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Release the Secret Weapon

One thing plentiful at Ward & Parker Sawmill was sawdust. It floated in their summer iced drinks, served as a burial ground for the bantam hen and Sister Ellen’s doll, insulated the icehouse, and tracked through the house and into the attic. 

There was also a secret purpose for sawdust. It was a weapon – arsenal for old grumpy Englishmen. Not everyone knew how to unleash the secret weapon, but Sister Ellen did. She waited for just the opportune moment to discharge the artillery.

  • English Grandfather

The suitable time arose after the kids’ grandfather arrived from across the big water. He called Sister Ellen “Sookie” and commanded her to “do this” or “do that”, which Sister Ellen did not take kindly to. Grandfather fell and broke his leg which made him grumpier than his usual grumpiness. He stayed in the bedroom that had the attic overhead.

When the kids’ mama went to the garden, she gave them instructions. Sister Ellen’s brother was to mind his big sister and she was not to bother their grandfather. That was a prescription for disaster and spelled T-R-O-U-B-L-E. 

It was not long before Sister Ellen formulated her plan. The kids crept up the attic steps and peeked through the knothole above Grandfather’s bed. He grumbled, “What are you kids doing up there?” “Nothing.” Sister Ellen commanded her brother to stomp when he walked. Hadn’t his mother told him to mind his sister? The two made quite a racket to which Grandfather complained even louder. 

  • General Sister Ellen and Private Buck

Now in the attic was, you guessed it, bits of sawdust that was strategically located near the knot hole along with regular dust and bits of paper. Somehow, the tiny missiles made their way through the hole and onto a red-faced British grandfather. He hollered and yelled and threatened to tell their mother. Would he do that? 

They slithered down the steps and made peace. When their mother came in, they were playing calmly on the front porch. Grandfather lay content on his bed with a little smile on his face. Both opposing sides thought they won that battle, and I guess maybe they did, but the war was not over yet.

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Margueritte Went A-Courtin’

There was a song we sung when I was a kid:

Froggy went a-courtin’ and he did ride, M-hm M-hm
Froggy went a-courtin’ and he did ride, M-hm M-hm
Froggy went a-courtin’ and he did ride,
Sword and pistol by his side, M-hm, M-hm

He rode up to Miss Mousie’s door, M-hm, M-hm
He rode up to Miss Mousie’s door, M-hm, M-hm
He rode up to Miss Mousie’s door,
where he’d often been before, M-hm, M-hm

He said Miss Mousie will you marry me, M-hm, M-hm
He said Miss Mousie will you marry me, M-hm, M-hm
He said Miss Mousie will you marry me,
And how happy we will be, M-hm, M-hm.

  • Margueritte

I don’t know if my grandmother knew that tune or not, but she knew something about courtin’.

Margueritte was said to be a tremendous horsewoman. She could ride with the best and handle a team like nobody’s business. When she set eyes on the man of her dreams, she was no less determined and boldly made her move.

The man she set her sights on was 9 years her senior. He had a batchin’ partner, John. The two guys had traveled the prairies working the harvests from Montana into Canada. Margueritte thought it was about time he settled down.

  • newlyweds

She showed up at their house on the prairie from time to time. One day when she came to their door it was suppertime. The guys used a pie plate as a lid. That night they had boiled potatoes for supper. Bee drained the taters and flipped them out on the pie pan lid on the table. 

Margueritte looked a bit surprised. That made her determined to tame that unrefined wanderer. He needed a wife! She lassoed him and Bee’s wandering days came to an end. The two were married in the fall of ’26.

And so began another series of adventures….

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O Brother!

I grew up with three brothers all older than me. I have often wondered how any of us ever survived childhood and how my mother survived motherhood. Recently after hearing my brothers tell wild tales I had never heard, I am even more convinced that their survival is a miracle of miracles.

Now understand that I cannot give you their names because I am sure there are still authorities seeking restitution for misdeeds done by the culprits. For the purpose of this story the brothers will be referred to as Brother 1, 2, and 3.

