I have heard it said from folks in various parts of the country that the South does not have all four seasons. Well, let me correct your misunderstanding. It just isn’t true in the part of the South where I live.
As a matter of fact, we had all four seasons just a couple of weeks ago. On Monday we had heat of Summer. Midweek we had cool crisp breezes of Fall. The next day we had Spring rains, flash floods and various Spring flowers showed their pretty faces. Saturday morning, we had 3 ½ inches of snow. The kids went sledding, built a snow throne and had a snowball fight. That afternoon, it turned spring again and all traces of snow melted away.
A couple of days ago, we had a picnic, dressed in shorts and short sleeves. Today, there is a wintry mix followed by lots of rain. So – don’t believe it if someone says the South doesn’t have seasons! We sometimes have them all in one day!
I stood on my tiptoes and tried to peek into my Great Grandmother’s casket, but I was too short to see inside. I tugged on Daddy’s suit jacket and told him I wanted to see her. Mama was nearby and gave Daddy a look that said, “Don’t do it. She’ll be warped for life.” He picked me up. I looked inside and that satisfied me.
my Great Grandmother with her brothers
Though I don’t remember a lot about Great Grandma, I do have faint glimpses that float across my mind on occasion. She was oldest person I knew at my young age. She was born in 1874. At the age of fifteen, along with her mother, grandmother and brothers, she took part in the Oklahoma Land Rush of 1889. At that time her mother claimed to be widowed but in actuality her husband had deserted the family – twice. My Great Grandmother’s grandmother was a Civil War widow who had a “visit” from her husband at the moment he was killed in the Battle of Vicksburg in 1863. I have no trouble envisioning these two “widowed” women along with their children as they raced their loaded wagons into the Great Plains when the shot signaled the start of the rush.
my Great Grandmother’s grandmother
my Great Grandmother’s mother
The stories of my ancestors have not all been lost to younger generations. I have been fortunate to be in a family of storytellers. They must have understood the importance of passing on their priceless family heritage and spiritual heritage. As a child and an adult, I have never tired of stories of my ancestors. In fact, those stories serve as fuel to keep my love of family history burning.
Since I knew my great grandmother, touching her life is like reaching back to 1874. That is 146 years to date. In my lifetime, I have touched six living generations in my direct line thus far. I’m amazed when I look back at the people who have shaped my life. I can follow the footsteps of those who went before me; footsteps that led me to where I am today; footsteps that have influenced physical and spiritual attributes; DNA fingerprints that determine looks and various characteristics. I leave footprints of my own as my children and grandchildren follow behind looking into the next generation.
I stand in the present with arms outstretched and span the years. To one side, I reach into the past. I can reach back even further through documents and stories that have passed on from one generation to the next. To the other side, I reach into the future. I can reach even further into the future by assuring that family stories and the history of my ancestors are archived for those who follow our footsteps.
Grandfather
Mother
If only one person in my direct line wasn’t in place, I wouldn’t be here. What if my grandfather had not lied about his age and gone to war leaving behind several of his family members who died in the flu epidemic back home? What if my parents had not moved south when they did? What if? If any of various factors happened along the way, I wouldn’t be telling my story.
Don’t let your family story and spiritual heritage be lost. Tell your story. Pass the torch. Span the years.
The metal monster on my grandmother’s back porch moaned and groaned as it agitated and spit soapy water from its gaping mouth. Its twisted tongue sloshed back and forth squeaking with every turn, splattering soapy saliva down the sides of the machine and onto the floor. Swish, swish, spit, sputter, squeak. An attached appendage was ready to grab anything that got in its way and run it through the wringers – literally.
this old wringer washer has seen better days
wash tub
It was wash day! That was an all-day event. The old wringer washer was ready for the day’s job. A wash tub full of fresh rinse water was bumped up next to the washer. Baskets of laundry were appropriately separated – whites, darks and linens. Washing powder was fed into the round belly of the beast already partially filled with water. Once it started twisting it didn’t take long for it to be a tub of bubbles. A load of laundry was added and soon the water was dingy looking.
The hungry rollers started turning, looking for something to devour. They grabbed a garment, squeezed it, and wrung out the soapy water. It didn’t take long to become experienced at flipping the sides of a shirt over the buttons as it went through the rollers. It didn’t take long to remember to zip pants before sending it through the machine either. When the clothing came out the other side of the wringers, it dropped in the washtub of clean water. The clean clothes were sloshed around by hand in the rinse water and soon the clothing was sent through the wringers again, flattened and dropped into a clothes basket.
