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The Telephone

I am happy to introduce (again) one of my favorite Guest Authors –
my Daddy. The telephone was one of the topics I gave him with the
“assignment” to write a “Book of Firsts.” He shares memories of the
first phone in the heart of the mountains.

Telephones were around a long time before I was. But there wasn’t any such thing in Sweet Grass Canyon. The nearest one was thirteen miles away. The telephone there was a party line connected to neighbors on down the creek toward Melville and Big Timber. When someone got a call, all the phones on the line would ring; however, each family had a different ring. Uncle Ed’s was a long and four shorts. 

The telephones mounted on a box equipped with two bright colored telephone bells at the top front of the box, a speaker sticking out the middle front, and an ear phone receiver on the left side.  There was a ringer mechanism somewhere on the inside of the phone box. The ringer was controlled by a crank handle that stuck out to the right. A person cranked the handle about half a turn for a short ring and a couple of times for the long ring.  The far end of the telephone line was connected to the central station in Big Timber.  A person cranked out a real looong ring to get the operator.  She would answer, “Number please.” Then you would give her the telephone number of the person you wanted to talk to.  

If you were desperate you could also give the Big Timber operator the name of a person or place. Jimmy Anderson’s mama knew everybody in town, and she would connect you. 

When we went to town, we watched the lines on the telephone poles.  There was just one telephone line until after you passed Melville.  Then there was a wire attached to each side of the telephone pole. When you got to Big Timber Creek there were two more lines coming in and the poles had cross arms. 

Some folks in town had a private line instead of a party line.  In town itself there would be telephone poles, cross arms, and wires all up and down the streets.

Here’s some happenings that led to a phone line into the mountains: 

The ladies west of Melville had a community project – finding Loyd Rein a wife. By the early thirties, Red Mac and Buddy Brannin were married, but Loyd Rein was as elusive as a trap wise coyote. And then, in the late thirties Ruth Anderson got asking age, and they married. Then Loyd and Ruth moved to Rein’s upper place on the Sweet Grass just five miles away. They had a telephone line installed.  

It wasn’t until after Gary was born that the telephone was extended the rest of the way into the mountains.  We cut the telephone poles off the forest reserve on the American Fork.  Uncle Gus used Adolph Tronrud’s post hole digger, and we set up telephone poles from Reins to Brannins and to Ward and Parkers. We paid Haas in Big Timber for the wire and the wiring work, and Sweet Grass Canyon had telephones. 

Jean and I had a connection line to Gommy’s house. Messages such as, “Are Lynn and David over there?” became more familiar than Alexander Graham Bell’s words to his assistant, “Mr. Watson, come here, I need You.” 

Although the first telephones were in existence long before I was, there was no such thing as the transmission of pictures over telephone lines or even over radio waves. Our sixth-grade teacher told us, that this was something that would never happen. Even teachers make mistakes.  That ridiculous thing has invaded all our homes! Now we even have cell phones like Dick Tracy had!  

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Westward Bound

Sequel to Cross Country (part 2)

The beat-up old car was packed to the gills. The tent, camping gear, cooler filled with food, hiking boots, guitar, frisbee, ball and gloves were loaded, among other things. Our backpacks doubled as suitcases. We said our goodbyes. As we pulled out of the driveway on June 14, a wave of reserved anticipation washed over me. I didn’t think to imagine what washed over our mom at the same time. 

We drove southwest toward our first scheduled stop. The closer we got, the flatter the landscape and the thicker the air. We drove through swamps, bayous, waterways and over long bridges. Cypress trees were draped with Spanish Moss and long-legged cranes walking lazily through water black as steeped tea. That seemed to set the mood for the laid-back atmosphere reflected in the locals, matching their thick Cajun accents and the humidity that hung heavy in the air. The smell of stagnant swamps that teemed with life mingled with the smell of salt water from the Gulf.