  • Brother 2, 3, 1

When the phone rang at our house, Mama would cringe. She must have been relieved when the caller turned out to be someone who called for the preacher to come visit a family member who was on their deathbed or to make a trip to the jail to council a neighbor’s kid. But, alas, that was not always the case.

Those boys got into enough trouble for all of us. Brother 3 got cigarettes from a friend who snitched them from his mama, and he was only six years old. Brother 3’s big Brother 1 even gave him the nub ends of the cigarettes he got from I-don’t-want-to-know-who. One day, Mama caught Brother 3 crawling under the house with matches to smoke his contraband and sent Daddy after him. That was aside from him smoking rabbit tobacco in his homemade corncob pipe when he made me promise not to tell on him. He must have quite grown up by then because he was all of seven.

At one of the nearby businesses that was plagued with mischievous kids, at least until the preacher moved, the boys had their fill of soda pop. They would sneak into the business after hours and open the hinged top of the chest coke machine to expose the suspended bottles hanging by their necks (which is what the owners would like to have done to the kids). Instead of putting their money into the coin slot and making their selection, they proceeded to pop the tops of the ice cold sodas and slurp out the contents with their paper straws. When the owner went to work the next morning and got his morning soda the bottles were all empty. There was little question as to who was responsible, or irresponsible, but nothing could be proven if they weren’t caught red-handed.

  • Brother 1 and 2

Some of their shenanigans were harmless enough such as playing “pocketbook.” One time, a car stopped as the driver eyed the pocketbook. When the boys tried to reel it in, the pocketbook got lodged on the railroad track. The driver of the car, the Sheriff, got out and took chase. The boys escaped. Other escapades included climbing on the train when it stopped by the cotton gin and riding it to a neighboring town. They had to wait for the return train to make their way home again.  When Brother 2 was contacted to validate these claims, he verified that this was indeed true. Brother 1 seemed very familiar with the story and I believe him to be the ringleader. (Brother 1 is also the one responsible for my broken collar bone.)

Other misdeeds were vandalism, like when they the broke the windows out of the back of one of the shops. Brother 2 said, “We got our butts beat.” Other neighborhood boys were involved, and each family had to pay for the windows to be replaced.

As several of us listened to their tales, Sister 2 said, “Why didn’t they run us out of town?” Brother 3’s response was a classic, “We were preacher’s kids.” There was a short pause and he giggled, “It was hard to get a preacher.”

Now we know!

These tales were just a drop in bucket that was filled with stolen watermelons, a record sized big snake, broom straw lit on fire, pigs, picked tulips, burning bags of manure, rocks, phone calls, kids in trunks to sneak into drive-in movies, etc., and some tales you’ll never know.

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Uncle Sparky and the Radio

My Guest Author today is my dad who tells a story from his childhood.

My Uncle Sparky thinks that a man is hidden inside the big horn on the speaker.  One day he blew a cloud of smoke into the speaker and the man coughed and choked. My uncle laughed and laughed.  Now, when the radio is turned on, he fills his pipe full of tobacco and sneaks over to the radio speaker and blows smoke into it. If the radio company finds out about that, they might send the sheriff out to get Uncle Sparky.

Uncle Sparky was handicapped in some ways, but he was entirely himself.  I learned about his other powers when he had a confrontation with the man who lived in our radio speaker.

The radio took up one end of the main room. The batteries – two dry cells and a six-volt car battery – sat beside the log wall. The 30X30 inch speaker horn commanded a position of importance overlooking the dining table. The main part of the radio sat on a shelf below the speaker. It had three numbered knobs which were used for tuning in KGHL, Billings or KOA, Denver. Sparky wasn’t worried about the knobs and gadgets on the radio – his problem was with the man who spoke from inside the loud speaker.

