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Prairie Rose

Rummaging through an old bookshelf, I found a tattered and torn book hidden away. A cloud of dust burst into the air as I picked up the book and wiped the jacket to reveal the title, “Prairie Rose.” Slowly, I opened the book. On the first page was the photo of a small girl and just beneath it was a picture of a mother with six children. Who was this little girl who grew into a woman? Would I like the girl, the teenager, the woman, whose stories rested between the pages?

As I began to read, it felt as if I was bound by a vortex of time that passed through the years of this girl’s life. The first scene that came into view was a cabin on the prairie in which a baby girl had just been born on a warm summer evening as green hail clouds cast balls of ice downward and the winds blew against the house. Even as a small child she held a fierce determination that could not easily be swayed. It wasn’t long before another girl joined the family. The two became fast friends and were inseparable. They were like prairie tumbleweeds, not staying in one place for long. One of the great joys of the youngsters was seeing a circus for the first time. 

The hands of time reached out and pulled back the flap of a covered wagon. Two little girls peered out from the bed of the wagon in awe of everything they saw as the family traveled from Montana to Idaho to escape the drought. In just a few short years, the family made the trek back to Montana. From time to time as the pages turned, I stopped to ponder the stage set before my eyes. It was hard to imagine the mother in the photo ever being a child or a teenager, much less a wife and mother.

The little girl and her little sister
A mom and six kids

A soft wind tugged at the leaves of the book. New scenes flashed before me as time slowly moved forward. The family moved again, and a son joined the family. It was then I saw the 

small figure of a little girl walking to school alone bundled against the cold. The winter wind taunted her and pelted her with blowing snow. The neighbors rescued her from the storm and kept her safe until her dad came and scooped her up in his arms.

Time picked up speed as the girl transformed into a teenager and became a young lady in love. A new chapter emerged. Within the moments, hours, days and years spoken of within the sheets of paper, the girl became the woman, wife, and mother seen in the picture. She was studious with a strong sense of righteousness. She stood up for those ridiculed by others. Her work ethics were commendable, her friendships unbreakable. This woman sacrificed to support her husband and children. Time and again, just like the prairie tumbleweed, she rolled on to another place.

“Prairie Rose” was calm as a warm sunny day, cold as the blowing snow, fresh and pretty as a prairie flower, sharp as a prickly pear, fierce as the heavy green storm clouds, determined as the blazing sun, curious as the rabbits that watched from the tall spring grass, relentless as the sticky gumbo that bogged down the tires of the cars and soles of her shoes. Yes, she was all those things, the prairie grass in the gently breeze, the cracked parched earth thirsting for a drink of water, the deep blue sky, and dark moving shadows of fluffy white clouds. 

I turned the last page to the final words.

“The End. Love, Mom.”

No, that wasn’t right, that wasn’t the end! 

I gently placed the book back on the shelf. The edges were still frayed, but inside I had found new, fresh stories, and treasures this lady left behind. I saw her now through different eyes. As I caressed the cover one more time, I turned with a tear and a smile. Yes, I had found more within the pages of her life, for I found a friend.

Through those years, she forged lasting friendships and strengthened the bonds of family. How could my heart not be drawn to this prairie school teacher who could ride a horse bareback across the prairie blown by the wind; who stood fearless to sweep rattlesnakes from the porch; who could calm a crying baby; who could sing a song and whistle a tune; who had spunk; who was not shaped by status; who was a perfectionist, yet never felt good enough, smart enough, or pretty enough; who was a prairie tumbleweed? Yes, I could like a girl like that, but would she have liked me?

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Tumbleweeds

I sat on a big rock and looked out across the foothills toward the snowcapped mountains that rose from the prairie floor. It looked as if I could reach out and touch the tops of the peaks though they were miles away. I was always in awe of the mountains even on the days they were distant and dared anyone to approach. 

A breeze tugged at my hair and awakened me from my trance as the wind blew across the wide-open countryside, tossing tumbleweeds that jumped over clumps of sagebrush. Just beyond, uprooted grasses and weeds of various kinds clung to the barbs of a fence.  As the tumbleweeds reached the barbed wire, they finally found a resting place. As I took in the whole scene, I felt kind of like one of those tumbleweeds that rolled across the prairie.