We arrived in New Orleans and checked into the campground. The lady that managed the campground invited us to have supper with her family. I suspect that she was watching out for us, imagining her own children traveling across the country without parental supervision. After all, we looked younger than our 18 and 20 years. We accepted her invitation and were rewarded with fresh crawfish and other Cajun delicacies. It was delicious and gave us a taste of a culture completely foreign to us. Our two-night stay gave us plenty of time to explore the area. We drove down Bourbon Street at night with doors locked only stopping at red lights. The street looked like a human swamp teeming with life. A sea of people strolled along the sidewalks and gathered in front of bars and restaurants. They were quite colorful in their garments as diverse as the people themselves. Jazz bands and one-man bands performed along the street. During the daytime, we visited the French Quarter. We people-watched, browsed through little eclectic shops, stopped at various street venders, and ate at a restaurant complete with peanut hulls on the floor. On the way back to our campsite, we got on the wrong bus and had to get off and walk back to the campground in the drizzling rain. That night, it poured. It’s a good thing we waterproofed our waterproof tent! When we crawled out the next morning, water was almost to the top of the lip above the floor of the tent. It was miserable packing up the tent and gear in the pouring rain. I can honestly say I was glad to leave New Orleans. I was a bit antsy to be on our way and truthfully felt much safer in the wilderness than the wild city! 

We left all that behind and drove away from the land of water, bridges and swamps to the waterless plains of Texas. It felt like we were finally on our way.

Part One Part Three

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Out of the Ashes

The evening before, the sky was ablaze with fire. Flames lit up the skyline as evening cast long shadows across the desert of Southern Idaho. Soft light of the “golden hour” had turned to brilliant yellows, oranges and reds, then transformed into pinks, purples and midnight blue until it faded into the dark of night. Stars appeared and the Milky Way laid out its path across the ebon expanse. 

The night was overshadowed as day emerged. In the morning light, it looked like the fire of night had turned everything to ashes. The clouds hung to the ground causing an eerie look over the landscape covered with cooled lava flows and ashes left behind in its wake. Hardened lava resembled exposed tree roots, some seeming to be burning with dying orange embers. 

It appeared that we had landed in the middle of a dormant volcano on a strange planet. At one time small volcanoes erupted, spewing scoria to the ground near the vent to build up steep cinder cones. I had never heard of this alien place on earth called “Craters of the Moon National Monument and Preserve,” but it was fascinating. It was formed from lava erupting from the Great Rift. This protected area covers 1,117 square miles, encompasses three lava fields, and contains the deepest known rift on earth at 800 feet. The Monument and Preserve contains more than 25 volcanic cones. This foreign harsh environment was visited by astronauts in 1969 as part of the study of volcanic geology in preparation for their trip into space. Years before, it was frequented by Northern Shoshoni Indians who hunted in this area and possibly gathered tachylyte, which is a form of basalt, for their arrow points.

I found an interesting article about the Monument taken
from Geographical Review, Jul, 1924
https://www.jstor.org/stable/pdf/208417.pdf

Even in this harsh environment, life adapts and finds a way. Somehow, plants grow in cinder gardens throughout the preserve. The black ash, extremely porous like pumice, quickly absorbs water, and heats up in the summertime, often exceeding 150 degrees. Cinder crags and formations rise from the sleeping volcanoes. This universe never ceases to amaze me. I’ve been to many interesting places, each with a beauty and uniqueness all its own. “Craters of the Moon” is definitely one of those unique places, a rare jewel hidden in this harsh terrain.

I’m always amazed when life blooms in unexpected places. Seeds can lie dormant for years just waiting for the ashes of death and adversity to bring life. Fertile, mineral rich ashes give birth to new growth that might never have had the chance to live otherwise.

The same is true in our lives. Fires of adversity and trials burn in our lives leaving us standing in ashes of destruction and uncertainty. When we least expect it, a bud pushes up out of the ashes and something beautiful blooms. Life has a way of purging itself. By getting rid of the weeds that threaten to strangle us, we are enabled to grow. Life is given a chance.