Every day the radio man gave incorrect weather reports and bad news. Every day he told about people being without work. He described them standing in long lines waiting for bread and soup. Even children were going hungry. When the loud speaker fellow talked, which seemed to be all the time, nobody could get a word in edgewise. Other people took turns. Not that fellow. All considered, I didn’t blame Uncle Sparky for glaring at the loud speaker.  Did the Son-of-a-gun inside the speaker pay any attention?  Not at all.

People don’t like being ignored. Sparky loaded his pipe with George Washington tobacco (which came in a blue can built like a picnic basket.) He  blew great clouds of smoke and shook his fist to vent his feelings. It didn’t do any good. The news report grew worse and the radio man kept talking.

  • Uncle Sparky

There was just so much this fellow would take. He hobbled over to the radio and stammered, “Sh-shu-shut your du-du-durned mouth.”  He accented his words with a great puff of smoke blown into the speaker horn. The radio announcer gasped for breath and began to cough. The radio was silent. Then music began to play.

“Whoooooppeeeee!” Uncle Sparky shouted. He stomped his feet and grinned from ear to ear. “Th-th-that will l-learn you,” he said.

The next day there was a favorable weather forecast, and the news was better. Some people believed that this was on account of relief programs. I had a different opinion. I had seen the power of a giant wrapped up in a human body!

  • Uncle Sparky celebrating a birthday

Sparky kept his pipe loaded in case the announcer backslid into some more bad news. When the evening news came on, we could see him lighting his pipe in a shadowy corner of the room. At times he would leap out and blow a billow of smoke into the loud speaker. No doubt, like a baseball pitcher throwing a ball to the first base to keep a runner from stealing second, Uncle Sparky kept the radio man under control. A fellow like that’s got to be appreciated!  

Too bad he’s not here to control the TV.

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A Horse Named Hank

We had a horse named Hank. I have a brother-in-law named Hank. There is no relation (as far as we know).

Hank was a big brown horse that was relatively gentle, but he had a big-sized stubborn streak to match. He liked to be in charge. If he was chastised, he sometimes tried to take a nibble out of his rider. When prodded to go, he often would stand still and stomp his foot on the ground. It was in character for him to get a little too close to bushes or trees in an attempt to dislodge his rider. Hank needed to be ridden fairly regular in order to keep him compliant. Otherwise, he really got set in his ways and was as stubborn as a mule. He loved to be petted and brushed.

My daughter loved that horse and he liked her. The two spent countless hours together galloping through the pasture as fast as the wind and following trails into the woods. They brought smiles and memories of youth to the lady that watched them from her window.

In the mornings, we looked out the window and saw Hank grazing peacefully, not a care in the world. But there was something different about that horse. Among Hank’s other qualities, he was a magician. We weren’t aware of his magic powers until it was brought to our attention by one of our neighbors.

  • This is not Hank

One day, a neighbor said, “I’m afraid one night your horse is going to get hit on the road.” We were puzzled and my husband said, “He stays in the fence.” The neighbor proceeded to tell us Hank walked the neighborhood every night. That magic horse managed to escape at night but was sure to be back in the fence by the time we got up in the morning. How did he do that? He looked completely innocent, but he wasn’t.

A few days ago, my husband called upstairs and said, “Look in the garden.” I looked out the window and there was a big brown horse nibbling at the clover. Where did he come from? I said, “I wonder if his name is Hank.” We didn’t find out his name, but later in the day, someone came looking for him. 

Apparently, he wasn’t around when Hank was performing his magic tricks, or he would have learned to be in his fence before morning came.

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The Little Old Man

My guest author today is my Daddy as he recounts a bittersweet visit he had with one man who lived in our community.

There was an old man who lived on a dirt road near Williamson.  He was a househusband. His wife worked in a sewing plant in town while the husband held down the home front.  This hadn’t always been the case.

At one time both of them worked and saved their money in hopes of owning a home and raising a family.  They had the home, but not the money nor the children. 

