The desert has a beauty all its own. Hidden beneath the parched earth with wind teasing the dry grasses are seeds of new life just waiting to burst forth. The Southwest desert regions are absolutely fascinating.
about 10,000 feet in the White Mountains
One of my favorite places I have visited is the White Mountains in eastern California. There is a jewel hidden in that high desert mountain range. The Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest is a protected area high in the White Mountains in Inyo County. Having traveled through that area a few years ago, I can say if you’re planning a trip to that vicinity, it would be well worth a side trip to visit the ancient forest. The Ancient Bristlecone Scenic Byway winds through narrow canyons with gorgeous outcroppings of rocks. Climbing out of the valley, the reward is a view of rolling vistas and desert mountains dotted with gnarly trees that have survived the harsh conditions for years.
Ancient Bristlecone Pines
Many of the Bristlecone Pines are ancient trees. It is said the oldest known tree in the United States is a Bristlecone Pine. For years a tree named Methuselah, at about 4800 years old, was said to be the oldest but since then another tree in the same forest has been dated at over 5000 years old.
I sensed an air of sacred reverence there. Walking through the forest, it seemed that wisdom and history whispered from the trees. I was humbled just to stand there among those ancient sentries. Just think of all the changes that have occurred in their lifetime. They are survivors. How many people have sat at their roots? How many have wandered in those mountains among the pines? How many birds have nested in their branches? How many natives of this country have called it home? The Ancient Ones certainly deserve our protection and respect.
When you travel with me, the rule is we eat with the locals and avoid chain restaurants if at all possible. Of course, many of the places I travel have no chain restaurants. My girls laugh and say when they travel with me, “We’re off the chain.” Through the years I’ve had good meals, best meals and an occasional worst meal. When I think of the best meals I’ve had while traveling, many come to mind.
One of the best meals in the mountains backpacking with my dad was rice cakes cooked over a campfire in a skillet of butter and drizzled with honey. The best meal after coming out of the mountains on backpacking trips was anything that Aunt Barbara cooked – usually fresh beef, potatoes, gravy, and fresh bread. The best meal while camping in the high desert was left over Costco rotisserie chicken mixed with boxed Mac ‘n Cheese with fresh Aunt Betty tomatoes on the side. It seems that food just tastes better cooked over a campfire in the mountains! The best cream puffs were a toss-up between Aunt Lois and Aunt Barbara, both made with real butter and topped with fresh whipped cream and wild berries.
Maud eating at El Rodeo
Milkshakes at Cole’s
There have been three best Mexican restaurants: a Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of Omak, Washington; a taco bus in Dillon, MT; and El Rodeo bus in Bozeman, MT.
One of my favorite historic places to visit was the Historic Marysville House. Who would think of finding a restaurant serving the best of steaks and seafood in a partially inhabited ghost town off the beaten path? At one time the dining room was the freight & baggage room of the railroad station. They say it’s “worth the ride,” and it is! Two more historic great dining experiences were the old inn at Gold Hill, CA and the Grand Union Hotel in Ft. Benton, MT. Hands down, the best milkshake was and is at Cole Drug in Big Timber, MT. Madison’s Restaurant in the Old Edward Inn situated in the quaint little town of Highlands, NC was one of the best all-around fine dining experiences with good food, beautiful presentation, wonderful atmosphere, and exquisite service. The Woodbridge Inn in Jasper, GA was also a great place to eat with a Dutch twist. The best breakfast was at the Adair Manor B & B in Adairsville, GA. It’s worth a stay in this restored 1895 home full of Southern charm and Country French style. The hosts shower their guests with Southern hospitality. They set the table with the most exquisite breakfast served on their fine china.
Chocolate Stuffed French Toast at Adair Manor B & B
The best huckleberry pie was at Park Café at St. Mary, MT. The best cinnamon roll was at Polebridge, MT (unless you get one at cousin Bobbie’s house). The best fish was a toss-up between fresh caught trout cooked over a campfire and fresh salmon Aunt Lois cooked on a wood-burning stove. The best water is from a mountain spring at my grandmother’s old place. One of my very favorite places to eat is at Sweet Grass Ranch. I’ve had the privilege to eat there a few times, and it has been marvelous every time. One reason the food tastes great is because the friendship, history and atmosphere are outstanding.
There have been worst places to eat, too. The VERY WORST of all time was Denny’s, a chain restaurant in Bishop, CA. It was the only place open when we got to town. I ordered spaghetti, and I got spaghetti noodles tossed in ketchup. Yep – it was terrible – the worst ever! I’m sure glad there are more best places on my list!
I pulled back the layers of tissue paper and unwrapped the little drawstring bag, gently taking it in my hand. At one time a little package of thin papers was attached by a strip that wrapped around the bag. Some people wouldn’t give this tiny swatch of fabric a second thought and might even toss it away, but to me it is a great treasure. It no longer has the smell of tobacco nor has it been in anyone’s shirt pocket for over 50 years. I loosened the drawstring, opened it slowly and peaked inside. It was full of magic!