There are lyrics in a song, “Sometimes flowers grow in the soil of ashes.” Another says, “He gave me beauty for ashes.”  Life finds a way and out of the ashes we rise.  

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All Dollars Are Not Created Equal

My Guest Author today is my sister who is just two years older than me. She shares her memories and some of mine. You might recognize her from the blog “Cross Country” and might learn more about her as our journey continues in other stories.

A dollar is a dollar is a dollar – you might say.

I beg to differ.

Some people start a new business and tape or frame the first dollar they earn on the wall for all to see. I’ve had several businesses but I always had to spend my first dollar! They never got put up on a wall!

But the first dollar I remember having was a gift from my Montana grandmother. Gommie, who was separated from us because of Daddy’s long move to Georgia to get his education and then to serve in the ministry, would give the grandkids a special gift when we visited. She would give us a silver dollar.

I had in my collection 2 or 3 which I saved in an old tin and nested in an old Bull Durham tobacco bag I had saved from my Grandfather (Daddy Bee). We used to hate his old tobacco smoking habit, but we loved his Prince Albert cans and Bull Durham bags. When I was six we moved and my mom, who had been keeping my treasures in her underwear drawer, apparently forgot about the silver dollars. They got moved but they didn’t get returned to me! This was totally unlike my mom who seemed to remember EVERYTHING! When I asked for them she didn’t remember having them. I was crushed. At the time, it wasn’t the value of the dollar that crushed me. Or even the value of the silver. It was the value of the memory that was attached. My Montana Gommie had given ME those dollars and I was far, far way from her! Those dollars were a connection to her!!

Living in Georgia just down the road from us was my other set of grandparents. Grandma and Daddy Bee. It was such a delight to have them close by. Grandma B was a good cook. I could eat a whole pumpkin pie at one sitting! (She never let me). She would freeze peaches sprinkled with sugar. Sometimes she’d get them out of the freezer and we’d get to eat them. There’s really nothing as good as a real Georgia peach with a few ice crystals and sugar on them! But her cooking is a story for another time.

Daddy B had a barn we loved to play in. He would carry his calves to the barn and weigh them to check on their growth. When we can weigh 100 pounds, he told us, he would give us a dollar!

I asked what would happen if I lost some weight and then made it to 100 pounds again. Daddy Bee laughed and said it was a one time deal! So I didn’t bother passing up Grand B’s cooking.

I spent that dollar but I never forgot it. It was a symbol of growing up, attaining maturity. Looking big in my granddaddy’s eyes. 

Wow. Now that’s worth working towards! We would get on the old barn scales and get weighed. Seventy-five pounds. Eighty pounds. Ninety-five pounds. I was wondering if Grandma B would let me eat a whole pie and help me get to my goal! Finally I got to 100 pounds and I got my dollar. That was a happy day. A milestone.

When sister Sheri was going through Daddy’s and Mama’s things, she found the old tin and the old Bull Durham bag. I have two silver dollars again that I keep separate from some of the ones I have purchased over the years. Why are they separate? I don’t have Gommie here on the planet anymore. But I still have a connection called memories, love, and a dollar.

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The Girls Go to Yellowstone

It was the girls’ (Red and the Judge) first trip west. Though I had tried to prepare them, they still weren’t sure what to expect. I wasn’t surprised that they were amazed at everything. The day after we arrived, we toured the prairie. I was able to show them a bit of what prairie life was like when we visited various locations where some of my family had lived. The girls were able to experience some of the well-worn rutted dirt roads, a stretch of mud ready to turn into gumbo, and occasional inclines where we jumped from rock to rock, proving the reason why I requested a high clearance four wheel drive vehicle.

