Back Window Adventures

The hobos that frequented box cars and rode the open rails had their own language and culture. Jumping trains, riding the rails from place to place, gathering in hobo jungles while waiting for the next outgoing train, was a different way of life. One way for them to communicate within their “family” was by a series of signs and markings. A drawing of two shovels indicated a place to find work. There were signs given for doctors who wouldn’t charge them a fee, places to get food, caution about thieves, free phones, and warnings of danger. If they saw the symbol of a smiling cat drawn on a fence post or side of a house, they knew they were at the home of a kindhearted woman who would offer them a meal. Such was the home of my Great Grandmother whose house was along the tracks in Big Timber, Montana.

My Mother told stories of the hobos that came into her Grandmother’s yard behind the house by the railroad tracks. The hobos who jumped off the train in Big Timber, Montana, certainly knew where to find a pot of stew or tin barrel of “torpedoes” (beans) with a fire still burning beneath. They surely sent word down the tracks of finding “The Big Rock Candy Mountains.” 

Maybe some of the hobos reminded Great Grandma of youngsters she had known who had to make their way at an early age. Maybe she saw a reflection of her own boys, one at least who was known to hop a train on occasion. Regardless, she saw those who were hungry and needed a warm meal and a kind hand.

I wonder if there was a symbol of a fat, happy, smiling cat etched on a post facing the tracks. Here was the place of a kindhearted woman who gave of her meager bounty to feed hungry hobos down on their luck, exploring the country, or seeking a place to call home. Let me tell you, even her scraps were heavenly!

There was a song written about the hobo culture. This is a portion of the cleaned-up variation of the original lyrics:

One evening as the sun went down
And the jungle fire was burning,
Down the track came a hobo hiking,
And he said, “Boys, I’m not turning
I’m headed for a land that’s far away
Besides the crystal fountains
So come with me, we’ll go and see
The Big Rock Candy Mountains

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains,
There’s a land that’s fair and bright,
Where the handouts grow on bushes
And you sleep out every night
Where the boxcars all are empty
And the sun shines every day
On the birds and the bees
And the cigarette trees
The lemonade springs
Where the bluebird sings
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

“The song is about a hobo’s dreams of a supposedly perfect life. Based on the song and some outside information and context, the theme is simply dreams and wishes for a better life. For example, “The Big Rock Candy Mountains” are mentioned often and they could be a symbol of euphoria: “Oh I’m bound to go where there ain’t no snow, where the rains don’t fall; the winds don’t blow, in the Big Rock Candy Mountains.” “This quotation describes a place where everything is perfect, at least in the author’s eyes.”

“A kindhearted woman lives here”

Stars twinkled across the sky from one side of the prairie to the other. It looked as if they had been cast into the black of night to hang by a thread. They swayed and lit up the world below as they illuminated the path of stardust across the Milky Way. 

Fiery red and yellow flames danced against the night sky in rhythm with the twinkling lights and the music that glided on the breeze. The crackle and pop of the fire added percussion to the tunes that rose and fell from the stringed instruments.

After days on the trail, the evening fire under a clear sky was a reprieve. Not only had there been some days and nights of rain when everything got soaked, but they were travel weary. Oh, there were times when they stayed in camp a couple of days when they camped beside a river. That’s when they repaired harnesses, wagons, and equipment, did laundry, cooked a big pot of beans, and swam in the river. But a cool crisp evening around the fire was a special treat.

Sitting around the fire was a diversity of participants and onlookers. Dad Knapp with his fiddle, and his son, Bee, who played the fiddle he bought from Old Man Bradley for $12.00 a few years earlier, drew their bows across the strings to release the rich mellow tones. Someone else grabbed the banjo, while another tried to add to the tune with a mouth harp. 

Those who sat in the warmth of the flames were diverse as well. A toddler was in the arms of Mother Knapp. Little Evelyn sat wide eyed, not wanting to miss a thing. Bee, at seventeen, was the oldest of the children on the trail, brother Fred having stayed behind. He and Buster drove one of the teams. Leone usually rode with the brothers though her eyes were set on the shy handsome young man who helped Uncle Press with his wagons. The McNeil cousins, one Evelyn’s age, added to their companionship. More than just family shared their fire as well. Travelers they met heading east pulled out their instruments to join in the revelry. It is said when Dad Knapp played the fiddle, even “a wooden Indian couldn’t have kept his feet still.” No less could the Indian braves who joined their fire on the open prairie as they neared the Crow Reservation. The braves found great entertainment with the pioneers but also wanted to try to work a trade for Bee’s big bay, Bill, that had outright beat their Indian ponies in a race. They offered five ponies for the bay whose veins ran with race blood. Bee would not strike a trade.

As I peer through the curtains of time, I see Indian braves and children dancing around the fire, the braves trying to coax Leone to join in the dance, smiles and joy reflected on faces in the firelight. I hear the music of the instruments playing old dance tunes with laughter and singing rolling across the prairie like tumbleweeds. Somehow, I sense that Dad Knapp especially was completely content.

