Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Deer Hunter's Dream
This fall the wildlife have been coming into the yard at the ranch house. The cow dogs treed a raccoon one morning. A group of deer, including a 4 point buck started grazing on the lawn. The cow dogs are locked up a night to keep them out of mischief. So the deer felt pretty safe. The deer probably don't feel so safe now. Hunting season opened. Dad went out the door to do chores. He saw the 4 point buck grazing on the lawn. He went back in the house, grabbed his rifle from next to the door, and shot the 4 point buck. Venison is on the menu. Yum.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Panaca Stories
Grandma Lee and the Indians
Francis Lee arrived at what was to become Panaca 4 May 1864. He arrived with his wife, Mary, 5 unmarried sons, one married son, Samuel and his family and nephew, Samuel F and his family. They built dugouts to live in and proceeded to pioneer.
There was a camp of Piute Indians 10 miles from where the Lee family had settled. One day when all the men were gone, Grandma Lee was alone in her dugout. Two young Indians came to the dugout. They saw a gun in the dugout and demanded that Grandma give them the gun. Grandma Lee refused. The Indian tried to snatch the gun and run out the door, but Grandma Lee whacked him with a piece of fire wood and he fell to the floor. He jumped up, grabbed his bow and arrow and aimed an arrow at Grandma Lee. She whacked him with a second piece of firewood which broke his bow and arrow. Meanwhile the second Indian had stood by watching the fight. The arrival of the Lee men sent the Indians whooping into the distance. Thus ended the first battle of Panaca.1
The Fifty Dollar Turn Around
Panaca is located 11 mile south of Pioche Nevada. When the silver mines were going many families in Panca made a living raising truck gardens and selling produce in Pioche. As a boy John N Hollingshead accompanied his father to Pioche to sell produce. A drunken miner bet $50 young John couldn't turn the team and wagon around on Pioche's main street which to this day is narrow and steep. John's father handed him the lines, climbed off the wagon and told him to turn it around. John turned the wagon around. The drunken miner paid off his bet and John and father went home $50 richer.2
The Sorry Farm
Nephi John Wadsworth freighted and ranched. In his time he acquired several pastures and meadows in and around Panaca. He named his fields after the people from whom he purchased them. He owned one field south of Panaca that almost everyone considered worthless. One year Nephi John decided to plant rye there. All his neighbors told him he would be “sorry”. That year Nephi John harvested and enormous crop of grain from the field
. Today that field is still called the Sorry Farm.3
Nephi John and the Outlaw
Nephi John Wadsworth owned and worked a freighting company. He hauled the first lumber from Salt Lake into Pioche. He hauled the first load of freight into the mining camp of Delamar.
Nephi John was a friendly man. He had many friends. One of his friends was a notorious outlaw whose hang out was near Desert Springs where the freighters watered their teams. This outlaw robbed many a freighter of his freight and cattle. But he told Nephi John, “ Now don't you worry, Nephi, I'll take care of your cattle and horses, and whatever you have in your wagon, especially the jockey box will be safe.” So it was the outlaw was a man of his word.4
A Full-Time Job
Joseph Adelbert (Bert) Price worked as freighter, miner, and cowboy. Bert had a sense of humor and he exercised it regularly. He went to work for a rancher one week and then was home the next week. When one of his friends asked about the job. Bert replied that the he had worked for the rancher from 4 in the morning until midnight, but there were four hours when there was no work so Bert had quit, because the rancher had promised Bert a “full-time job”.
1Take from “A Century in Meadow Valley”
2Personal remenice of Garland Hollingshead
3Taken from “A Century in Meadow Valley”
4Taken from “A Century in Meadow Valley”
Friday, April 2, 2010
Clemetine
In my time I've driven a 57 Chevy Two Ten, a 67 Pontiac Catalina, a 1979
Chrysler LeBaron, a 1979 Chevy Impala, 1985 Buick LeSabre. Next to the 1957
Chevy known as PJ, I was very fond of the 1967 Pontiac known a Clementine.