The following day, we were up and out early headed to Yellowstone. Now, anyone who travels with me knows I prefer less populated places. Yellowstone National Park in the summer is not one of those. Give me wide open country, mountains and back roads. However, it was a beautiful day. On the way to Gardiner, the northern entrance to Yellowstone, I made a stop at a camping area to show the girls a tepee ring that only a few people know about. They were able to sit inside the ring, look out over the Yellowstone River in the valley, and imagine the Indian camp that once stood on that location. I could close my eyes and almost hear the sounds of children playing, women grinding grain with stones, scraping leather, and cooking over a sizzling fire. That was definitely something the girls had never experienced – maybe never even thought of.

We drove into Yellowstone and from the very beginning, there was no disappointment. Our first stop was Mammoth Hot Springs. We walked along the boardwalks and saw an intriguing land created by thermal activity making it look like a series of stalagmites and steps rising from rusty minerals in a bed of white chalk. Looking toward the town at a distance, we saw an elk with the biggest rack we’d ever seen. As we drove away from the springs, we took a side road to see the huge elk. Much to our surprise, the elk didn’t have a big rack at all. What looked like a big rack from a distance was only a bush.

Though I had been to Yellowstone several times, it still fascinated me. A system of bowel tracts full of geothermal acid and magma chambers wander beneath the surface of this volcano waiting to happen. Formations appear on the unstable and fragile landscape as gases spew from the bowels of the earth. Throughout the park, fissures allow steam to escape like smoke from an old man’s pipe. Mountains look like they are on fire. One of the places I wanted the girls to see was the stinky Paint Pots. That was important because they needed to know what Caramel Icing looks like when it’s ready. The directions say, “cook it until it looks like the stinky Paint Pots in Yellowstone.” Of course, a trip to Yellowstone is not complete without seeing Old Faithful. She draws attention to herself as she spits and sputters, sending short bursts of hot water and steam into the air teasing the crowd of onlookers. The stage is set for her grand performance. She makes her appearance, casting streamers into the air as she dances and throws steam and gases toward the sky, reaching higher and higher with each turn.

And I wonder, how can mud boil? How can the force of nature suck in water and mud, gurgle and vomit, and release a rotten egg stench that will curl your nose hairs? How can geysers randomly spew hot sulfuric gases that have festered beneath the ground and emit such heinous sounds as if from the pit of hell? How can acid that brings the bite of death to vegetation and all in its path leave behind earth toned residue and thermal pools of brilliant blues and greens lined with a myriad of colors?

Leaving behind geysers and mud volcanos, we drove into the land of deep canyons, rivers and waterfalls, with snowcapped mountains resting quietly in the distance. Several stops were made along the drive through Lamar Valley. Buffalo, elk, and deer grazed along the sides of the road. Herds gathered along the winding river. We stopped, looked and listened as other on-lookers stood nearby with binoculars or long-lensed cameras hoping to spot a wolf. Though we didn’t see a wolf, the allurement of this enchanting land was nonetheless fascinating. The evening sun, casting a golden glow across the valley, was the perfect close of a day filled with the wonder of creation.

As darkness consumed the light of day, we were completely satisfied. Even as we had our evening meal at the Log Cabin Café in Silver Gate, the girls’ faces still reflected their experiences and thoughts of the day. Had I only seen their faces as they beheld Yellowstone for the first time, it would have been well worth the trip just seeing their child-like wonder. 

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Winter – The Best of All

This is a poem written by my Grandmother who
lived many winters on the Montana prairie.

Winter has its draw backs,
Of that there is no doubt.
But what a thrill it gives one
To hear the children shout!

Sliding down the snow drifts,
Rolling in the snow,
Building big snow houses;
How their faces glow!

The snow birds and the chickadees
Thot last summer flew away
Now perch outside our window
Begging bread crumbs everyday!

When on the porch they’re hopping
When I hear them call,
I sometimes think that winter
Is the best time of all.

For then I see them right up close,
See how each one is dressed
Why one young fellow even has
A brown button on his vest!

The pheasants and the bunnies
Explore tracks in every drift,
The pheasants working day times,
The bunnies take night shift.

Of course it isn’t easy
To keep the stock all fed,
To see that they get water,
And also have a bed.

