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Masterpiece

The concertmaster drew the bow over the violin’s A string. The noise that followed may have sounded like chaos to those already in their seats awaiting the concert. To the conductor’s ear, it was a glorious melody for he knew every instrument in the orchestra would soon be as one. Horns, strings, woodwinds, tympani, all tuned to the same note. The instrumentalists, each oblivious to the others, warmed up with scales or last-minute practice on difficult sections. 

Fiddler Bee

That all came to an abrupt stop as the conductor came out of the wings onto center stage. He walked toward the crowd, then stepped onto the podium and faced the orchestra. A curtain of silence fell over the whole auditorium. Not even a breath was heard. Every eye in the room was on him. He lifted his arms and instruments immediately responded by moving into playing position. With the downbeat, the music began. Every instrument played its part and made the black and white pages of the music score come to life. Countless hours of practice bathed with talent and a dose of opportunity transformed the notes on the pages to a lasting melody that echoed throughout the room.

When the last note of the concert ended, the conductor turned once again to face the audience who stood in applause. With a bow, he then directed their attention with a wave of his arm to the orchestra that had performed under his leadership. The musicians stood and applause erupted again. 

As everyone went their way, they took with them a sense of satisfaction. Individuals from all walks of life and different backgrounds had come together to perform – not as individuals but as an orchestra. There were many instruments, some expensive, some not so much, and different levels of talent and ability. It took each one playing their individual instrument in tune with the others to create a masterpiece that was the performance of a lifetime. 

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GPS

A voice said, “Take the next left.” We took the next left. “Now turn right.” Hmmm. There was no right. We were in the middle of a graveyard. There was only a circle drive that went around the hill and back again. We got out of there! When we got back to the road the voice said, “Route (pronounced root) recalculation.” We drove a short distance and followed her directions around and around the round-about. After spinning around a few times I managed to break loose and head straight down the road. We found our turn-off and followed her directions. “You have arrived at your destination.” What? It was not even the right address! A man walking his dog confirmed our suspicions that the GPS girl was out to get us! We followed his directions and pulled right into the parking spot reserved for us. As soon as we got out of the car a sign warned, “Beware of bears!” Maybe the GPS girl was just steering us away from the bears.

  • This is bear country!

Traveling with GPS as your guide can sometimes be dangerous. That girl that speaks through the car stereo will lead you astray. We’ve used her several times when we have roamed the back roads on our girl’s adventures. She has taken us miles from our destination and told us to turn where there was no road. We have stopped to try to figure out where we’re supposed to be and heard dueling banjos in “them thar hills.” The other day, we were on an outing and the GPS girl said, “Take the next left.” “Turn left now.” We were in the middle of a forest with a steep bank on the left. There was no road. There wasn’t even a deer trail. To top it off, it seems like every adventure we take, the GPS girl leads us to a graveyard. That’s very suspicious.

One weekend some of our family went to a wedding several hours away. Daddy was with us that trip. On the way home, my tall daughter turned on her GPS and gave us the directions home. Daddy piped up, “If you’ll turn left up here at the red light, go about 5 miles, turn right and drive awhile you’ll come back out on our road.” My tall daughter said, “We don’t need GPS when we have Granddad.” I commented, “We do have GPS – Granddad Positioning System.” He was the king of shortcuts, but he always said he knew where we were, “We’re right here.”

Where’s Granddad when you need him?

  • That’s his GPS
  • I followed this little man many times!
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Four Letter Words

My mother did not like four-letter words. There were some offensive words that warranted a kid getting their mouth washed out with soap. There was another four-letter word that was really a bad word, “CAN’T”. It was not allowed in our household. In fact, it was not even in Mama’s dictionary.

She taught us kids some valuable lessons. She believed that if something needed to be done or you wanted something done, “Do it yourself.” Her motto was, “just do it.” My mother coined that phrase LONG before Nike. Sometimes that was quite an exasperating answer, but it actually taught all of us kids independence, maybe even to a fault at times. No limitations! That was just one of many nuggets of gold she dropped along our path.