He thrived in the wide-open countryside. When neighbors moved too close, he felt penned in. He was among the rushers into Indian Territory in Oklahoma 25 years earlier. But things were getting too crowded for him. By 1914, word came of new territory. Montana was open country. There was land a plenty. A couple of the McNeil brothers had already staked a claim with glowing reports of good grass and plenty of land, 320 acres per homestead. That was enough for Dad Knapp to pull up stakes. Their success depended on the Oklahoma harvest. One hundred acres were planted in wheat. They could easily lose a crop to locusts, drought, hailstorm, or prairie fires. So much hinged on the weather, they were nervous and anxious until the time of harvest came. Dad Knapp didn’t care for the storms that rose up without warning on those western prairies. With an eye on the weather and a prayer on their lips, they waited. The time of harvest came and brought a bumper crop. It was enough for them to make the move.

They arrived at their final destination sixty days and over 1300 miles after they began. The following spring, the families all moved to their prospective homesteads. That was wide open country that seemed as vast as the endless sky – enough to satisfy the wandering soul and itchy feet of a prairie fiddler. 

Years later, Charles Knapp retired in Big Timber, Montana
where he lived out the rest of his days.

Memories of Grand Old Bee Bell’s fifth Christmas, 1901

I sure did feel good about getting that long letter and picture page from you boys at Christmas time. I don’t much to write about so I’ll just tell you about my fifth Christmas.

Our neighbor lived 4 miles from us and mother told me to take a small bag of popcorn balls to the boys. It was not so far if I cut thru the hog pasture. A small creek ran thru the pasture, had a small bridge across it.

Well – I was going under the bridge on a narrow trail. It was only wide enough for one boy or 1 hog. I got halfway thru when that big old sow – she went WOOF and I fell in the water and the old sow went on by. Well I tore out fast as I could run. I left the bag of popcorn on the porch and headed for home around the road.

When I got home mother thot I was sick. I had been running so hard and forgot to breathe, it just about done me out.

Well – we had a real nice time that year. 

Hope you had a nice time and a happy and Jolly New Year.

This is from your Grand Old Bee Bell

by my Grandmother, aka, Gommie, early 1900’s

Later on that year, Luella and Anna, another niece of mine who was a year older than me, stopped at the ranch.  The Coopers had gone to the World Fair in St. Louis and then on to Mississippi to visit Jack’s sister.  Luella brought Mamma some pretty salt and pepper shakers from the World Fair.

That winter, Mamma, Joe who was about 21, Bessie, Tooie and I went over to Fergus County for Christmas.  Luella was living at Whiskey Gulch near Gilt Edge.  I don’t remember how we got to Harlowton – perhaps on the stage from Melville, but I do remember that we rode on the “Jawbone” railroad from Harlowton to Lewiston.  This was the railroad built by Richard Harlow without adequate backing of money – just talk, thus the name “Jawbone.”  (He had to mortgage the line with James Hill the Great Northern magnate; however, in order to the lines available, Milwaukee Railroad paid off Harlow’s mortgage in 1910.)

From Lewistown we took a stage to Gilt Edge which was a mile or so from the mining camp up Whiskey Gulch.  Jack met us and took us to their small log cabin where we stayed for a couple of weeks. Don’t ask me to explain how all of us managed – I suppose that Jack and Joe slept at the boarding house or someplace else.  Jack was working in the Big Six mine.  (In 1957, Anna Cooper Doore and her daughter Kathryn and I went back to the old place, and we found remains of the old cabin where they lived.  The camp is mostly gone and only a few places could be recognized.)

The big social event while we were there was a masquerade at Gilt Edge.  I was so taken with the grocery boy, Dick Blake, who was dressed as a woman with a blue dress trimmed with popcorn, I don’t remember anyone else.  Luella was masked, but I don’t remember what she wore. We had Christmas at the boarding house which Mrs. Mershon operated.  Mrs. Mershon had a son, Joab, who was about 10 or twelve, and a little girl named Sarah Rebecca.  A woman named Mrs. Limbaugh gave each one of us girls a silver thimble.  I still have mine.  Tooie lost hers.  A little girl that lived up the hill gave me a tin doll head.  Later Bessie made a body for it out of a rag and stuffed it with goat hair. 

One of our family’s favorite traditional dishes to serve at Christmas and other family gatherings is Noodles & Tomatoes. Oh, it’s not just noodles in a bag like you buy in the store, it’s homemade noodles. They are really simple to make and ohhhhh so good. I always use home canned tomatoes – it makes a huge difference.

This year we aren’t celebrating with a big crowd of family gathered in the kitchen and scattered throughout the house. I bet that some of the nieces and nephews are serving noodles and tomatoes in their homes this Christmas!

Here’s a link (a must see!) to Homemade Noodles & Tomatoes (there is a guest appearance)

Here’s the recipe:

2 eggs
1/2 teaspoon salt
all-purpose flour

Beat eggs with fork. Stir in salt. Add enough flour to make a very stiff dough. Roll dough out very thin on a floured surface. Roll dough up (like a crepe) and cut with a knife in 1/2″ strips. Unroll each strip and place on a towel or paper towels. Allow to dry. Cook noodles in salted boiling water about 10 minutes. Drain. Pour 1 quart (or more) home canned tomatoes over this and add 2 Tablespoons butter (or more). Season with pepper.

You might like to try it! Who knows, you might start you own new family tradition!