The gentleman, people called him “Shorty,” was working in a mill in Griffin, Georgia, when a tornado struck.  The windstorm knocked out several blocks of buildings including the one that Shorty worked in. a ceiling beam crashed down on him and gashed off part of his forehead. He came close to losing his life but managed a slow recovery which left him broke and handicapped. Instead of money, they had a subsistence.

The old man loved music.  One of their few luxuries was old upright piano. Shorty had stubby fingers, but it didn’t matter, when he sat down by the piano, he made that thing talk.  He should have tried working as an concert pianist instead of a mill worker. 

I stopped and visited him one year just before Christmas.  He had something he wanted to show me.  “It’s my wife’s Christmas present,” he said.

I followed him down the hall in the old house.  Like many older houses in those days, the hallway ran all the way through the house and the rooms were on each side. He walked to a door in the center of the hall, “This is our bedroom,” he said. He pushed the door open.  The bed was made up, and right in the center, where the two pillows came together, was a beautiful baby doll. 

“It’s for my wife.” he said.  “She had ten babies. None lived more than three days.” 

Miss Bert was right: It takes a lifetime to learn how to live.

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Ground Hog Day

It’s February 2. Ground Hog Day. 

Today, eyes are focused on Punxsutawney Phil, General Beauregard Lee, or some other weather predicting ground hog to determine if we will have six more weeks of winter or an early spring. Some states like Montana put no stock in such fables because they know they will have six more weeks of winter regardless. Ground hogs can be short-lived there if they are caught burrowing beneath or dining on logs of old cabins, so their predictions are not considered reliable anyway.

You may have seen the movie Ground Hog Day. It might be a good possibility that if you have seen it once, you have seen it numerous times. A guy experiences the same day over and over again until he gets it right. By the time that happens, he is an accomplished pianist, knows how to save lives, has become kind and compassionate, hasn’t aged a day, and has a whole new outlook on life.

We might find times or seasons, maybe even years, in our lives when we feel stuck in our own Ground Hog Day, stuck in a rut. For those who have been stuck in a literal rut, you know it could be a while before you manage to pull out. 

My granddad had his own idea of Ground Hog Day. It was a day of celebration. For many years, he took the family out to eat on Ground Hog Day. If I was working that day, I would meet them for lunch. Sometimes I even took the girls with me.

I think he was on to something. When we have those times in our lives when we can’t seem to pull out of our rut, maybe we should just find something to celebrate. Look around and find something to be thankful for and find someone to share it with.

Get ready girls. It’s Ground Hog Day and we’re going out to lunch!

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Shopping Trip

When I say, “big sister,” that means my oldest sister. You can find out more about her as you peruse through some of my other tales. We are the bookends of the kids with ten years in the middle. She liked to go to school. Me? Not so much. I thought she might even make a career out of it.

  • This is what big sis looked like when she got us to go shopping with her.

I remember her coming home in between educational stints and ask if my other sister and I wanted to go “shopping.” Of course, we said, “YES!” I’m not quite sure why we agreed because every shopping trip turned out the same way, but if lunch was on the menu, we’d go. This is how it went: she shopped, and we watched. She had this shopping thing down pat. We would go into a store and she looked at EVERYTHING in the clothing section and the shoe section. She loved to look at shoes! It seems that she never found what she wanted in the first store. That continued from store to store. 

While she shopped, I sat near the entrance of the store and watched people. I found that very entertaining. That is where I learned the skill of people watching. I saw people of all shapes and sizes and colors. Some were oblivious to what was going on. They were just along because someone dragged them to the store. Others carried loads of bags full of stuff. Some were loud while others just peeked out from under their eyelids so they wouldn’t stumble. There were people who were not so attractive and some guys that were very attractive. When big sis was done in that store, I got to watch from another store front.

  • This is me and my other sis after we get to eat lunch.

Now, I tell you the truth, mostly, when she got done at the last store, she invariably said, “I didn’t find what I wanted. Let’s go back to the first store.” And when we did, you might guess that what she picked up and carried to the cash register was the very first item she had looked at. Geesh! 