My father bought Clementine in 1971. In a former life she had been a deputy
sheriff's car. She was the family car until 1976 when she quit in the
middle of town. There was water in the oil and my father fearing he had
put a rod through the block bought another car, a 1974 Pontiac. The
salesman wouldn't give anything in trade on Clementine so my father towed
her to his brother's house. Later he towed her the 40 miles home and parked
her in the "bone pile". She rested there until my sister and I were in
college. After hauling me home after my first year of college my father
decided that my sister and I could haul ourselves in the 74 Pontiac and he
would resurrect Clementine as the family car. When he tore into her he
discovered that the water in the oil was the result of a crack in the cover
of the water pump not the rod through the block he had feared. He fixed the
problem and Clementine was the family car until my second year at the
university. My father had hauled me down and back my first year. When it
was time to leave for the second year he handed me the keys and told me to
take myself. I drove her until I bought the 1979 Chrysler my second year of
graduate school,
She quit me once at the Flying J in Snowville UT. Luckily my cousin lived
down the block and her husband gave me a jump and I drove the remaining 50
miles to the ranch. The voltage regulator has quit working. My most
frustrating mechanical adventure involved changing the oil. My father had
told me the change the oil and given instructions on how to proceed. I
gathered what I needed, borrowed my sister's tools and proceeded to change
the oil. All went well until I tried to remove the old filter. I couldn't
unscrew the old filter. I had a filter wrench and still couldn't get it
undone. I went in search of masculine help. The university I attended was
a private religious institution that was long on girls and short on men with
any mechanical know-how. I couldn't find a man strong enough to get the
filter off. In frustration I called home to consult. My sisters happened
to be at the ranch that weekend so my father sent me his filter wrench with
them.
Monday I called Justin, a farm boy we knew. Justin had dated our cousin
Laura. Our folks knew his folks. Justin would drop by our apartment from
time to time when he wanted to visit with home folks and we invited him to
dinner a few times. Justin was glad to help and I am happy to report that
he made short work of the stubborn oil filter.
After I bought the Chrysler my younger brothers drove Clementine to high
school. Being teenagers they usually drove at sub warp speed. One morning
they hit a deer which caved in the front fender. When he arrived at school
my brother took it to the high school shop. He pounded out the dent during
shop class that day and Clementine was none the worse for wear. There
something to be said for making cars out of steel.
The transmission gave out so today Clementine rests in my father's bone pile
awaiting another resurrection. If he runs across another transmission he
just might.
Chrysler LeBaron, a 1979 Chevy Impala, 1985 Buick LeSabre. Next to the 1957
Chevy known as PJ, I was very fond of the 1967 Pontiac known a Clementine.
My father bought Clementine in 1971. In a former life she had been a deputy
sheriff's car. She was the family car until 1976 when she quit in the
middle of town. There was water in the oil and my father fearing he had
put a rod through the block bought another car, a 1974 Pontiac. The
salesman wouldn't give anything in trade on Clementine so my father towed
her to his brother's house. Later he towed her the 40 miles home and parked
her in the "bone pile". She rested there until my sister and I were in
college. After hauling me home after my first year of college my father
decided that my sister and I could haul ourselves in the 74 Pontiac and he
would resurrect Clementine as the family car. When he tore into her he
discovered that the water in the oil was the result of a crack in the cover
of the water pump not the rod through the block he had feared. He fixed the
problem and Clementine was the family car until my second year at the
university. My father had hauled me down and back my first year. When it
was time to leave for the second year he handed me the keys and told me to
take myself. I drove her until I bought the 1979 Chrysler my second year of
graduate school,
She quit me once at the Flying J in Snowville UT. Luckily my cousin lived
down the block and her husband gave me a jump and I drove the remaining 50
miles to the ranch. The voltage regulator has quit working. My most
frustrating mechanical adventure involved changing the oil. My father had
told me the change the oil and given instructions on how to proceed. I
gathered what I needed, borrowed my sister's tools and proceeded to change
the oil. All went well until I tried to remove the old filter. I couldn't
unscrew the old filter. I had a filter wrench and still couldn't get it
undone. I went in search of masculine help. The university I attended was
a private religious institution that was long on girls and short on men with
any mechanical know-how. I couldn't find a man strong enough to get the
filter off. In frustration I called home to consult. My sisters happened
to be at the ranch that weekend so my father sent me his filter wrench with
them.