With a basket of clean laundry and a bag of clothes pins, it was time to head to the drier. Yep – the clothesline. Some days, the clothes hung on the line blowing in the breeze. On hot humid days, the clothes hung lifeless. On cold wintery icy days, clothes hung frozen, as stiff as Frankenstein’s legs.
hot humid wash day in the South
wash tub of dirty water – don’t throw the kid out with the wash water
(If you have trouble getting your whites whiter, just hang them on the clothesline on one of those icy days! Such a day acts as a natural bleach. The best night’s sleep comes on a breezy wash day. Have you ever slept on freshly air-dried sheets?)
cold wash day in the mountains
warm breezy wash day on the prairie
Warning: DO NOT try to wash your arm! One day my sister tried out the wringer washer. She reached up to the rollers and the monster grabbed her arm and sucked it between the rollers. Her skin on that arm still sags a bit even today.
Today my Daddy is my Guest Author again. I had given him the assignment to write about “firsts.” This story is about getting electricity for the first time in the heart of the mountains miles from town.
In the beginning of creation, the LORD GOD said, “Let there be light and there was light.” But not all the time.
On cloudy winter nights (the adults couldn’t see this) an angel gathered up ALL of the left-over patches of light and stored them in a black bucket until the next morning. The mountains were especially dark and spooky. They were filled with creatures that sneaked through the trees at night. Outside there was no emptiness because the darkness filled up everything. It opened enough to let you walk through it like the Children of Israel walking through the Red Sea.
Indoors, it could be nearly as bad. When we were adding a parlor and a bedroom for Mama and Daddy, the new addition encircled an area of darkness which brought a haunt into our house. That was in the daytime. At night THERE WERE TWO HAUNTS.
Sister Ellen braved the darkness to run back into the new addition. She screamed in fright and came back crying. Poor Sister. She didn’t learn things right away. The next night she would try her excursion again!
The big room that served as kitchen, dining room, and sitting room was lighted by a gas burning Coleman lamp which had flimsy mantles that moths liked to battle. The lamp hung from the ceiling. In other parts of the house we used candles or kerosene lamps that had wicks and smoky chimneys which had to be washed regularly. Luckily for children, at nighttime, we had a candle-lighted indoor toilet which was a bucket we pulled out from under the bed.
AND THEN! Along about 1929 the uncles built a new lodge and furnished it with electric lights! Their lights only worked when the gas-powered power plant was started and running. However, advances were coming to the Crazy Mountains! Thanks to motivation from the uncles and thanks to Thomas Edison and several decades of development. Our family, living in a log house in the mountains forty miles from a paved road, experienced a first: ELECTRIC LIGHTS! LIGHTS ALL OVER THE HOUSE. And in the shop. At the sawmill. And on both sides of the barn – one set of lights for the milk cows and one for the horses. Before that, in the dark of winter nights, chores were done, and the cows were milked by the light of a hand carried gas lantern.
Our electric lights came by way of a Delco Remy charger and sixteen glass storage batteries. We didn’t even have to start the Delco generator to get our lights.
The uncles had electricity and running water in their house. We had electric lights in all our immediate buildings except one. Loretta and Victor had a building like that. She kept a note on its wall:
This little shack is all I’ve got, I try to keep it neat. So please be kind with your behind, And don’t shoot on the seat.
Ours had a Sears Catalogue and no poetry on the wall. But we had a back-up. In the cold of a winter night we had an enameled bucket under the bed.
Outhouse 1975
Outhouse 1996
The Delco generator house is on the right
Thanks to the beginning of rural electrification, a secondhand power plant had been advertised in the MONTANA FARMER MAGAZINE. Victor Allman hauled it down from Whitehall, Montana – quite a ways across the state. Lowell Galbreath was working for us, and he knew all about wiring houses, cow barns and sawmills. He soldered eight-gauge electric lines with silver solder. And on a magic day – we had lights controlled by pull strings that were too high for a child to reach. The gasoline powered Coleman lamp was put away and the moths went back to sulking in the clothes closet.
This was written by my grandfather, Poppy, after a Sweet Grass Canyon winter. He recorded that it took “45 gallons of gasoline in 42 miles of driving to feed cattle.” Poppy made a trip to Two Dot in December, 1916. He arrived home on Christmas Eve. The road couldn’t be traveled by wagon again until May, 1917. In March of that year, there was a home delivery. Jack was born and Poppy was the mid-wife.
You may talk about your winters, And rave about your snow. But for the world’s worst winter, Up Sweet Grass Canyon go.
standing on the roof of the house in the winter of 1917
For endless drifts and blizzards, And everlasting snow, Don’t go to Nome, Alaska, But up Sweet Grass Canyon go.