At least we got lunch out of it!

To this day, shopping is not my favorite activity. I usually know what I want and am in and out of the store a flash. However, I do find folks amusing and if you throw lunch in the invitation, I might just go along if you want to go shopping.

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Accidental Life

In my place of employment, we offer a couple of financial products that have an Accidental Death policy attached to the account. While training new employees to the department in which I work, I stress that those services are accidental death only. People often call and ask about their life insurance coverage, to which I say, “it is accidental death only.”



  • How many of these kids do you think were planned?

Several years ago, one of the CSRs in my department questioned me about some of the accounts. She was still trying to get the insurance option figured out. Still a bit confused she said, “So who qualifies for an accidental life policy?” 

I looked at her with a twinkle of disbelief. I said, “Honey, almost everyone I know qualifies for accidental life because almost all of us were accidents. Just ask your mama.” 

I had to explain it to her.

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Wedding Belles

We packed the car and headed south. Daddy sat in his seat in the front and chatted occasionally, making note of various sites along the road. Some object or landmark triggered his memories, and we received stories of an event from his childhood or a funny tale of someone he knew.

He was hesitant to make the trip, not because he didn’t want to go, but because he didn’t feel confident to perform the wedding of his granddaughter. As some of the conditions normally associated with a long life took place, his mind wasn’t quite as sharp. He often got off track a bit, not remembering where he was going or how to get back on the trail. Growing cataracts along with macular degeneration began to have an effect on his sight as well which seemed to shake his confidence even more.

We stayed in a nice hotel right beside a cotton field. He looked out across the fields and remembrances flashed through his mind. I reminded him of the time he visited a family out in the country who needed additional help with their cotton harvest, and he volunteered us, for we all went out as a family, walked the rows of cotton, stuffed the fluffy balls into our burlap bag and got poked with the hard pieces of husks. 

It was fun to meet up with family and take part in all the festivities. When it came time for the ceremony at the outside venue, I sat in the front so I could keep an eye on Daddy. Guests found their seats and it began to quieten down. Daddy stood at the top of the steps beside the groom. The attendants began to walk in. As they moved into place, Daddy saw another member of the bridal party start down the long walkway. He began to talk. Uh-oh. I wanted to run up the steps and say, “Not yet, Daddy,” but I refrained. He lifted his hands a bit and announced loudly, “Here comes the bride!” 

The audience looked a bit confused. It was not the bride who walked the aisle, it was the maid of honor who made her way to the front. 

Daddy was sure surprised when he saw her. Granted, she was his granddaughter, too, but not the bride. I guess he had a premonition of a future wedding. He somehow made a grand fumble recovery. The second time he announced, “Here comes the bride,” it was really her. That’s was quite a relief for the groom!

I felt so bad for Daddy because his lack of confidence was confirmed. It didn’t seem to bother anyone else. The cute, sweet, gentle little man pulled it off and everyone thought he was wonderful. Later, when Daddy and I talked about it, he managed to let loose of a good chuckle. 

If memory serves me correctly, he took part in only one more grandchild’s wedding. Though he had a minimal part in that ceremony, he followed a rabbit down a memory trail. He talked about his brother who had died when Daddy was a small child. I’m sure his tale evoked a tear or two from the audience. It was a good story, it’s just that he never got around to connecting it to the wedding at hand. The next time he was asked to do a wedding, he declined. 

I do have a message for Daddy’s granddaughter who was the maid of honor. Daddy had already left this earthly walk when she married. I attended the wedding with my family. It was a beautiful location with an old mill house, nice soft green grass and a perfect day. As I walked toward the waterfall that spilled into the river, I slowed my pace to wait for Daddy to catch up. I looked back, expecting him to be there, but he wasn’t. He had been my sidekick for quite some time. His presence was so strong, I knew, somehow, he was there. I could almost see him, hands lifted high, and hear him say, “Here comes the bride!” Yes, even she got to hear those words – just for her – a few years before! Some premonitions become priceless memories.