The magic is not in the little bag but rather what is contained inside. You might peek inside and not find even one little leaf of tobacco. When I look inside the worn-out tobacco bag, I see a wealth of treasures. One look transports me back in time. There I am, sitting with my granddad on the porch. I hear his voice as he tells me stories of life on the prairie. I hear the story of the hail storm that destroyed the family’s crops. With a laugh he adds the words of his sister, “Well, someone go milk the cow. We’ll not let this ice go to waste.” They made ice cream and had a party.
I peek in the bag again and see my brother being chased by the mad mama cow. Another look and I hear fiddle music as big rough hands draw the bow across the strings to make the fiddle sing and the fiddler’s fingers dance.
There are other treasures in that little bag. There are tales of cowboys and covered wagons. There are memories of wagon rides to the creek, climbing apple trees, playing in the hay loft, swinging on a rope, wading in the creek, walks in the pasture, and rides on the tractor. I even find a box of chocolate covered cherries in that little bag of magic. Carefully I place the little drawstring bag into the tissue paper and gently wrap it up again and place it back in the trunk. Another day, I will once again pull it from its wrapping for another dose of magic.
You don’t have to take a long trip to have a grand adventure – especially if Cousin George is at the wheel. Hey, just riding in one of Cousin George’s trucks is an adventure. He has enough stuff packed into his truck to fill a small room. You might not be able to see the seat, but you can sit up pretty high in his truck.
Headed to the heart of the mountains
When we would go to Montana, Cousin George was often our transportation to and/or from the mountains. We usually piled into the back of the truck. That’s the best seat. It was better than looking out any window. We had the whole world before us and behind us – the sky, mountains, streams.
We would take off down the road, taking turns to open the gates. Up and down we’d bounce and slide sideways and frontways. I marveled that his truck even made it to our destination. One time, he took off across a field along the river. It had rained, so it was plenty muddy. Mud splattered and splashed on the windshield, through open windows and in the bed of the truck. His windshield wipers didn’t work. He sure couldn’t see out the front window, not that it would have made much difference. His driving was the same with or without seeing. Right hand on the wheel, he hung out the window and used his left hand as the windshield wiper. We bounced on through the field for a bit then got back on the road (of sorts). It wasn’t long before we drove through the creek, and the mud slid right off.
Our destination was my grandmother’s place in the heart of the mountains. We’d traipse off into the mountains with our backpacks and camping gear. After a few days we would head back to the cabin for the night. The next day someone would come pick us up and haul us out of the mountains.
One time, Cousin George came to get us on his birthday. I baked him a birthday cake in the old wood cookstove. It was that trip that Cousin George gave me my first dip – snuff, that is – Copenhagen. And, I should add, it was my last dip as well. He had a good laugh, and I might add, I turned a bit green.
Through the years, Cousin George has continued to give us grand adventures. He seems to always take time to drive us up into the mountains. I think he likes adventures, too!
A few years ago, I pulled into the parking lot of a local store. There was a load of kids in the back of a truck. One of the kids was teaching the others to spit. They were hanging over the side of the truck bed, two fingers pressed on their lips, aiming and firing a projectile of spit. I thought they were doing an admirable job with their spitting skills, but then, they didn’t know Mrs. Cash! She had been a neighbor of my grandparents years ago. She would have put those kids to shame!
My grandparents in front of their house along a country dirt road
My grandparents lived along a country dirt road. Neighbors would wave as they drove by with a cloud of red dust following them down the road. I thought that was the perfect place to live. There was a big barn, an apple orchard, a shed with a tractor, other buildings and even an outhouse. The house seemed huge to a little kid and there was even a porch across the front. A wide hallway divided the house in two. On the left side was a living room and a big kitchen. I remember taking a bath in the washtub in the kitchen floor as Grandma Bee baked peanut butter cookies. The tops of the cookies were squished with a fork, sprinkled with sugar and they were yummy! I can still smell those warm cookies being taken from the oven.
They lived in an era where neighbors were more than just people who lived nearby. Neighbors helped one another with their crops. They were a community who took care of one another. If someone had a need, the neighbors would pool their resources to help. They also took time to visit with one another. Ladies would gather for quilting bees. Grandma Bee took me with her once. I crawled under the quilt that was stretched out on the frame and watched the needles move in and out of the fabric as the women buzzed like a hive of bees.
Three of my siblings with Grandma & Daddy Bee; the kitchen is through the doorway.