Monday I called Justin, a farm boy we knew. Justin had dated our cousin
Laura. Our folks knew his folks. Justin would drop by our apartment from
time to time when he wanted to visit with home folks and we invited him to
dinner a few times. Justin was glad to help and I am happy to report that
he made short work of the stubborn oil filter.
After I bought the Chrysler my younger brothers drove Clementine to high
school. Being teenagers they usually drove at sub warp speed. One morning
they hit a deer which caved in the front fender. When he arrived at school
my brother took it to the high school shop. He pounded out the dent during
shop class that day and Clementine was none the worse for wear. There
something to be said for making cars out of steel.
The transmission gave out so today Clementine rests in my father's bone pile
awaiting another resurrection. If he runs across another transmission he
just might.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Smith
Mendacious Smith came into this world as the result of a chance meeting between an intergalatic ladies apparel salesman and the farmer's daughter. Smith's maternal grandmother named him Mendacious after his mother died giving birth still believing that her salesman would return. Grandmother had a strong streak of puritan in her psyke.
Mendacious was a long handle and was soon shortened to Mend. Mend lived with his grandparents on the farm during his growing up years. Farming didn't appeal much to Mend, it was too much like work. At school Mend discovered the world of words and he was entranced. Spoken or written it didn't matter Mend became a master of words. He wasn't always particular about the truth, but his words always had a ring to them. They served him well. Mend didn't have to work very hard for what he wanted.
Mendacious was a long handle and was soon shortened to Mend. Mend lived with his grandparents on the farm during his growing up years. Farming didn't appeal much to Mend, it was too much like work. At school Mend discovered the world of words and he was entranced. Spoken or written it didn't matter Mend became a master of words. He wasn't always particular about the truth, but his words always had a ring to them. They served him well. Mend didn't have to work very hard for what he wanted.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Christmas tree Hunting
Christmas tree hunting is an old and time honored family tradition. There are those who do their tree hunting at the hardware or department store. I am of the old fashioned live tree hunt it in the wild yourself.
I went tree hunting with my husband's family a couple of times before we were married. Grandma went tree hunting the day after Thanksgiving. The whole family would pack into the pickup with a camper shell on the back; 8 children, 2 parents and any cousins or other strays who wanted to tag along and head out the back road to where the pine trees grow. Part of the tradition was to sing Christmas carols while bouncing along in the truck. Whoever was driving would cruise down the road while everyone looked at trees. When a likely candidate was spotted the truck stopped, everyone piled out and the fun began. When I talk about pine trees I'm talking about pinyon pine (Pinus monophylla) the state tree of Nevada. Pinyon pines have a hard time deciding if they are trees or shrubs. They can have a single stem or 2 or 3 stems. Two stems are common so when one encounters a likely candidate you check to make sure it is a single stem. Grandma's ideal tree was fir or spruce but they were unavailable so she would settle for the least bushy pinyon she could find. Pinyon trees are naturally bushy so it took some time and some hiking to find a scraggly one. Each year one was eventually found and carried in triumph home to be set in the living room in front of the sliding glass door to be decorated.