Tumbleweeds caught in the fence

During my growing up years, we moved from place to place. Living in parsonages with cast off furnishings of members of the congregation was not really a place to call home. However, there was one constant – the town where my grandmother lived. She spent most of her life in the mountains and even after she moved to town, they remained in view and gently spoke her name. It was there in the mountains where my father was born. When he married the girl from the prairies, she went to live with him in his mountain home and it was there that five of their six children were born. Those were their roots, their place to call home. 

I came along later. Though I was small the first time I saw the mountains, it was as if they whispered my name. After each visit, the silent call became louder. I heard it in the wind that whistled through the trees and in the gusts that blew through the valleys. Others before me heard the call, too, and many answered. My great grandmother found refuge there in the mountains that spoke to her. Native Americans heard the call and climbed the mountain peaks in search of wisdom through visions to lead their people. Even now, many who visit there find solace and can feel the sacred reverence.

When I married, we almost moved to the mountains. Instead, we made a vow that one day we would move to the place where the mountains lifted from the prairie floor, the place held sacred to those who had walked among the valleys and peaks and lived in its shadow. 

Yes, there were many places I called home, where we raised our children and spent time with grandchildren. Yet I still heard the voice calling. After many years, the dream I had as a child was within my grasp and now, I see the mountains every day. When my siblings see pictures of the roads that lead into the mountains, they say it looks like the road home. 

Just as those tumbleweeds that found a place of rest in view of the mountains that speak, it is here we found the place we will call home and rest for a time.

“The mountains are calling, and I must go…”    John Muir

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Strawberry Roan

“Margaret, sing Strawberry Roan.”

She continued crocheting and said, “I don’t want to sing Strawberry Roan.”

The man continued to slap his leather gloves into his left palm and gently grasped them as he pulled them through time and again. He wore a faint grin, and after a bit said, “Margaret, why don’t you sing some of Strawberry Roan?” 

She looked up then, her annoyance clearly showing by the scowl on her face and her curt response, “I don’t want to sing Strawberry Roan. I don’t remember all the words.”

There was silence except for the slap of the gloves of the man that sat in his easy chair. He tilted his head slightly, amusement on his face and a twinkle in his dancing blue eyes as he said, “Margaret, sing some Strawberry Roan.”

She gave a quick retort, but after a pause she sang a few lines of Strawberry Roan.

I watched from the other room and thought, “That sweet little man is not quite as innocent as he seems. What an instigator!”

In my grandmother’s younger years, she played the guitar and sang. I never heard her play. One day I asked her to write down some of the old songs. Strawberry Roan was one of those. Here’s a stanza:

He’s about the worst bucker I’ve seen on the range
He’ll turn on a nickel and give you some change
He hits on all fours and goes up on high
Leaves me a spinnin’ up there in the sky
I turns over twice and I comes back to earth
I lights in a cussin’ the day of his birth
I know there are ponies that I cannot ride
There’s some of them left, they haven’t all died

I’ll bet all my money, the man ain’t alive
That’ll stay with old strawberry
When he makes his high dive

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Born on the Fourth of July

A Tribute to Aunt Ellen aka “Sister Ellen”

Fourth of July celebrations began early that day in 1923. A seven-pound firecracker baby girl was born and that was cause to celebrate. Every year after, fireworks exploded into bright cascading waterfalls and thousands of whirling, spinning, sparkling lights that dissipated into the air. We always knew the fanfare was in honor of Sister Ellen’s birthday. She wasn’t Sister Ellen to us kids, she was Aunt Ellen, and we knew her personality well suited the fireworks that added to the celebration of her birthday.

We heard many stories of the lives and adventures of much of the family, but I believe the ones we heard most were of Sister Ellen. She was even in Daddy’s sermons, you know – the gospel according to Sister Ellen. There were many hidden spiritual truths in all the Sister Ellen illustrations we heard from the pulpit. 

Sister Ellen was a kid, and then a woman of many facets. She was called Soup by her dad, Sookie by Grandfather Ward, Sister Ellen or just Sister by Brother Buck, Toby by Cousin Anna, Potatuses, and Nellie. During her lifetime, she had many roles including that of a writer, warrior, ambassador, and sometimes even a conniver. Sister Ellen was also a bus driver. Yes, she sat in the saddle on old Spider and held the reins while Brother Buck sat behind prodding Old Spider whose belly moaned and complained all the way to the mountain one-room schoolhouse. 