Remember, “CAN’T never could!” per my mother…..

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Sacred Spirit Village

I have visited many interesting places around the country, each with its own characteristics and culture. One such place was what some have classified as a hippie commune located in the Santa Ynez Mountains above Santa Barbara, California. The compound at one time was a sacred spirit village of the Chumash people.

  • Santa Ynez Mountains
  • Flores Flats

It was later known as the Sunburst Community but is now called Flores Flats. “Flores” is a Spanish word that means “flowers.” That gives you an idea of the beauty of the area. My cousin has a lovely and unique home nestled there in the mountains among the Manzanita trees and other beautiful vegetation and foliage.

The residents there work together as a community. Their homes are made out of whatever is available. The homes without bathroom facilities share a community bath house. They often pool their resources and provide for one another. When I was there, we all gathered to share our evening meal. Someone grilled steaks, while others prepared fresh produce and bread. They rely on their gardens for food as well as a means to generate income. Many use solar power and live very simply. They have a connection to nature. Because of the age-old lingering spirit felt there in the mountains it is said, “the ancient people continue to nurture us all with contributions from their rich heritage and culture.” And so the ancient people continue to live on.

  • Manzanita Tree
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Uncle Joe

Joseph Brannin. When I hear his name I see a handsome young man with thick black coarse curly hair, black eyes, with prominent Spanish features. I see a man of confidence and compassion with a sense of justice. I see someone who is dedicated to family, an overseer, and one who gives unconditionally. 

When the family made their exodus to Montana, Joe is the one who kept the record of their trip. He is the one who made sure the family was cared for. He helped his oldest sister buy a farm. He made arrangements for his younger sisters to get their education. He made sure they had music lessons. He gave his baby sister her beloved doll. Joe brought life and a touch of refinement to the mountains. He was the musician in the family, playing the violin.

Joseph S Brannin

Though I think of all those things, the name Joe Brannin means something else. The name speaks of death, sorrow, and injustice. Joe, the sheriff’s deputy, was killed in the line of duty. Mel Jowell, who led a life of thievery and rustling, had just been released from prison for his crime of rustling and altering brands. He quickly broke probation. When Mel Jowell came to town, you can bet there was trouble brewing. Joe was sent to pick up Mel for questioning about some stolen stock. Joe went to the bar to get Jowell but Deputy Brannin didn’t leave alive.

Jowell was on the run. Many of his steps can be retraced through eyewitness accounts, court records and various documents. He died in Texas at the age of 85, having fathered at least 5 children. Joe Brannin, provider and caregiver of the family, full of life, hopes and dreams, died at the tender age of 27. 

Joe Brannin “was a young man of exceptional character, clean and upright.” Uncle Joe remains endeared to many as his legacy passes to us and demands that his story be retold to future generations. 

Joseph Brannin
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Buckhorn II

Anytime we meet up with Cousin Scottie, it’s a good day. He is a walking family historian with a genealogical chart as an appendage. I asked him once if he would will me his brain – or at least the family history it contains. He has been our fearless leader on more than one occasion, leading us through the trails of stories and history. 

The trip of 2012 was the first time I remember meeting any of my Wagoner cousins, though I had seen their folks several times. We met at Sapillo Creek, New Mexico. The plan was to meet there at the old site of the Brannin Ranch, explore the area, and then follow the route of the family exodus to Montana in 1895-96. Some of us had retraced that trail before.

