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Check Your Brake Bars

One of my favorite places to rappel was beside Lula Falls. Halfway down the cliff I would pull the rope to the top of the rack and sway back and forth with the mist of the falls spraying my face. The final descent was a free fall. 

  • Lula Falls. We rappelled just to the left of the falls

It was a beautiful day to hike the switchbacks to the top of the mountain and walk the flat trail to the rappelling cliff. When we arrived, someone was already there. We either had to find another place to rappel or wait until they were finished. Then something caught my eye.

I stood motionless, except for my eyes narrowing over the grimace on my face, as I watched a grown man loop the rappelling rope under each of the brake bars of the rack. His other companions had already gone off the side of the cliff, one of which was on the trail leading to the top. Warnings flashed in my mind and the thought that formed was, “You’re going to kill yourself!” Though the Smiths were not with us, Mrs. Smith’s warning waved a red flag as it echoed in my head, “Check your brake bars.”

  • my sister ready to go down a cliff

As I walked toward the man, it was obvious he didn’t know what he was doing. I stepped forward and said, “You’re threading the rope the wrong way. If you try to descend like that, the brake bars will all pop and you’ll fall.” He just looked at me and started telling me that was the way he was told to thread it. I told him again, “You need to loop the rope OVER the brake bars.” To him I was just a scrawny young wisp of a teenager. What would I know?

He was hesitant to believe me, but he made a loop the other way – over the bar – and studied it a minute. It was apparent he was not comfortable rigging himself and did not understand there were two ways to wind a rope – over or under. Yet, he wasn’t about the take my word for it. The encounter at least slowed him enough to keep him from making a fatal error. About that time, one of his companions came up the trail. He intervened and helped his pal get rigged properly.

There wasn’t so much as a “thank you.” I’ve wondered from time to time if he ever realized that some scrawny girl kept him from making a grave mistake.  

Check your brake bars! It could be a matter of life or death!

For those of you who don’t what rappelling is, it is jumping off the edge of a cliff with the aid of a rope (of course fastened off {we used a bowline knot}) and the proper aid – such as a set of carabiners with brake bars {that slows the rate of descent}, rope looped around carabiners to act as a brake, a rack or a figure eight. A good seat is necessary – either a purchased one that you just step into {a guy I knew once rappelled off the building and his purchased seat busted and he landed on his rear – good thing it happened at about 10 feet from the ground}, or a seat tied from seat belt material or a strip of narrower webbing designed especially for tying seats {which is what I used}. A belayer is also a necessity for safe rappelling. That is someone, usually at the bottom of the drop, who slows the speed of descent by merely pulling the rope taut. 

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School Houses

My Guest Author is my dad as he tells about the school houses he attended in his earliest years.  When he went to high school, he boarded in town some forty miles away from the heart of the mountains. 

School houses didn’t come to our part of Sweet Grass Canyon until 1929. That year Bill Briner and Dump Woods helped the building project at the Brannin ranch. My sister, Ellen, had reached school age and housing was needed for First Grader, Ellen, and Seventh Graders, Jack, Buster, and Billy. A little log building that had once been a winter house for Suzie, a black Jersey milk cow, became a schoolhouse. 

The first teacher for the school was a married lady from Oklahoma. Her husband was a gambler staying in Big Timber. She taught about two months with a hand slapping ruler for Ellen, and a better switch for the boys. There was rejoicing when a spinster from Washington replaced her. Ina Wall taught two years. I have a very dim recollection of some of her school classes being held in “Uncle Dick’s House.” Maybe it was just used for special events. I do remember that she had a program there for Thanksgiving. Ellen, Jack, and Billy had parts telling what they brought to the Thanksgiving meal. Billy played an Indian who said, “I brought a deer.” Maybe this is where he picked up the name, “Indian Charlie.” I wasn’t old enough for school, but I had a part in the Thanksgiving program. I said, “I bring an appetite.” 

Miss Wall taught Mother to play the piano and pampered the little three-year-old girl with the long curls. Two years later, Miss Wall was sent to another school, and Suzie’s House was pressed into other services. It had been moved several times and has served as a campout for Jim Brannin and his teenage deer hunters, a brooder house for baby chicks, a summer playhouse, and finally as a grainery.  It is one of the few original buildings still standing.