She took up arms against her English Grandfather Ward. It didn’t take much for him to set her off like a rocket ready to launch. When he broke his leg, she took advantage of his convalescence as he rested in his bed. It seems she always had someone do her bidding, that “someone” being her little brother Buck. She had to have someone to blame! Her scheme worked when she persuaded the younger brother to push sawdust through the knothole into the face of Grandfather Ward.

When she wanted a new doll, she buried her old one in the sawdust pile and had a funeral for it, appointing Brother Buck to be the presiding minister. That may have been his first call into the ministry. When she conveniently couldn’t find the doll again, she asked for a new one – a prettier one – for Christmas, which she got. There were many other incidents and tales including Effie Bowlegs, the outhouse, Nimmy Not and the bear, other confrontations with Grandfather Ward, shenanigans with cousins, and pushing her sweet little brother.

Aunt Ellen had the gift of words – spoken and written – and there were many. She was Valedictorian of the rural schools, worked for The Sweet Grass News, and wrote for The Big Timber Pioneer. After High School, she took a business course in Helena, Montana and accepted a stenographic position in the State Legislature. Later, she was secretary to the City Manager in Santa Barbara, California. She got to know visiting dignitaries from other municipalities and foreign countries, one being an Assistant City Manager of Jerusalem.

When Sister Ellen went on a tour of the Holy Land with Brother Buck and some of their cousins, the dignitary she knew from Jerusalem gave them a private tour of the city. When they traveled to another country, she came to the rescue of a fellow traveler who had an unacceptable passport. She was fearless, marched into the American Embassy, took care of the matter and somehow managed to receive a special tour of an ancient Roman City. When Daddy returned home, he laughed when he told that Sister Ellen ordered strange things to eat while on their trip. Her philosophy was, “Well, I wouldn’t eat that at home.” Brother Buck followed suit, ordered strange things, and embraced that philosophy for himself, and I am a witness to that!

Brother Buck and Sister Ellen exchanged many letters over the years. She would send him a story she had written and then say, “Now you write…” He completed his assignment and sent it to her with a challenge to write something else and reach for even great achievements. Often, they read the same book and then discussed the contents in great lengths. They spurred one another on just as when they were kids with Ellen holding the reins and Brother Buck spurring Old Spider on with a kick in the flanks. 

During those years, the trail before them sometimes may have been covered with trees or with grass growing between the ruts. There were curves in the road and bumps here and there. Yet they continued to travel together, exhorting, encouraging, challenging, and praising one another. As their lives neared an end, she pushed him forward to lead the way. He complied and went on without her. At the age of 99, she joined him. Fireworks lit up the sky to signal the coming of a new year, or maybe, just maybe it was celebration of her entrance through the gates of heaven as she left this earth on New Year’s Eve. Little did she know that within just a few hours, they would welcome a favorite cousin who was proclaimed to be “another sister.”

Looking back now, the path seems clear. Their bonds of friendship and devotion to family opened the way for those who travel in their footsteps. I like to think that even now they walk side by side, but they just might be too busy talking.

Brother Buck once summed up the life of Sister Ellen,

You are the work of mystery,
You carry the seeds of majesty,
You are the works for miracle,
You carry the breath of eternity.

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Dear Sister Ellen

                                                                             January 15, 2018

Hope you’re feeling good. I’ve been wondering about you.

Hahaha. I think Effie Bowlegs is after you – still after you –  and maybe you’re after him.

One summer he was having a hard time there. Every time he’d go to the bathroom you wanted to go. And one time you told Barbara, “I’ll beat you to the toilet.” And she ran around the old shop and pulled the door open and pulled him off the commode. Hahaha.

And then another time you had me get off there behind the new shop and throw rocks at the toilet when he was headed in. Bang! Bang! It seems like that year he left work early because he had stomach trouble. Hahahaha

You didn’t like the way he drove Nina & Dolly. I didn’t either.  You rode with him and put your foot on the lines so he couldn’t pull them up and swat old Nina to have her keep up to Dolly.

