other animals. The travelers followed the trails that led through the mountains. They were not straight, but crooked paths, that led to water and safety. As most escapes took place in the time of the spring rains, it was easier to follow a bear’s paw trail as prints were left in the soft damp soil.
Along the various routes, Athens, Ohio, was a pivotal stop on the Underground Railroad. Several homes in the area were used to hide slaves making their way north to freedom. According to family history, Thomas Brewer and his wife, my 3rd great grandparents, took part in this Underground Railroad movement. He was an advocate for the enslaved and offered aid on the slaves’ road to freedom.
Here is a link to quilt block patterns, and their meanings, that served as a map to guide slaves to and through the Underground Railroad:
I made this quilted table runner as a gift for friends who extended the hand of hospitality and provided us a place to stay for the night. The center block is the Carpenter’s Wheel. The star that is split on either side is what I call the Native Star, inspired by the Lakota Indian Quilt Exhibit I visited several years ago. Both of these designs represent the oppressed who sought freedom.
Carpenter’s Wheel bordered on each side by a split Native Star
Forrest Gump said, “Life is like a box of chocolates – you never know what you’re gonna get.” Well, I say, “friends are like a box of chocolates.”
My sister would poke a hole or take a bite out of each chocolate so she could pick the one she wanted to eat. She may have missed out on something good by not sampling those chocolates.
Just like those chocolates, friends are diverse. Some may be a bit nutty – some a bit fruity – some rich – some not as sweet– some overwhelming. Friends come in different shapes and sizes, of different ages and various characteristics. They each offer a different type of friendship and meet a different need in our lives.
From an acquaintance to a “kindred spirit” friend, they each have a different aroma.
My mom and her sister were best friends. They were fifteen months apart. My mom took it upon herself to care for her baby sister who thought the sun rose and set on her big sister. Each day when my mom came home from school, she taught her sister what she had learned in class. She continued to nurture her sister and, in many ways, took the place of their mother.
The girls went to school together, rode horse back together, killed rattlesnakes together, went to normal school for their teaching degree together, cried together and laughed together. The bond these sisters shared was more binding than blood.
They were the best of friends, and what a sweet fragrance that was!
This is a tribute to the women who helped shape the West.
A wife of good character who can find? She is worth more than all the gold or silver one can mine. Her husband has full confidence in her and leaves everything to her care while he’s away. She brings him good, not harm, all of his life. She tans the hides to make clothing for her children. She is like the traveling supply trains that bring goods and food to her family. She is up before daylight preparing the day’s meals of beans and hot tortillas. She always has plenty to share with the stranger that comes to her door. She sees a good pony and buys it with the money she’s earned sewing garments. She sets about her work with a smile on her face and a Spanish song on her lips. Her arms and back are strong for the day’s work. She is last to lie down at night and her lamp stays lit as she protects her family. She opens her home to those in need and lends an ear to her neighbor. When the snows come, she does not fear, for her home is filled with warmth. She makes quilts from patched clothing for her beds. The family is always dressed presentably before others. Her husband is respected in the community. He serves with the judges and county leaders. She is clothed with strength and dignity. She laughs at days to come and does not dwell on disappointments of the past. She speaks words of wisdom and instructs her children to be respectable citizens. She watches over the affairs of her household and always lends a hand to others. Her children and grandchildren call her blessed. Her husband thanks her for being his faithful companion. Many women have done well, but Granny Brannin exceeds them all. Pretty words can be misleading, and beauty can be deceiving. But a woman who reveres the Lord and leads her children in the way of truth – She is to be held in the highest respect. Give her the reward she has earned. Let the life and testimony she has lived bring honor to her memory. May the gift of her heritage be passed on to her future generations.
On October 3, 1955, Disney’s Mickey Mouse Club debuted on ABC.
Before that, another Mouse Club ruled the halls of Sweet Grass High School. It was a very exclusive group – girls only – that had one strict requirement: you could not be afraid of mice, living or dead.
The Mouse Club, Jean, BJ, Betty
B J was not afraid of mice and neither were her friends, sisters Jean and Betty. That was the extent of the membership of their club.
B J grew up handling mice. When just a youngster, her great uncles trapped mice to give to B J for her cat. There was a catch – a price to be paid. The uncles said, “Go say, ‘damn the old ladies’, and we will give you a mouse.” B J walked out to where the “old ladies” were and paid her dues. True to their word, the uncles rewarded her a dead mouse for her cat.
When she started school, she got a live mouse and gently put it in a match box and took it to school. She must have been proud when she placed the little box on the teacher’s desk. The teacher slid back the box top and out jumped the mouse. She was not impressed, nor did she share B J’s fascination with mice. I do not know if they had Show and Tell that day, but I am sure it was Show and Yell!
The mouse-capades continued in high school when B J was joined by her two accomplices. A classmate of the three girl Mouse Club was deathly afraid of mice. How silly! The girl might as well have shouted a dare from the top of her lungs. Her fear of mice was the only fuel needed for the Mouse Club to jump into action. The plan was in place.
After capturing an unsuspecting furry creature to be offered as a gift, it was packaged up. It was suggested by one source that some of the boys might have taken part in the caper. This account was given by one of the Mouse Club members in later years who said they gave the mouse to the boys who did the deed. That is not the way I previously heard the mouse tale. I tend to think that version of the story was merely a diversion in an attempt to deflect blame.
The story as told to me through the years was that the club members put the mouse in the girl’s locker. When the girl opened her locker and looked in the box, she let out a shriek, you know, like a loud resounding scream. The principal got involved and accused the boys of the dastardly deed.
A few years ago, the sister of one of the Mouse Club members snitched to the mouse recipient and revealed the source of the girl’s teenage trauma. It might not have been the best gift, but it’s the thought that counts. Hmmm, maybe that’s not always the case.
The Mouse Club looks like they might be formulating another plan