Growing up on the ranch, tree hunting was a casual affair. Most years we had a pinyon, but occasionally we had a fir. There were 2 hills within walking distance of the house that were covered with pinyon pines. My father did the tree hunting. Sometimes we went as a family, but it was optional. Years when the snow was deep before Christmas and he had started feeding cattle he would take an ax with him when he went feeding, After feeding the cattle he would walk on the hill and choose a tree to bring back with him. While I was in College, my sisters and I would take a tree back to school with us after Thanksgiving. I would grab an ax walk over to the hill and choose a tree or trees and drag them to the house. Christmas tree hunting was a simple casual affair.
These two different tree hunting traditions met and married. Tree hunting was more complicated, the trees were no longer within walking distance. My husband makes a big show of playing Scrooge and dragging his feet when its time to go tree hunting. When the children were small we would go tree hunting as a family. My husband saw tree hunting as a opportunity to do his best to get stuck or lost all in the name of exploring new country and garnering a pick-up load of juniper fence posts. In the outback of Nevada washes are used as roads. The most memorable tree hunt was when my husband decided to follow the wash from Rabbit Springs to Sheep Springs. We had bagged our tree and were on our way home the long way. Someone, a deer hunter had been down the wash before us leaving a two track trail. We followed this faithfully since the snow made it hard to see the main wash. the Pinyons and the junipers were thick and their branches reached across the wash and brushed the sides and top of the pickup. The thicker branches pushed the door mirrors in. Occasionally our passing snapped off a limb. It was a long ride with 4 small children. At any minute I expected to be stuck and I had no assurance we were on the right track. I had no desire to be stranded in the wilderness with 4 small children all night in a pick-up truck. I was mighty relieved when we emerged from the PJ at Sheep Spring. Other adventures include the year after an all day expedition scouting new country the tree blew out of the back of the pickup on the way home. We retraced our route but the tree was never found. This year I tried to talk the kids into taking their horses and going on their own to get a tree, but I didn't get much traction. We took the pick-up and had our tree bagged and back home in hour and half. This is my kind of tree hunting.
Louis L'Amour once said, "Adventure is just a romantic name for trouble". The longer I live the more inclined I am to agree with him. But without adventure I would have nothing to write about to amuse my friends.
I went tree hunting with my husband's family a couple of times before we were married. Grandma went tree hunting the day after Thanksgiving. The whole family would pack into the pickup with a camper shell on the back; 8 children, 2 parents and any cousins or other strays who wanted to tag along and head out the back road to where the pine trees grow. Part of the tradition was to sing Christmas carols while bouncing along in the truck. Whoever was driving would cruise down the road while everyone looked at trees. When a likely candidate was spotted the truck stopped, everyone piled out and the fun began. When I talk about pine trees I'm talking about pinyon pine (Pinus monophylla) the state tree of Nevada. Pinyon pines have a hard time deciding if they are trees or shrubs. They can have a single stem or 2 or 3 stems. Two stems are common so when one encounters a likely candidate you check to make sure it is a single stem. Grandma's ideal tree was fir or spruce but they were unavailable so she would settle for the least bushy pinyon she could find. Pinyon trees are naturally bushy so it took some time and some hiking to find a scraggly one. Each year one was eventually found and carried in triumph home to be set in the living room in front of the sliding glass door to be decorated.
Growing up on the ranch, tree hunting was a casual affair. Most years we had a pinyon, but occasionally we had a fir. There were 2 hills within walking distance of the house that were covered with pinyon pines. My father did the tree hunting. Sometimes we went as a family, but it was optional. Years when the snow was deep before Christmas and he had started feeding cattle he would take an ax with him when he went feeding, After feeding the cattle he would walk on the hill and choose a tree to bring back with him. While I was in College, my sisters and I would take a tree back to school with us after Thanksgiving. I would grab an ax walk over to the hill and choose a tree or trees and drag them to the house. Christmas tree hunting was a simple casual affair.