The South Pole and Antarctica Are just a hothouse plant Compared to Sweet Grass Canyon When the weather is on the rant.
For one hundred days successively You never see the sun. And when you think it shines at last, Winter has just begun.
Twenty miles to mail a letter, Forty miles to go to town. Ten miles out is the nearest road, With grades straight up and down.
No telephone, no snowplow – You’re really on your own. When you start up Sweet Grass Canyon, The place that you call home.
The school bus my dad rode to school had four legs, a saddle and a big sister holding the reins. When I started to school, I rode a bus with my brothers and sisters with Mr. Brown at the wheel. That was an adventure in itself. When we got on the bus, we increased the student population considerably. Mr. Brown soon learned that the drop off point at the end of our road was his best stop of the day. He was glad to get rid of the preacher’s kids.
the Preacher’s kids look innocent to me
My oldest brother and his pals were notorious for practical jokes, many on the verge of meanness. Mr. Brown didn’t much care for those boys who were always stirring up trouble. For some reason Mr. Brown didn’t like kids shooting spit wads at him or throwing things. He would holler and call out threats to “whoever” was causing trouble.
There was one occasion (probably the only one) when the boys were actually innocent. On that particular day, the whole bus load of kids was in an uproar. I think all of them were laughing and pointing. There was an inch worm right on the brim of Mr. Brown’s hat. That little worm worked its way round and round the hat. Mr. Brown stopped the bus, turned around and yelled. His face turned blood red. He was so mad I knew he would keel over with a heart attack at any moment. He demanded to know why everyone was laughing. No one dared tell him it was only just an inch worm.
the Preacher
I’m pretty sure Mr. Brown was glad when the preacher moved.
Mama had us kids up, fed and properly dressed for Sunday church. Brother David probably even had on his second set of church clothes because he had messed up the first ones. We piled into the car and were off. Mama took a deep breath, thankful for at least a few minutes to sit before herding kids out of the car and into their prospective classes.
When it was time for the church service, we were seated and quiet. If we dared talk or wiggle too much an arm attached to my mother would find its way to our heads and we would get thumped.
After the singing came the sermon. I didn’t pay much attention to the preacher’s message. But when he said, “Brer Rabbit” or “Sister Ellen,” my ears perked up. Story time! Those were the Preacher Parables, his stories of illustration.
When the Preacher said, “Sister Ellen,” the whole congregation smiled. They had heard “Sister Ellen” stories before. It wasn’t long before smiles turned to laughter. When “Sister Ellen” came across the country to visit, it seemed that everyone already knew her. If they had thought the Preacher was making up stories, they soon learned that “Sister Ellen” was real as well as the stories told (with a bit of improvisation).
Church is where I learned much of our family’s history. That’s when I heard about the Brannin boys and the ranch. That’s where I learned about Daddy’s first baptism and of Mama walking three miles to school and getting caught in a blizzard. We heard tales of the kids thumbing their nose at Grandfather Ward, about Spider the horse, and Sister Ellen daring Sister Barbara to run to the outhouse as fast as she could and opening the door with Effie Bowlegs inside. That’s when I first knew of Daddy’s precious teddy bear and the funeral Sister Ellen conducted for her doll.
Somehow the Preacher always used his “Preacher Parables” to give practical illustrations and application. I have learned that in teaching, students remember stories and their applications longer than other portions of the lesson. I guess that’s why I like to tell stories.
Two Dot is a cow town in Montana. It got its name from “Two Dot Wilson.” His given name was George R. Wilson. He was called “Two Dot” because his brand was two dots, placed side by side on each hip of his cattle. He donated the land for the town which was founded in 1900 as a station on the Jawbone Railway. It was part of the Milwaukee Railroad system that pulled up tracks in central Montana in the late 1970’s. The little town is somewhat of a Western legend and even made its way into the Country Music world through Hank Williams’ song Twodot Montana. In 1915 it was the site of one of the substations of the railroad’s electrification project. Ranchers drove their cattle to the railway station and loaded them on cattle cars to be shipped to other parts of the country. At its prime, the bustling town had two grain elevators, a lumber yard, a ball team, a hotel, a bank and other businesses. The hotel was always busy as passengers and railroad workers came through. The town is much different now, but that Western charm lingers.