After meeting, we all went to the Buckhorn Saloon in Pinos Altos for supper. We walked in the door and felt an immediate connection to the past. The dim lights, the long dark toned bar, the wall lined with bottles, the brick wall at the back of the room, the décor, and the wooden ceiling created an atmosphere characteristic of the old west era. Some of the family had already gathered. The young folks sat together and soon the cousins were well acquainted. We talked about our proposed route and got brushed up on some of the family history. Our food was wonderful, and the company was the same. It was open mic night and we got a rare treat. One of the cousins, only 13 years old, sang and played the guitar. His fingers danced across the strings and impressed everyone in the bar. 

decor to represent days past

We all enjoyed staying on the same piece of property where the old Ranch once stood. Sapillo Creek still runs through the property. One of the apple trees planted by my Great Grandfather also stands as a testimony to time. The old tree is twisted and weathered. I wish there was a magic camera on the tree that would replay all the events that took place over 125 years. We would see the uncles all covered in mud when they scared the Sunday wagon drivers; we would get a glimpse of Indians coming off Apache Hill into the Brannin yard asking for something to eat; we would see children playing in the yard; we would hear Stanton talk of the neighboring rancher’s threats; we would see the shingle maker in action; we would hear the one lie Guadalupe told of her heritage. Instead we must rely on the oral and written history that has been passed on to us.

Daddy beside one of the apple trees Grandfather Brannin planted

Our time in the area was much too short. One day, I hope to go back and stay longer to explore the area. Would you like to join me? I’ll meet you at the Buckhorn!

Close to the site where the Brannin Ranch stood
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The Bugle Call

The elderly man stopped at the door of the classroom. He placed the cane on his shoulder and marched into the room singing cadence followed by a wartime song. 

The infantry, the infantry with dirt behind their ears
Can whip their weight in wildcats and drink their weight in beers.
The cavalry, the artillery, and the corps of engineers
Can never whoop the infantry in a hundred thousand years.

As he stopped in front of the room, he turned to face the students. “Before I was born,” were his first words. Isn’t that where all our stories begin? As with most of his stories, they took him back to the mountains of Montana. Well they should have because he was “the man of the mountains.” “Before he was born,” a family in Melville bought old Cavalry horses for the kids to ride. One day the kids were out riding when some soldiers rode by on their mounts. One of the riders sounded his bugle. The Cavalry horses the kids were riding answered the call. The horses ran off to join the others. Horses were soldiers too, you know. They went quite a distance before they turned for home. As the “man of the mountains” told his story, he said, “old soldiers answered the call of the bugle and I answered the call.”

The bugle sounded and a young man went into battle in World War II. He recalled the stories of war to the students. Though the ninety-year-old man was small of stature, his presence demanded attention and respect. All eyes were on him. He stretched to his full frame of just over five feet yet he was larger than life. His World War II army jacket was held closed by the bottom button. Somehow, his presence and the recounting of his experiences in the European theater brought history to life. The stories and places the students had read about became real.

Though the old soldier is no longer with us, his story continues to be told and his memories still live on. Always a soldier, when the final bugle sounded, the old soldier answered the call.

Bill Maxner, Beloit Joyal, Buck Ward
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Buckhorn

Stepping onto the street in Pinos Altos was like stepping into the scene of an old western movie. It’s as if the tales of the Wild West came to life. Curtains of time rolled back as I stepped into the old saloon. The Buckhorn Saloon had its beginning in the 1860’s. The long bar bore scars from boot spurs and barroom brawls. I could easily imagine seeing my great grandfather and Old Moss sitting at one of the tables scattered throughout the saloon.

You can still get a drink or a sumptuous meal at Buckhorn as you experience the old west. Next door to the saloon is the Opera House that is still used as a performance venue. Musicians from all over play there. Just a walk through the Opera House is a memorable walk past historic photos, paintings and old artifacts.

  • at the bar
  • Opera House
  • Gila Cliff Dwellings

Pinos Altos, meaning “tall pines,” is along the route from Silver City, New Mexico to Sapillo Creek. It is a fascinating drive. The road winds through the Mimbres Mountains, a gorgeous and unique igneous mountain range. Dense forests and deep canyons make the mountains look dark and ominous. In this ancient land of tall mountains, rivers, and high desert, you can still find evidence of the prehistoric Mogollon Indians who made their homes in the cliffs of these mountains. A visit to Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument allows a fascinating look at their homes and culture. This was also the land of Apache Indians. As settlers moved into the area, big ranch owners brought their own unrest as these cultures clashed. Some of my ancestors called Sapillo Creek home before they left that land of gunslingers and raids on their neighbors’ homes.