These two different tree hunting traditions met and married. Tree hunting was more complicated, the trees were no longer within walking distance. My husband makes a big show of playing Scrooge and dragging his feet when its time to go tree hunting. When the children were small we would go tree hunting as a family. My husband saw tree hunting as a opportunity to do his best to get stuck or lost all in the name of exploring new country and garnering a pick-up load of juniper fence posts. In the outback of Nevada washes are used as roads. The most memorable tree hunt was when my husband decided to follow the wash from Rabbit Springs to Sheep Springs. We had bagged our tree and were on our way home the long way. Someone, a deer hunter had been down the wash before us leaving a two track trail. We followed this faithfully since the snow made it hard to see the main wash. the Pinyons and the junipers were thick and their branches reached across the wash and brushed the sides and top of the pickup. The thicker branches pushed the door mirrors in. Occasionally our passing snapped off a limb. It was a long ride with 4 small children. At any minute I expected to be stuck and I had no assurance we were on the right track. I had no desire to be stranded in the wilderness with 4 small children all night in a pick-up truck. I was mighty relieved when we emerged from the PJ at Sheep Spring. Other adventures include the year after an all day expedition scouting new country the tree blew out of the back of the pickup on the way home. We retraced our route but the tree was never found. This year I tried to talk the kids into taking their horses and going on their own to get a tree, but I didn't get much traction. We took the pick-up and had our tree bagged and back home in hour and half. This is my kind of tree hunting.
Louis L'Amour once said, "Adventure is just a romantic name for trouble". The longer I live the more inclined I am to agree with him. But without adventure I would have nothing to write about to amuse my friends.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Thanksgiving with the in-laws
Grandma W loved being with her family. Thanksgiving and Christmas were huge events on her calendar. She started her preparations in a week in advance of Thanksgiving. Grandma baked bread for her stuffing and then crumbled it in a huge bowl to dry. She baked her butternut squash that she raised in her garden in preparation for pie. The only fly in her ointment of unrestrained enjoyment of family time was Grandpa.
Grandma and Grandpa married during their thirtieth year. She imminently went into to production mode. In ten years time she had produced 8 children, 4 boys and 4 girls.. Grandpa had bought the family farm from his mother, but with a large brood of children to provide for, income from the farm had proved insufficient. He took a job at the Nevada Test Site 3 hours away from home. He stayed at the test site during the week and farmed on the week-ends. For Grandpa the 4 day week-end was a great opportunity to catch up the farm work. Especially with his 4 boys there to help him. Grandma thought Grandpa ought to stay in the house Thanksgiving day and enjoy the company but Grandpa preferred to spend his time on the farm during the daylight.
Grandma's stratagem was to announce that Thanksgiving dinner would be at 1 pm. By the time the men folks had eaten, there would be no day light left to return to the field. The difficulty with this stratagem was that Grandma found it difficult to have Thanksgiving dinner ready by 1 pm. By the time I joined the family Grandma had trained all the men folk to ignore the 1 pm time and show up at dark for Thanksgiving dinner. As the family increased through marriage and the addition of 30 odd grand children Thanksgiving at Grandma became a challenge to the daughters-in-law. The horde of little people didn't understand why they had to wait for 4 hours to be fed. I lived 3 blocks down the street, so when my children were small I fed them lunch before we went to Grandma's house. As they got older they were out in the fields with their father or playing with their cousins so lunch wasn't as critical.
Thanksgiving dinner at Grandma's was worth the wait. There was turkey and stuffing, ham, green beans, corn, green salad, fruit salad, mashed potatoes and gallons of gravy. For dessert there were pies of apple, cherry. squash, pumpkin, banana cream, and coconut cream. If you didn't leave the table as stuffed as the turkey it was your own fault.
Grandma didn't do all the cooking herself. As the family extended, we started bringing different dinner components according to our culinary talents. As a native Idahoan I detest instant mashed potatoes. I took over bringing the mashed potatoes and making the gravy. Gravy wasn't one of Grandma's culinary strengths. Various other daughters and daughters-in-law brought pies, salads and rolls. After dinner and cleanup the fun began. There were movies and games much visiting and story telling. Great time was had by all.