Do you remember the first time you were in jail? Uncle Ed let us sit in the jail cell that Betsy Bowlegs had used when she was his guest. We got to sit in jail early. We thought that was quite a treat.  Betsy Bowlegs had been in jail because it was just her time for that. Betsy Bowlegs was – I don’t know her name except Uncle Ed always called her Betsy Bowlegs. He would get a telephone call on weekends from the Big Timber city police. They would say, “Mr. Brannin, so ‘n’so is down here and we want you to come down and get her because we can’t handle her.” So he would come and she would call him,  “Yes sir,” and “no sir,” and “Mr. Brannin,” and he’d keep her in the jail. Sometimes it was overnight and sometimes two days. One time she got so bad he had to escort her to Warm Springs to the nut house and she stayed awhile. She wasn’t related to Effie Bowlegs. Aunt Dora was related to Effie Bowlegs. I don’t know if Betsy Bowlegs was bowlegged or not. She was the Big Timber extra work for the city police. Sheri asked, “Did she drink?” Oh yes, she drank, I expect she did. Well, she couldn’t have drank because alcohol was – the states were dry – wasn’t allowed to be sold or drank. Her sober spells were kind of special. But the city police couldn’t handle Betsy Bowlegs, whatever her name was, and they would call him and he’d come and lock her – put her in jail – and she had one cell he called Betsy Bowlegs’ cell. He let you and me sit in it. He even closed the door on us.

I hope you’re doing real good.

If one of us lives to be a hundred I hope it’s you and not me.

Much love,

Buck

2011 at the airport, one headed South, the other Northwest

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The Accident

a tale of remembrance by my dad

Now I will tell you about a boy-girl problem and a horse wreck.  A horse wreck is something that happens to people who ride horses that buck, or people who drive horses that run away. 

But first I will tell you about my sister, Ellen. One day she said, “I wish I was a boy.” That’s when Cousin Billy said, “If a girl kisses her elbow, she will turn into a boy. And if a boy kisses his elbow, he can turn into a girl.”  

Ugh!

I’ll bet you didn’t know that!  

Sister Ellen wanted to play a boys game and couldn’t.  That made her unhappy.

Now my sister can do lots of things.  She can touch the end of her nose with her tongue.  She can kiss her wrist and her arm just above her wrist, but she can’t kiss her elbow.
(I hope you don‘t try this.)

Our neighbor has a hired man. He calls him, Slim.   This summer, Slim got thrown off his horse.  That is bad. Then the horse fell on him.  That is worse. And then the horse rolled over on him. I hope this doesn’t happen to you. 

Now Slim has four broken ribs and a broken leg.  His left arm was broken in two places and it fell across his chin.  

He is the only person I know of who could have kissed his own elbow.  But he was lucky and didn’t.  Otherwise, he’d have had a BAD accident!.

Sister Ellen & my dad
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The Magic of Christmas

Colorful packages with ribbons and bows are piled under the tree that is decorated with twinkling lights that cast their dancing glow on the ceiling and walls. Shiny Christmas ornaments and balls show the reflection of those gathered around the tree, but the greatest reflection is seen the eyes of a child. It is the magic of Christmas.

The years go by and yet memories of Christmases long ago come to mind. One such time was a Christmas Eve when a newborn baby lay under the decorated tree in Bethlehem. The baby boy, just ten days old, kicked his legs, cooed, and smiled. His gray eyes glistened as they reflected the sparkling lights. He amazed all who saw him because he was so bright and alert. His smiles were contagious, and his coos brought laughter to all those gathered. 

We were given the gift of Christmas in a baby boy that brought such great joy.

A few short years later, on another Christmas Eve in Bethlehem, a three-year-old little boy smiled as he ran around and played, anxious to see what was in the bright packages under the tree. Another child, a baby girl, had joined the family. This little girl did not lay under the tree and smile. No, she cried with colic. Her eyes did not dance with the lights. She brought a different gift.

There was another visitor that year – Mrs. Hunt. One would have thought she was handed the world when she took a fussy little girl into her arms. The two of them, a matronly Southern lady and a colicky three-month-old baby girl rocked in the rocking chair as the runners squeaked and creaked.