  • “Suzie’s house”

I started school the first year after Miss Wall left. That year, and the next fall, Sister Ellen and I rode the old roan horse (Spider) to Brannin’s. For the last part of my second school year the schoolteacher and cousins Sydney and Margaret rode up to our house for classes in the new addition.

The next summer the bunkhouse was replaced. A crew of bachelors dismantled the old bunk house and set it up for a schoolhouse halfway between the sawmill and the Brannin Ranch. School would be held there for five years. Then it sat idle for at least that long or longer. However, while other abandoned schoolhouses might dot the landscape of the American West the Bachelor School didn’t suffer this fate. In 1948, the vacant schoolhouse was taken apart and moved to the west side of the big hayshed.  It served there as a warm shelter for newly weaned calves and for calf-expecting two-year-old heifers.

  • Ellen is the middle
    at the Bachelor School

Here is his story about his freshman year in high school posted previously.

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Fried Chicken

For some reason I do not understand, my mother thought it necessary that my sister know how to ring a chicken’s neck and prepare it for the frying pan.

The plan had been for my sister to chase the chicken around the yard like a madman, but our dog, Ringo, wanted in on the chase. Early the morning of the execution, the chicken was put in the laundry room at the far end of the carport and Ringo was tied up.

My sister looked reluctant as she stepped into the laundry room and the door closed behind her. I stood inside the kitchen door. Ringo was going crazy. He was snarling, growling, and pulling as hard as he could to get loose. I didn’t dare step outside. The noises that came from behind the closed door were horrible. It sounded like a major battle with all the squawking, banging and yelling.

She chased the poor little chicken, grabbed it by the neck and twisted as hard as she could to no avail. That just made the chicken mad and it squawked louder and flapped it shedding wings harder. The door opened and my sister slowly emerged, hot and sweaty. Her hair was all messed up and she looked like she had lost the battle. Feathers were still flying in the air as they floated to the floor. What a mess! That poor chicken almost “gave up the ghost” on its own. That poor thing had a sore neck for sure. Daddy put the bird out of its misery.

Though I never understood why Mama thought it was so important for my sister to know how to ring a chicken’s neck, by the time we ate fried chicken for supper, it didn’t seem to matter.

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The Birds and the Bees

To my knowledge, my mother never told any of us girls about the facts of life or mentioned “the birds and the bees.” I wasn’t even given warning about a once-a-month visitor – well, at least from my mother – or my big sister. It’s a good thing I had big brothers!

One day my other sister, just two years older than me, asked mama, “How do babies get here?” Mama answered, “The same way little pigs do. Now go do your chores.”

I took my sister aside and told her where babies come from. She didn’t believe me. Now I know it did seem a bit far-fetched, but that’s what my brothers told me. And you know what? I think that’s the only thing they ever told me that was actually true!

I’m glad they didn’t tell Mama. She didn’t find out until her sixth baby. I guess that’s a good thing!

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Secretary – with Benefits

We moved the summer of my junior year of high school. It wasn’t always easy changing schools. One just doesn’t go to a new school and break through the cliques and infiltrate friendships that are already established – but that’s another story. It really didn’t make much difference to me anyway. I only just tolerated school at best.

To me, moving was an adventure. I thought of new friends and relationships that I wouldn’t have otherwise and didn’t want to miss out on that. Just within a week or two, I was invited to the Planetarium/Science Center to rappel off the building. That certainly piqued my interest!

When I pulled up to the building, I was greeted like an old friend. That’s where I met Mr. Smith, who at that time was Coordinator for Curriculum for the county schools, as well as the founding director of the planetarium which opened in 1967, and his wife who was a school counselor. Mr. Smith and I had an immediate connection – we were both PKs. That was the beginning of a relationship that has lasted for years.

I climbed the stairs to the top of the building that was also the observatory for star gazing. I got rigged up, hooked up the carabiners to my seat, and jumped off the side of the building. Of course, someone tied my seat and showed me what to do while they explained the safety precautions. That day and every time after when we rappelled, Mrs. Smith ALWAYS said, “Check your break bars.” That’s a warning I carried with me from then on. When I left that day, I had a standing invitation to join them anytime.

The relationship forged that day grew to something greater. Not only did I gain good friends, I also gained a teacher and great mentors. And, I was offered a job. In order to take the position, I was required to take the Vocational Office Training Class offered at school. One purpose of VOT was to place students into office positions to gain work experience in that field. Though I had already acquired the office skills needed, I complied so I could become Mr. Smith’s secretary. For two years I typed, mailed correspondence from Mr. Smith to teachers in the school system, helped conduct planetarium programs, built lockers, made dolls and other props to put behind the dome for special showings, answered the phone, made reservations, and greeted school groups, among other things.