Grandma left us in 2007. Now Grandpa commutes to Thanksgiving dinner. It is easier for him to travel to his children. All that it is left now are a trail of memories.
Grandma and Grandpa married during their thirtieth year. She imminently went into to production mode. In ten years time she had produced 8 children, 4 boys and 4 girls.. Grandpa had bought the family farm from his mother, but with a large brood of children to provide for, income from the farm had proved insufficient. He took a job at the Nevada Test Site 3 hours away from home. He stayed at the test site during the week and farmed on the week-ends. For Grandpa the 4 day week-end was a great opportunity to catch up the farm work. Especially with his 4 boys there to help him. Grandma thought Grandpa ought to stay in the house Thanksgiving day and enjoy the company but Grandpa preferred to spend his time on the farm during the daylight.
Grandma's stratagem was to announce that Thanksgiving dinner would be at 1 pm. By the time the men folks had eaten, there would be no day light left to return to the field. The difficulty with this stratagem was that Grandma found it difficult to have Thanksgiving dinner ready by 1 pm. By the time I joined the family Grandma had trained all the men folk to ignore the 1 pm time and show up at dark for Thanksgiving dinner. As the family increased through marriage and the addition of 30 odd grand children Thanksgiving at Grandma became a challenge to the daughters-in-law. The horde of little people didn't understand why they had to wait for 4 hours to be fed. I lived 3 blocks down the street, so when my children were small I fed them lunch before we went to Grandma's house. As they got older they were out in the fields with their father or playing with their cousins so lunch wasn't as critical.
Thanksgiving dinner at Grandma's was worth the wait. There was turkey and stuffing, ham, green beans, corn, green salad, fruit salad, mashed potatoes and gallons of gravy. For dessert there were pies of apple, cherry. squash, pumpkin, banana cream, and coconut cream. If you didn't leave the table as stuffed as the turkey it was your own fault.
Grandma didn't do all the cooking herself. As the family extended, we started bringing different dinner components according to our culinary talents. As a native Idahoan I detest instant mashed potatoes. I took over bringing the mashed potatoes and making the gravy. Gravy wasn't one of Grandma's culinary strengths. Various other daughters and daughters-in-law brought pies, salads and rolls. After dinner and cleanup the fun began. There were movies and games much visiting and story telling. Great time was had by all.
Grandma left us in 2007. Now Grandpa commutes to Thanksgiving dinner. It is easier for him to travel to his children. All that it is left now are a trail of memories.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
The House That Dad Built
When my parents married in 1959 they bought a 2 bedroom trailer house. (Think the "Long Long Trailer" of Lucille Ball fame. When I was born, Dad added a room. When my sister was born a 13 months later he added another room that would described as a mud room. After another sister was born 3 years later, Dad became more ambitious and decided to add a log addition. He tore down an old log house and reassembled it to form a living room, 2 bedrooms and a storage room (pantry). We lived quite comfortably for about 9 years until my 2 brothers were born. Things were crowed. My youngest brother's crib was in the living room next to the piano. Dad decided he wanted a room to watch TV without having to compete with daughter practising the piano. This addition would include a loft bedroom for his three daughters over the TV room and a front porch. For this addition he would use cement and rock and then lumber framing. He also had a building crew in the form of his 3 daughters. The addition went up, was finished and life was less crowded.