But now and then the snow plow
Will throw the snow aside,
Then we can jump into the car
And take a little ride.

We’ll get a barrel of fuel oil
Enough to keep us warm
Some extra flour and coffee
To take out to the farm.

Then when again the snow drifts
And we can’t get around
We’ll have lots of company,
These feathered friends we’ve found!

Pheasants, ducks and bunnies,
Chickadees and all,
I think winter must be
The very best of all!

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Cross Country

The maps were laid out on the table. We had not gone into this without some preparation. Already my sister and I had a fairly well drawn out itinerary and route, as well as designated National and State Parks, and other points of interest to visit. No matter how good our presentation was, we knew Mama would never be sold on the idea. Now Daddy – that was a different story. If we could get him on board, he would take care of Mama.

It was the fall of my senior year of high school. My sister, two years older, and I came up with a crazy scheme to travel across the country the following summer. Already, we were setting aside funds and making lists of additional items we would need. We had backpacks, sleeping bags, mess kits, and other camping gear already. We knew everything had to be in order for our plan to work.

As we began our presentation Mama’s face was set as stone. Daddy’s eyes lit up. When he reached down and traced his finger along one of the roads on the map and made a suggestion of a particular point of interest, we knew we had him! There were plenty of relatives we could stay with once we got out west. There was Aunt Ellen in Santa Barbara, Aunt Betty in Martinez, Anna and Kitty in Santa Monica, Cousin Diane in California, Cousin Donna Marie and Russ in Brookings, Uncle George in Kent, Uncle Sid in Port Angeles, Uncle Frank in Idaho, and others. Once we got to Montana, we would stay with our Grandmother, Cousin Babs, and visit Uncle Buster and Aunt Viola.

Mama didn’t like the idea at all! Looking back, I can’t say as if I blame her. We were young. I was just eighteen when we made the trip, my sister being twenty. We looked younger than we were – like kids. There were no cell phones for communication, no debit cards or credit cards for us to use, and the car looked like it had already seen its last days.

We tried to have the answers before Mama asked the questions:
“What are you going to drive?” “The old beat up car –  it will be serviced ahead of time – and we’ll have the oil changed and everything checked out at the appointed time.”

“Where are you going to stay along the way?” “We’ll camp – in National Park campgrounds, State Park campgrounds or KOA’s.”

“What will you eat?” “We’ll take a cooler and cook our meals on the Coleman stove at breakfast and supper. Lunch will be sandwiches.”

“How will you pay for it?” “We both have jobs and are already setting some money aside. We can get traveler’s checks and carry some cash. I will send enough ahead so we will be sure to have enough for our trip home. There will be very little expenses – gas, food, camping fees (which are minimal), and we will set aside an emergency fund for car repairs or other things that might arise.”

“We promise to call home every couple of days as we were travel across the country. Once we get to the West Coast, we’ll pretty much be with relatives for the remainder of the trip. “

I remember Mama saying, “Buck, you’re NOT going to let them go, are you?” I didn’t understand her fears then. Mama thought it was foolish. (Of course she thought jumping off cliffs with ropes, backpacking and camping for fun, and jumping out of planes was foolish, too). Daddy thought it was a great opportunity. They were both right. But what adventures we had!

Stay tuned for more of the story………… Part Two

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Remember ’bout 1924

My Guest Author today is my Grandmother.
She wrote poems for almost every occasion.

Remember ‘bout 1924 
You moved to my home town
It gave me quite a thrill to have
One near my age around.

We’d saddle up our “prancing steeds
Trusty Bluebird and flighty June
And go riding merrily on our way
The world was all in tune.

We’d go to town to get all the mail
As was the country rule
John offered us a change of steeds.
I said “Give me the pink mule.”

Many years have passed since then
When sisters we became
But the thrill of being close
Continues just the same.