Though the streets of Two Dot are relatively quiet now, whispers of the past echo from the hills and the old buildings. Tumbleweeds were not all that once blew onto the dusty streets of Two Dot. In 1915, a cowboy by the name of Mel Jowell blew into town. He was described as a handsome cowboy of eloquent speech, but he was not exactly as he appeared, especially to the fairer sex. Beneath his politely mannered façade was a conniving scoundrel. He was a horse thief, a cattle rustler and along with a cousin, killed an ex-Sheriff in 1901 in Arizona. According to a newspaper article of April 1901, Jowell was suspected to be part of a gang of cattle rustlers and murderers who “cut a wide criminal swath through Southern Utah and Apache County” Arizona in 1899.
Jowell rustled Two Dot Wilson’s cattle and altered the brands. Rustlers used a running iron to forge brands. A few lines or curves could be made to turn someone else’s cattle as their own. It was bad news to be caught with such an iron. Jowell was eventually convicted of his crime and sent up to the Montana State Prison in Deer Lodge. After serving four years, Jowell was paroled. Seven months later he was arrested again when he broke parole and stole cattle again. He returned to Montana State Prison but only served about one year before he was released again.
Two Dot Wilson’s branding iron on display at the Montana Historical Society Museum
That wasn’t the end of the story. It was at Deer Lodge that Jowell (alias Rex Roberts and Dalton I Sparks) met George Ricketts, and Harvey Whitton (alias James Hall, James B O’Neal and Jim Ross), both convicted of murder. That alliance meant death for Deputy Sheriff Joseph Brannin. Ricketts assisted Jowell in the murder of the Deputy Sheriff on November 16, 1911. A few months later when Jowell escaped from a moving train after testifying at the trial of Ricketts, he was aided by Whitton who was using the alias of Jim Ross.
There is much more to that tale, but I wonder, “What if Two Dot Wilson’s brand had not been two dots that could be relatively easy to alter with a running iron? If Jowell had not formed an alliance with the other men in prison, would he have followed a path that brought the death of “Uncle Joe?” I guess we will never know.
So, the next time you’re in Two Dot, remember that Two Dot is more than just another Western cow town.
My Guest Author today is my Daddy. One morning, I gave him an assignment to write a story about harvesting ice from the beaver ponds and storing the huge ice cubes in the icehouse that lasted into summer. His assignments were to provide more detail on life in the mountains and served as therapy to keep his mind active as well as his writing skills. Here is his story:
Almost every ranch had an icehouse. Ours was a frame building which leaned against the meat house. It was covered with inch boards, both on the inside of the studding and on the outside. The space between the boards was insulated with sawdust. Inside the building more sawdust surrounded the stack of ice blocks. Folks on the prairie used straw for insulation. If they were near a sawmill, they used sawdust, which looked better floating on the top of a glass of iced tea.
Getting ice was a neighborhood affair. February or March was a good time to put up ice. By then Dad could drive the International truck onto the Brannin beaver ponds. The ice there was thick and clean. It was sawed into blocks about sixteen inches wide and twice as long. Two husky men used a pair of ice tongs to pull the ice out of the water. The blocks were then dragged up a plank onto Brannin’s horse drawn sled or Ward and Parker’s truck to be hauled to the appropriate ice houses. There it would be buried until ice using time in July or August.
The ice kept well. A fellow down by Big Timber named, Lester Mack, had his icehouse burn to the ground. The mound of sawdust and ice blocks survived the fire and the Mack family dug out ice all summer.
We had missed the midwinter birthday party (for Sonny Tronrud), but we got to watch the men put up ice. This time they did it on a Saturday. On weekdays we had seen the men put the ice blocks into the icehouse. However, we had never seen them saw the blocks on the pond. We were anxious to see this. When our lumberjacks sawed down trees and cut them into logs, one worker would get on each end of the saw. They’d pull it back and forth while it ate into the wood. It always took two men.
We wondered about the ice sawing operation. We knew that one person would stand on top of the ice. We couldn’t imagine where his sawing partner would stand. “Maybe it’s under the ice!” Sister Ellen was hoping that the bowlegged hired man would be the fellow operating the bottom end of the saw!
Effie Bowlegs had the Winter Mopes. Not only was he cross, but he had also been doing things which brought no reward – like bossing Sister Ellen. Besides this he overate. No doubt a symptom of the Mopes. He had been reaching across the dinner table to get a third helping of navy beans before the rest of us could get seconds. He never even asked for them – just reached across the table without so much as a “Please pass,” “Thank you,” or anything. Sister was hoping he’d have to stand in water over his head and pull one end of the saw. When we got to the pond, they didn’t have a two man saw. Instead they had a saw with only one handle. There was no one down in the lower regions.
Effie Bowlegs, standing
Barney Brannin marked off the ice in rectangles. He was showing off for the schoolteacher. Her smile lifted him out of his winter doldrums. Uncle Gus had to work his off. He chopped a hole in the ice and started sawing. Soon the center of the pond looked like a big checkerboard with ice blocks floating on it. The next task was to get the ice out of the water.