But there was a bonus. I was a secretary – with benefits.

Those benefits included hiking, backpacking, rappelling, learning proper rappelling rigging and knot tying, camping, caving, fossil hunting, good food, use of a Nikon camera, darkroom access to process black and white film and develop my own photos, alternative education for part of the school year, pine needle tea and other survival tips, learning to operate the Goto projector, watching meteor showers and comets, bonfires, field trips to unique places, mine exploring, and much more. My job also provided funds for the summer trip my sister and I took across the country, and for my very first pair of real jeans.

  • Along a hiking trail

I’m very thankful for the kindness that was extended to me, the new kid on the block. It has been a lasting friendship with the fondest of memories and continuing education of which I am still reaping the benefits.

So, to Mr. and Mrs. Smith – kudos to you!

  • Star Gazing

Note: If you are in the Northwest Georgia area, consider a trip to the
James A. Smith Planetarium.
You can also find them on facebook.

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Don’t Mess with Redheads

One day, I decided a girls’ day trip was in order and I knew just the place to go. I set the date and time, told the girls what to wear and when to be ready. 

When I give them specifics for clothing or type of shoes, they get a bit nervous. Red and the Judge have learned to just go with it, but Spike said, “Where are we going?” My reply was the same as always, “I can’t tell you. It’s a secret!” 

Red and Spike are redheaded cousins. Judge is their cousin, too. The limbs of their family tree go every which way with a few twisted, very twisted, branches. The song, “I’m My Own Grandpa,” might give you some idea of what their tree looks like. Those three gals were my companions for the day.

We loaded up and headed north. Our first stop was one of the best burger joints around. The burgers are yummy, scrumptious, and the menu has almost every kind of burger you can imagine. We had just enough time for our relaxing meal and some laughter before heading to our new adventure.

We parked downtown and walked up the street. I opened the door that read, “Civil Axe Throwing,” walked up the stairs and looked back. The girls came through the door and looked mean at me. They threw virtual axes at me and their eyes said, “We’re doing what?”

After getting our instructions, we tried our hand at axe throwing. Now, I’ll just tell you, I’m not great at throwing axes. The Judge is pretty good at it, even though that’s not her weapon of choice. 

Now the redheaded girls? You’d better stay out of their way. Don’t mess with redheads! They can turn on a dime and slash you with super speed daggers with just one flash of their eyes. Before you know it, you can be brought down with secret ninja moves that appear from nowhere. When redheaded girls are perturbed (a nice word for mad), keep a wide berth. 

It was no time at all before those gals were hitting the bullseye. By the time our scores were tallied, I admit that I was not in the running for the top three positions. To my defense, I do plan the BEST adventures! 

BTW – I did get a couple of bullseyes. (However, if I would have had a two-headed axe, I would have had twice as many chances.)

A couple of things you might need to know about redheads:
1) redheaded bear bait can run faster than you think
2) don’t bet against a redheaded gal at an axe throwing contest

  • Finish if off with ICE CREAM!
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You’re Driving Your Mother Crazy

  • road trip

My mother loved to hear us girls sing together. We did not always oblige, but when we did, she would beam with pride – well – most of the time.

For some reason, she didn’t like allof our vocal selections, especially when we were on a road trip. We tuned up our voices and started the first verse in unison, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall.”

After the first verse, the game was on! No two verses were alike, but Mama was not impressed with our skills of creating ninety-nine variations. We could switch parts mid-stream without a glitch. While one took the lead, “Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall…”, the other added background vocals in harmony, “Ninety-eight bottles, ninety-eight bottles, ninety-eight bottles…” And so on and so forth!

By the time we got to “Eighty-nine bottles of beer on the wall,” Mama was already tired of our performance. She voiced her objection, “Buck, will you make the girls quit singing that song?” I thought she liked to hear us sing!

After prompting Daddy several times to do something, he finally said, “You’re driving your mother crazy!”

Well, you can’t fault us for not trying.

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What Language Do You Speak?