One of their neighbors was Mrs. Cash. She was more than a neighbor; she was a friend. I never heard her called by her first name. Back in those days the ladies were called Mrs. or Miss and men were called Mr. I really only remember one thing about Mrs. Cash and that was she dipped snuff or chewed tobacco. I don’t know if Grandma Bee approved, but she at least tolerated Mrs. Cash’s vice. In fact, she enabled her habit by having a spit can that Mrs. Cash used. That lady would sit on the red vinyl sofa in the living room, work up a good spit and let ‘er fly. She could hit that spit can that sat all the way by the door. Ping! She’d hit it every time. She could spit as good or better than any man, and man, that woman could spit! Ping!
It was the early ‘60’s. Daddy had been appointed his first pastorate. Besides pastoring three small town churches, he also worked and went to school. My mom kept up with us kids and did whatever was necessary to survive. She was busy all the time. With cooking, cleaning, sewing, baking bread (6 loaves at a time), canning, herding kids, church functions, typing college papers, and everything in-between, she had no time to herself.
Ready for church
We lived in the church parsonage. I didn’t realize at the time that we were relatively poor. That’s why we had to eat oatmeal. It was a staple in our household, and Mama said it would stick to my ribs. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now. Though I was small, I learned to cook there. I made mud pies in the back yard under the big pecan tree. My sister made her mud pies on the piano keys, and I think she got into trouble. I guess she didn’t want to practice that day.
Parsonage
The pastor’s family did benefit from parishioners sharing their produce in the summer, eggs or fresh meat at butchering time. Some of the former pastors may have been asked out to eat regularly, but our family didn’t get asked very often. Who wants to have the pastor’s family for Sunday dinner, especially when there are 6 kids, 3 of them rotten boys? We did get asked on occasion though. I loved going to the Brandenburg’s house. Mr. Brandenburg was blind. He ran the general store in town and knew almost everyone who came into the store by the sound of their feet. One day my dad walked in, and Mr. Brandenburg said, “Hello there, Preacher. Sounds like you put on a few pounds.” He kept an immaculate garden and tended the grape vines that draped over the arbor to the side of the house. Mrs. Brandenburg was so kind and a wonderful cook!
Church attended by Brandenburgs & Ms. Mary
One Sunday morning Daddy said we were invited to dinner after church. I was excited because I thought the Brandenburg’s had asked us to come, but they didn’t.
Ms. Mary lived out of town. Her house was close to the road on a small hill. Across her driveway was the well. Her chickens were free range, and we had to be careful where we stepped. When we found out that we were going to her house the complaints began. Even Mama and Daddy didn’t want to go, but they graciously accepted her invitation. We were told to eat our meal and not to say a word. Ms. Mary was not the best cook. She put the food on the table and had us sit down to eat. She passed a plate and said, “Have a biscuit.” I had never seen a green biscuit before. Her biscuits were green, and I mean, they were green. They tasted as bad as they looked. She baked them in a kerosene stove and that’s exactly how the biscuits tasted – like kerosene.
As I look back through the years, I now see things in a different light. I see a woman who gave sacrificially to honor her pastor and his family. She was a simple country woman who had little to give, yet she gave the best she had. Somehow with that thought, even mud pies would taste a bit sweeter and green kerosene biscuits would taste more like manna.
My youngest granddaughter is just about too cute. That means she is as cute as can be as well as smart and oozing with life and full of energy. She also has another quality. She is a Daddy Buck Whisperer. That’s quite an accomplishment at just four years old.
She was a surprise, and what a good surprise she was! There is ten years between her and her big sister with a brother stuck in the middle. I know about surprises because I was a surprise, too. There is ten years between me and my big sister. I was a 1 in 1000 chance baby. We were meant to be!
The Daddy Buck Whisperer at work
Little Bit came at just the right time. Her great grandfather, Daddy Buck, needed her. I believe she was sent as a special gift to Daddy Buck. She brought light to his clouded eyes and life to his aging aching bones. She would come into his house at breakfast time, sit in his lap and share his blueberries. When she thought he had been at the table long enough, she’d run over to his recliner, pat the seat and say, “Daddy Buck, I need you.” He would roll his walker over to his chair, sit down and the little girl climbed up there with him. She would sit at his left side tucked up under his arm just like I would sit with my granddad when I was her age. When we went to get Daddy Buck a new chair, he tested it to make sure there was enough room for him and his little sidekick before he made his selection. Those two were like two peas in a pod. There were times when she would climb up on his walker seat, and he’d roll her off to his room or to the table as she sang a funny little tune. Sometimes he sang a funny little tune while she rang his bell and rolled from one room to the next.
The Daddy Buck Whisperer & Dr. Grace
The other day my daughter, her kids and I went to visit an elderly friend, Dr. Grace. She thinks all kids are wonderful, but she especially loved watching Little Bit. It wasn’t long before the little bundle of wiggles asked Dr. Grace if she could sit with her. Dr. Grace was ecstatic. She needed a Daddy Buck Whisperer, too. Soon a little girl sat quietly in the lap of this soon-to-be 99 year old lady. They were both smiling and perfectly content talking their secret language.