One piece of ice had missed being cut in two. It was a monster block which floated among the other chunks. Father motioned to Billy Briner and Jimmy Hicks, who were the teenagers in the squad of workers. “Hook the ice tongs in it and pull the bloody thing out,” he said. “It will hold down our load.”
Ice tongs have two long steel legs which are fastened together like a giant salad server. The handle ends have large loops for handholds. The other end has sharpened points which are forced into the ice. The boys hooked the tongs into the block and pulled it part way out of the water. Mr. Bowlegs watched critically. Not only did he eat all the beans, he was also standing around with his teeth in his mouth telling others what to do, which goes along with severe cases of Mopes.
“You’ve got to submerge it first,” Mr. Bowlegs said. “Huh?” “Submerge it. Don’t you know what submerge means? Push the block of ice under the water. You’ve been watching us all day. And, when it bobs up, jerk it onto the top of the ice.”
The day was cold. Snow was sifting over the top of the pond. The teenagers pushed down, one on each end of the tongs. The block dipped into the water. They yanked as it bobbed to the top. The ice made it about halfway up and slid back. The boys held the tongs ready to give another try. “I can do it by myself.” Their self-appointed boss pushed the youngsters aside and grasped a tong handle in each hand. “Just shove her down,” he said as he ducked the block at the edge of the water coated ice. “Then yank her out like this.”
The supervisor braced his feet and gave a big tug. The block bounced up and the block sunk down again. Mr. Bowlegs’ feet slipped. The down pull did the rest. There were wild gyrations followed by a royal splash as Bowlegs demonstrated the finer points of submersion. When he surfaced, Father said, “Hook the blooming tongs in him and flop him out of the water.”
Winter at the Brannin Ranch
Before Billy could oblige, someone grabbed the swimmer’s sleeve and landed him. He hobbled back to the ranch house half a mile away! By the time he got there his clothes were frozen and he was clanking like a knight in armor. His teeth chattered until supper time and he didn’t eat but two helpings of beans. He even said, “Please pass,” for those.
People will tell you, Winter Mopes is a drastic malady. Drastic maladies are cured by drastic measures. Even clergy burn out might be cured by a mid-winter baptism in an ice pond.
As Uncle Dick says, “It’s a bad cure that don’t do no good.”
One of my fondest memories was having hot tea with my grandmother. She didn’t care for iced tea. She said it made no sense to take perfectly good hot tea, chill it, put sugar in to sweeten it and then put in lemon to make it sour. No, just hot tea with a spoon of sugar and a bit of cream was what she liked, and I liked it, too.
She had a built-in wall cabinet filled with her china and other pretty dishes. There was an ample selection of teacups, saucers, and tea pots. I loved to stand in front of the colorful fancy dishes and try to decide which cup I wanted to use next. It didn’t matter that I was just a little snotty nosed kid – she let me pick the cup I wanted to use. After selecting my cup, I set it on the round dining room table along with the cups already chosen by others sharing our teatime. Soon, a pot of hot tea sat on the table along with the sugar bowl and creamer filled with cream. She poured tea into the cups and then we each added a spoonful (or two or three) of sugar along with cream. The hot tea was good, but the time spent with my grandmother and those around the table was priceless.
Having hot tea with my grandmother has stuck with me all these years. For one thing, it has instilled in me a love for hot tea – especially when it is shared with people I love. All my grandkids have shared hot tea with me. I have two teacup cabinets and numerous other teacups for them to select from, and believe me, I have a plethora!
My littlest granddaughter is the biggest fan of sharing hot tea. When she comes to the house for any length of time, she often asks if we can have a tea party. She goes to one of the cabinets and picks out a teacup for me saying it’s my favorite, and then she picks one for her. Then we have a tea party. Sometimes her dolls join us, complete with their own miniature teacups, teapot, cream and sugar. She pours their tea, then after a sufficient amount of time has passed, she drinks it so she can pour them another cup.
My grandmother never seemed to cringe when little hands reached into her cabinet. I don’t ever remember her chiding me or even telling me to be careful. She never said, “I’ll get it for you.” Instead, she let us little kids open the cabinet and get our teacups or fancy plates ourselves. Little did I know that my grandmother taught me some lessons in the process. It was not about “things,” it was about family and friendship. Her philosophy was to use those special treasures to make lasting memories. That is the lesson I want to leave my kids and grandkids. They are more valuable than any breakable piece of china. I hope to continue making memories over a cup of hot tea.