The soldier stood guard over a detail of German prisoners as they repaired a drain field. It was getting close to lunch time when the German liaison officer hurried across the field calling to his fellow soldiers. Smiles broke out on their faces. Caps flew into the air and cheers erupted like fireworks. They didn’t cheer because it was time for lunch, they celebrated because the war was over! Soldiers on every side would go home to their families.

For years after, the soldier had flashbacks of his time in the war, especially on December 2nd, the anniversary of the day he was hit with shrapnel that he carried for the rest of his life. He returned from war, married and had a family. 

One day we talked, and I asked if he had any bitterness toward those against whom he fought. He confessed that he discovered some prejudices he didn’t realize he harbored. One way he helped face those feelings was to study the language and the culture. He kept German books and his German bible close at hand. 

He recounted the story of an event that made a great impact in his life. After he went into the ministry, he was called upon to serve as hospital chaplain. One day he got a call requesting him to visit a German lady in the hospital.  Others had gone to see her, but they could not get past the language barrier. When he saw her and heard her German accent with her broken English, a wave of emotion and prejudice rose up in him.  He stepped into the room and spoke to her in her own language. Immediately she was calmed and smiled as she heard words of hope in a language she understood. 

In the process of ministering to her, he was the one who was healed of his prejudices. Had he not been through those experiences of war, he would not have been able to minister to the German woman. Had he not been in the position to minister to her he may not have come face to face with that which imprisoned him. 

What language do you speak?

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Hats

While looking at old photos, I asked, “Daddy, who is this in the picture?”

“That’s my Father.”

“I can’t even see his face.”

“I recognize him by his hat.”

His hat was felt and sometimes had a band around it. Hats identify people. Pipes do too.

  • My English Grandfather & Uncle Ed
  • English Grandfather

My other Granddad had two cowboy hats – a felt hat and a straw hat. Cowboys often had an everyday hat and a dress hat. They wore the dress hat on Sundays or special occasions. On that day, their face was washed, a clean shirt put on with shiny pearl snaps, clean jeans, hair combed back to reveal the tan line on their face, and their Sunday-go-meeting hat sitting neatly on their head. You can still go down to the church on Sundays and meet some of those cowboys.

  • My Granddad ‘s straw hat kept him cooler in the summer

Uncle Ed’s hat didn’t have a wide brim and it sat right on top of his head. Uncle Sid’s hat usually sat cockeyed on his head. Cousin George wears a cowboy hat made of felt and it droops all the way around the brim and rains sawdust on his shirt.

Some hats were neatly creased. Some hats were punched out to make the hat higher. Some had brims turned downward and some with brims turned up and curled. Some had brims straight out. Each one identified the wearer.

My mother wore lots of hats, some not visible to the eye. She wore a chef’s hat, a teacher’s hat, a hard hat, a floppy garden hat, a scarf, a fireman’s hat, a doctor’s scrub hat, a seamstress hat, a referee hat, a cleaning cap, and an artist’s hat. There were some other hats put away in her closet that she wore occasionally. On Sundays, she sometimes wore a pill box hat with netting that hung over the sides. That was her preacher’s wife hat that was held in place with bobby pins.

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A Row of Russian Olives

Though the day was hot, a cool breeze blew across the open prairie taking the sting out of the sun’s rays and scattering tumbling weeds in search of a place to rest. The dirt road stretched for miles connecting the prairie to the mountains. Occasional dusty lanes appeared out of nowhere, like long fingers beckoning us to follow. Rippling fields of wheat sent flashes of green and gold glittering in the light. 

Miles of new fencing lined the road that dissected an endless sea of summer wildflowers, prickly pear and prairie grasses. The road quickly turned into a trail of ruts and jagged shale jutting from the dirt that clung stubbornly to hold the stone in place. A line of dust still lingered in the air. An antelope doe and two calves turned and ran as we got near, their white rumps disappearing in the distance. 

Over the hill, a row of Russian Olive trees planted as a windbreak years ago lined the grassy drive of the old homeplace. Remnants of the old corral and cattle chute barely stood with most of the fence in ruins. The old yellow house that defied time for so long finally succumbed and fell into a pile of rubble. A lump rose in my throat at the emotion of the moment. Another era seemed to disappear before my eyes. 

As the road led up the long slow hill, I dared look back. Remains of the fence and corral threatened to join the other weathered pieces of wood that lay half buried in the tall grass. The scraggly row of Russian Olives dug their roots deeper and stood determined and immovable. Through misty eyes, I saw the house stood tall and strong once again – if only in my memories.