There were gifts for all under the tree, but I think Mrs. Hunt got the best present of all – the unconditional love of a newborn baby – the gift that was wrapped in a blanket.

Now that’s a Christmas story!

The events of these two Christmases did indeed take place in Bethlehem – Bethlehem, Georgia. One of the highlights of our time there was the live Nativity complete with sheep, shepherds, Mary & Joseph, the wise men with their gifts, and even an angel who shown brightly atop the wooden stable under the star of wonder. It was a reminder of the gift that was given those many years ago in another Bethlehem, the magic of Christmas, a baby boy wrapped in swaddling clothes. 

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The Longest Hours

Shortly before Mama died, she gave me a book to read, “90 Minutes in Heaven.” She said that I after I read it, I was to pass it on the other family members. Did she somehow know that in just a few short weeks her life would be snatched away from her in an accident?

The doors of the elevator clanked open. I stepped out. There was no sign of anyone. The empty halls echoed as it mimicked and taunted each of my footsteps. At one moment I was consumed with loneliness. That was the loneliest, before and after, that I have ever been. The walls seemed to close in on me sucking out every breath. I stopped, willed myself to be brave, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay, Lord, it’s me and you.” Slowly, purposefully, I walked forward knowing exactly what stood in my path in the darkened corridor beyond. At least I didn’t have to walk alone.

At the doorway to the Trauma Unit, I pushed the buzzer. In no time at all, a nurse came out. There was no need for her to ask who I was because I had just spoken with her not three minutes earlier. She led me to a small room with the walls lined with chairs. A table in the corner had inspirational pamphlets spread on top. The nurse asked if I was okay. I looked at her and said, “I guess I have to be.” She had seen others like me, those who felt swallowed up in the shadows of death and grief. “The doctors will be here in a moment.” As she turned to leave me briefly, her eyes surveyed me. There was compassion, and just maybe I saw a tear slip down her cheek.

I sat there alone for a few minutes when the door opened. The nurse along with several of the doctors slowly stepped in. They looked as if they didn’t know what to say or who was going to speak first. I wonder, did they see a frightened little four-year-old girl sitting by herself scrunched up in a stiff straight-backed chair? That’s what I felt like. Maybe they saw a woman who had a monumental job ahead of her. I don’t know, but I stood and spoke first, “I just want you to know that I know what you are going to say, and it’s okay.” One of the doctors said, “I’m sorry but we’ve done all we can do. Are there phone calls you need to make?” They each expressed their condolences and said they would continue to give Mama oxygen until the family arrived. The door closed behind them as they left the room. A mountainous task was before me.

After the calls were made, I rang for the nurse again. She ushered me into Mama’s room. That was my time. Though Mama gave no sign that life was still within her body, I talked to her. I sat by her side, rubbed her arm and hand. It felt as if there was moving bubble wrap under her skin, the trapped air and gases moving through her body. I told her thank you for putting up with all of us kids and that I loved her. I also made promises to finish the quilts she had started for graduation presents for the rest of the grandkids, and that I would care for Daddy and not let him remarry unless I approved. Yes, one day awhile before this event, with Daddy present, she said that if something happened to her, it was okay for Daddy to remarry with one stipulation – I had to approve.

Daddy, Mama & me

The nurse had given the approval for me to bring in family members as they arrived so everyone would get a chance to have a private moment with Mama. Having said my goodbyes, I once again took a deep breath and willed for the strength to perform the task at hand. As time progressed, the doctor said, “We can’t wait any longer.” But Gary wasn’t there yet. Just as consent was given to remove the oxygen, he came in. 

Daddy was rolled in on his hospital bed and placed by Mama’s side. He took her hand, caressed it, and declared that she squeezed his hand. Then it was over. Mama was gone. She had told me time and again that if anything happened that stole her quality of life, she didn’t want to live. If she had lived, there would have been hours, days, and years of fighting for every breath as her broken body mended, and even at that, she would not have been the same. She went as peaceful as she could. As for the rest of us? There was still a battle ahead. Daddy had lost the will to live. He felt that he had fulfilled his duty, “’Til death do us part.” Yes, those, too were the longest hours.