On Sunday, Little Bit will be about her duties again using her Daddy Buck Whisperer skills when she visits the older ladies Sunday School class. She will twirl to show off her hairdo, dress and moose boots and then curtsy for them as they oooo and ahhh before she buzzes out of the room. You always know the Daddy Buck Whisperer has struck because the room is full of smiles.
Some of the best adventures are found on the front porch. There is something special about a porch, don’t you think? It’s a great place to take time just to sit a few moments to relax and sort your thoughts. It’s also the place to take a trip without even going anywhere.
There have been many days when the grandkids would sit with me on the porch and ask for stories. They have asked for stories about my ancestors from days long gone and of their wild west adventures. I’ve also been asked to tell familiar childhood stories in the voice of the big bad wolf or one of the three little pigs.
Porches add to our arsenal of memories. When I was a kid, I loved to sit on the porch with my granddad. I’d rub his bald head so his hair would grow. He would let me roll his Bull Durham tobacco cigarettes. They were so loose the ashes would fall on his shirt and burn little holes. We’d swing for hours. Whenever a storm came, he would go sit on the porch swing, and I’d go with him. I’d be scared to death because of the thunder and lightning and would stay tucked up under his armpit. He taught me respect for the storms. That’s where I learned that nitrogen came from lightning and nourished the soil for the crops. We all need the rain. I learned that storms come along in our lives, and they are for our good to teach us lessons of life. That’s also where I heard tales from long gone times of his childhood and youth. I heard stories of his “batching” days when he and old John followed the harvest season all the way into Canada to work on the threshing crews.
My brother
Sometimes the porch swing brought other memorable events. One such day, we were sitting in the swing and my brother crossed the road into the pasture. My grandfather told him, as he had many times before, to stay away from the mama cow. She had a new calf. Well, any of you who know my brother also know that he is his own adjective. If one of the kids are told they act like or look like Uncle B, they know exactly what that means! Anyway, he had that grin plastered on his face and decided to tempt fate and that mama cow. He sauntered toward that calf. Down went the mama cow’s head! She pawed the ground and started for him. Daddy Bee hollered and told that boy he’d “better get.” Well, he “got” as fast as he could, running all out toward the barbed wire fence. The mama cow was faster, but my brother had a head start. He barely made it to the fence and slid under the bottom wire. I know exactly what is meant when someone says they “escaped by the seat of their pants.” If he had been any bigger or his britches any looser, they would have gotten snagged by that barb and the rest of him would have been snagged by that mad mama cow.
Ah…. porch days … I think I may need an afternoon trip. Any takers?
A reverent silence lay like the morning mist on the tombstones of the old cemetery. An occasional rustle of dry leaves in the cool winter breeze and a bird’s soulful song could be heard. I stood still taking in the scene before me. Dry broom straw and tall grass with tiny white plumes grew in patches. Scattered gravel rested on barren ground where nothing grew. The hilltop was scattered with headstones. Many had been forgotten over the years. Grass and wild blackberry vines grew among the stones. Broken headstones lay half buried in the weeds. Fire ants set up housekeeping beside old stumps and broken stones. Faded silk flowers were scattered in the tall grass. Some headstones were intricate in design while others were mere unadorned rocks taken from the lake shoreline just a stone’s throw away. Yet both were lovingly placed to mark where a loved one had taken final rest. Names and dates were worn away by time, though some did not even have that luxury. Some names were hidden under moss that grew in the etched letters.
My imagination ran away with me. I saw grieving families by freshly dug graves. I heard the soft “thud” as dirt fell onto the wooden casket that lay in the ground. I smelled fresh roses splashed with daisies that covered the dirt mound. I felt the tears fall like raindrops as last goodbyes were spoken.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shuffling feet on bare ground. I lifted my eyes and saw a stooped old man. He walked with a cane, poking it along in front of him to find solid ground on which to place his unsteady feet. He leaned on his cane and peered over a tombstone. I studied the scene before me. None of us are guaranteed tomorrow, but as age creeps upon us, each breath brings us one step closer to our mortality. Life is fleeting.
I watched the little man as he wandered through the tombstones. He would bend to look at one, then another. I wondered what was going through his mind. Was he, too, brought face to face with our mortality? His 89 years had been lived to the fullest. He had stories to tell, memories to share, wisdom to impart.
The little bent man had told me just minutes before that the first 80 years of life were traveled on the designated road. Everything after that was a shortcut – some were just longer than others. I certainly understood his words. I had traveled with him many times. He would take the road off the beaten path. His shortcuts turned into long-cuts, but they were laden with adventures. I did not begrudge any of those shortcuts. Now he rode with me on my adventures and would often ask, “Is this a shortcut?”