  • just prior to fetus being pulled from the doe

Along that same road my family and I witnessed a scene that I warrant have only been seen by a few, other than the rare occurrence caught on film by a wildlife photographer. Just off the side of the road we saw a bear on the other side of a fence. Then we noticed a doe laying under the fence at the feet of the bear. It appeared the doe tried to jump the fence but didn’t make it. Within a few seconds, the bear reached into the doe’s abdomen that had been ripped open and pulled out a fetus as we watched. It’s was unbelievable!

The Mimbres Mountains are still wild and full of undiscovered mysteries.

  • Mimbres Mountains
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Under the Shade Trees

Growing up in the South fifty and sixty years ago was a lot different than it is today. Though I grew up in the south, I didn’t consider myself a Southern girl, even if I sounded like one. My parents were Northwesterners. There were definite cultural differences that were evident in our household, including the food. 

My dad was a preacher, mostly of small country churches. When we had church-wide meals, we ate outside if weather permitted. Some of the churches had tables set up in the church yard just for the meal. Others had concrete tables just waiting for an excuse to be used. Tall trees offered shade for the occasion.

Country church folks took every opportunity to get together. Homecoming and any other occasion warranted a church-wide or community gathering to eat. Ladies brought covered dishes filled with all kinds of food. I bypassed some dishes with no trouble. Turnip greens, collards, black eyed peas cooked in fat back, over-cooked vegetables with bacon grease, cornbread and grits were items that certainly did not tempt me in the least. Now, southern fried chicken and fresh baked pies were a different story! Neighbors and friends talked through the afternoon about their families, crops and jobs. Children ran and played. Laughter was caught up in the breeze.

Up until just a couple of weeks before Daddy died, he still talked about one of the first church gatherings they attended. It seems the ladies talked about what they brought to the meal. One lady said she brought a chocolate cake that “the preacher” just had to try. He went to the end of the table that held the desserts. Where was the chocolate cake? He soon learned what southern ladies considered to be a “chocolate cake.” It was a yellow or white cake with chocolate icing. There was no chocolate cake anywhere under that icing.

Occasionally at one of the churches, especially in the fall, a big pot was set up in the church yard with a fire under it. Parishioners brought ingredients for Brunswick Stew, dumped them in the pot and let the stew cook for hours as they took turns stirring. When it was ready, people got in line with their bowls. They walked away with stew slopping over the sides of their bowls and gathered up a handful of cornbread and had a feast. I never stood in either of those lines! Yes, I did taste it and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the texture and I sure didn’t like the way it looked. To me, it looked like a meal that had already been eaten once and it sure didn’t appeal to my senses.

Sometimes now when we’re driving down country roads, we might pass a little church with all the doors and windows boarded up. And sometimes off to the side in the church yard is a concrete table leaning unsteadily on broken or sunken legs, the top covered with moss, sticks and leaves. It brings thoughts of years gone by when gatherings under the shade trees were a central part of the community. For just a fleeting moment those memories are recaptured as I see neighbors sharing their lives with one another.

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Holey Socks

Cousin George has holes in his socks. There’s a hole for his foot to go in, and there’s a hole for his big toe to go out. I think my dad bought his socks at the same place because that’s how his socks looked, too. The only difference is, Daddy’s socks weren’t pink. 

Of course, who am I to talk about their socks? In warm weather I don’t wear socks. In cold weather I wear my socks a few times then switch feet so there are two matching toe holes in each sock. Then I have to get new socks. I don’t like my toes hanging out. Daddy didn’t like new socks. He liked his old socks so his big toes could stick out. It was too much trouble to break in a new pair of socks and the holes in his old ones were in just the right place. 

My big toes turn toward the sun and my second toe looks like a camel, too. It’s a family thing!

This is a picture of a pair of my holey socks. I don’t have the heart to throw them away because they are my favorite frog socks.