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Among the Tombstones

I stood on the hill among tombstones that hid in the tall grass and wildflowers of the old Silver City Cemetery. Helena could be seen in the distance just to the Southeast. Though the streets of Helena were busy with the comings and goings of all kinds of folks, the little town of Silver City wasn’t much more than a name. Had events taken a turn years earlier, she would have won the right of being called the capital of Montana. But that wasn’t to be.

The cemetery was quiet except for the sounds of the mower being pushed by the kind gentleman who was trying to clear the weeds from around the gravestones and markers of those who were buried there with their memories. With my boots on, I walked around and snapped a few pictures of forgotten names and stones that had been so worn away no inscription could be read. Sunken places in the earth whispered stories of those whose remains lay all but forgotten.

As I stood there pondering the tales that would never be told, wondering about the lives of those who had come to this harsh and beautiful land, a van turned up the trail. It slowly made its way to the top hill. A young lady got out of the driver’s seat, walked around to the other side of the van, and opened the door. Out stepped an elderly slightly stooped gentleman with a cap on his head. 

He was gently led by the young lady who held his elbow in her palm, her other hand on his arm. He spoke to the man who had turned off the mower, “I just came to put a flower on her grave.” In the elderly man’s hand, he held a purple flower on a single stem.

The lady guided him through the newly chopped clumps of grass and into the weeds yet to be trimmed. “Watch out for rattlesnakes, Grandpa!” They made their way to the grave of his beloved wife. He bent down, pulled a few weeds from the front of the tombstone to reveal her name, then stooped lower to place the purple flower on her headstone. 

A warm gentle breeze blew as the yellow wildflowers danced in the magic of the moment. I brushed away a lone tear that slid down my cheek as I turned and slowly walked away.

Note: The Silver City Cemetery is now maintained and has gained a place in the National Register of Historic Places in Montana. One of my great aunts is buried there as well as Old Moss – but that’s another story. You can read some of the history of the cemetery at these web links:

https://mhs.mt.gov/shpo/docs/NRnoms/SilverCityCemetery.pdf

https://historicmt.org/items/show/3221

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A Stitch in Time

The howl of the wind sent a shiver through me just like the first time I heard coyotes’ eerie cries roll like tumbleweeds across the prairie. As the cold breeze whistled outside, I knew winter weather was on the way. 

It was time, time to pull out the heavy wool quilt. Carefully, I lifted it from its container so as not to lose any of the memories and history tucked within the folds. The quilt top was made of wool, obviously from woolen scraps of blankets and garments. Heavy batting remained intact even though a few pieces escaped before the worn backing was replaced with a new thick flannel sheet and retied with the original pink wool yarn.

The quilt Great Grandma made as a wedding gift for my grandparents in 1926

The quilt began its journey 96 years ago when a stiff breeze blew across the prairie pushing a cold rain into Roundup, Montana. On that particular day, the 26th of October 1926, a young couple slid into town in a borrowed car slinging mud from their gumbo caked tires. The weather didn’t dampen their spirits. After all, it was their wedding day.

The dirty automobile pulled up in front of the pastor’s house. Reverend Ernest Fitzpatrick, a newlywed himself, welcomed the couple. The pastor performed the marriage ceremony while his wife, Nell, served as a witness to the event. 

As was common, after the couple returned home, family and friends greeted them with an unannounced chivaree. It was all in good fun, but knowing some of those who participated, I would say there was a bit of mischief, too, with a few “pay backs” specifically for the groom. Another tradition was for neighbors and family to present gifts to the newlyweds. One of those gifts was a wool quilt made by the mother of the groom.

For many years, the quilt traveled from place to place as the family moved from Montana to Idaho and back to Montana before making its way South. It became worn, with batting peeking through the rips in the backing. For a time, the tattered quilt seemed almost forgotten and was gently tucked away in a trunk. When the heirloom came to me, I decided it needed new life, so I mended it, and from then on, it has been on my bed on the cold days of winter.

The quilt lovingly made by my great grandmother was given to my grandparents as a wedding gift. No doubt their three children and grandkids slept under its warmth and comfort as well. 

When I crawl under the quilt, it is more than comfy, cozy, and warm, it is a cherished treasure. Though it has outlasted its creator and a couple of young newlyweds, it has returned full circle to the prairies of Montana. It remains part of a legacy, a stitch in time, and a testimony to those with a pioneer spirit.