  • My Grandmother on her horse, Bluebird
  • Graduation Day
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Quilting Bee

I crawled under the quilt that was stretched tight across the frame. Chair legs scraped across the floor as ladies scooted up close to the edges of the quilt. From my view, I saw the quilt backing and I saw lots of legs – quilting frame legs, chair legs, and legs of lots of ladies. It didn’t take long to discover why this event was called a Quilting Bee. The ladies sounded like a hive of bees as they buzzed about people in the community and their families. 

Looking up at the underside of the quilt, I saw needles from all directions poking through the sandwich of layers. The threaded needles left trails of stitches. I imagined roads running across the countryside intersecting one another until they all met at the same destination.

The ladies in the Ola community gathered from time to time at the church annex to quilt. They all worked together to complete the quilt, talk with one another, and of course, to eat. These ladies shared their food, fellowship, talents, and their spirit of community.

Though I only went on one or two occasions with my grandmother, it is something I have remembered and pondered through the years. From the bottom of the quilt, it looked quite different from the top. The bottom was plain fabric. The top created designs and often had lots of bright colors mixed in with faded patches of discarded clothing, flour sacks or feed sacks. It wasn’t until every stitch was in place that the finished work was held up for all to see. Then it all made sense. The top of the quilt was a beautiful work of art but the underside, with every indentation of the stitches, created its own beauty by revealing the detail of the quilted design.

I’ve come to learn that our lives are like quilts and God is the Master Designer of this masterpiece.  There is more to us that what is seen on the outside. People come along in our lives and help us add a few stitches.  Sometimes those stitches have to be ripped and done again.  Some stitches are a little crooked, some longer than others. All of those pieces, new and worn, add character to our lives just as every stitch. God has a plan for each circumstance in our lives.  It isn’t until God is finished with us that we see the completed work.  But we have to remember to turn the quilt over.  The visible part may be colorful and pretty, but the back side, or the inside, truly reveals all the work and character that has gone into God’s masterpiece.

My mother could walk into a fabric store and gather material for her quilts. She looked at the various colors, textures and designs and somehow pictured the finished quilt in her mind. She had a gift for seeing how colors worked together. My mother was also a perfectionist, making sure each seam was flawless and pressed flat. When she was done, it was a work of art!

I do not have the perfection that my mother had in designing patterns, colors and having every minute detail in order. A good friend of mine says those flaws “add character” and make each quilt unique. 

So, don’t be discouraged if you have a few dropped stitches in your life or if every “seam” and corner don’t match up perfectly. Those flaws add character and make you into a unique masterpiece created by the Master Designer.

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Orphans

Daddy and I stopped to have lunch while on one of our adventures. We chatted as we sat and shared a relaxing lunch. As usual, he told stories. That particular day, he talked about his mother and commented that I reminded him of her. I guess that’s why he sometimes said, “Yes, Mama,” when I gave him instructions. In fact, his last Mother’s Day with me, he gave me a Mother’s Day card and thanked me for being his “mama.”

As we visited, he paused and said thoughtfully, “You know, we are both orphans. Neither of us has our Mama anymore.” I had not thought of it that way before but it was true.  

Even though many years had passed since our moms had gone, a wave of loneliness washed over us and took our breath away for a moment. There is a void that cannot be filled by anything or anyone else. It’s as if there is an empty chair at the table. I don’t imagine there will ever be a time when I don’t have the fleeting thought, “I’ll go ask Mama.” Now there are days when the thought comes or a question is posed and I say to myself, “I have to remember to go tell Daddy,” or “I’ll go ask Daddy. He’ll know the answer.”

There is no certain age of orphans. They may be small children or even grown adults who find themselves without parents. We may find ourselves wishing for one more chance to talk with them over a cup of hot tea. We may like to take one more hike into the mountains. If we had the opportunity would we listen to their stories more intently, hanging on every word? Would we let them know we appreciated the sacrifices they made for us? Would we give another hug? We cannot bring back time, but we can make the most of the time we have.

Hug an orphan! They might just be missing someone today.