Mean while the trailer was getting older. During the winter it was cold and drafty. When a blizzard raged outside a snow drift would appear in the bath tub. The kitchen was small and cramped. One day my father announced to my mother that he was going to tear off the trailer house and build another log addition. Her retort was that that she wasn't commuting to the bathroom or living without running water in the house. The next day he started moving the food out of the storage room. He converted the storage room into a bathroom. When school was done in the spring Dad hunted up rims and tires for the wheels under the trailer house. The day after school was out he hitched the tractor to the trailer house and pulled it away. When I arrived home I helped him build the foundation of rock and cement. This time Dad purchased the logs for an addition. When the foundation was ready Dad called his friend Ivan to help him put up logs. On the appointed day Ivan arrived with his son and they started building. While they were working one of the neighbors dropped by with something he wanted Dad to fix. When he saw what was going on the neighbor, Bill sent his son home to get his hammer. With everyone working the walls were up by the end of the day. Within the week the roof was on. We spent the rest of the summer and fall finishing the inside. By Thanksgiving it was finished enough to move the stove into the kitchen to cook the turkey for dinner.
My parents still live in the house that Dad built. We children are all grown up. Most of us are married with children of our own. We return to visit, not as often as I would like, but we do the best we can with what we have.
Mean while the trailer was getting older. During the winter it was cold and drafty. When a blizzard raged outside a snow drift would appear in the bath tub. The kitchen was small and cramped. One day my father announced to my mother that he was going to tear off the trailer house and build another log addition. Her retort was that that she wasn't commuting to the bathroom or living without running water in the house. The next day he started moving the food out of the storage room. He converted the storage room into a bathroom. When school was done in the spring Dad hunted up rims and tires for the wheels under the trailer house. The day after school was out he hitched the tractor to the trailer house and pulled it away. When I arrived home I helped him build the foundation of rock and cement. This time Dad purchased the logs for an addition. When the foundation was ready Dad called his friend Ivan to help him put up logs. On the appointed day Ivan arrived with his son and they started building. While they were working one of the neighbors dropped by with something he wanted Dad to fix. When he saw what was going on the neighbor, Bill sent his son home to get his hammer. With everyone working the walls were up by the end of the day. Within the week the roof was on. We spent the rest of the summer and fall finishing the inside. By Thanksgiving it was finished enough to move the stove into the kitchen to cook the turkey for dinner.
My parents still live in the house that Dad built. We children are all grown up. Most of us are married with children of our own. We return to visit, not as often as I would like, but we do the best we can with what we have.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Deer Hunting
Deer hunting is a time honored tradition in the valley where I grew up. There has been more than one teenager embarassed when riding with parents in the car and came upon fresh road-kill. The parents stop and throw the deer in the trunk and take it home for breakfast. Waste not want not.
One fall I happened to be home for deer season. My brothers were teen-agers and wanted to go deer hunting. So Dad took us. Early Saturday morning at the crack of dawn we got up, caught and saddled the horses and rode across the fields to the Castle rocks at the foot of the mountain. We arrived at the rocks and Dad points to Stines canyon and said, "Let's ride up to that bunch of quakies (quaking aspen)." We rode up to the quakies and out bounded a deer. Dad unlimbers his rifle and it's dead on the ground. He field dresses it and puts it behind the saddle.
Dad points to a big rock across the face of the mountain. "Let's ride over to that big rock." We rode half way across the mountian and sure enough in the buck brush below the rock out bounded another deer. Boom another deer bit the dust was field dressed and put behind the saddle. Dad says, "Lets ride to the edge of Almo canyon." We rode over to the edge of the canyon and another deer bounded out of the brush. Another deer bit the dust was field dressed and tied behind the saddle.
"Let's head for home," Dad says. We pointed our ponies down hill and rode down the mountian. We were riding along a ravine behind the Castle rocks when Myron bailed off his horse with his rifle. Boom another deer bit the dust with a head shot no less.
We rode along home and hung the deer in the root cellar. Mom was somewhat dismayed at the prospect of processing 4 deer. We skinned them out and a few days later we cut and wrapped in the kitchen. We were in the midst of this project when my sister who was still at college called. She was calling to inquire if we could feed the soil judging team. They would be coming in a couple of days. Mom said sure. I cut a roast big enough and plopped it in the roaster and put the pan in the freezer. A couple of days later we cooked a ranch dinner with roast, potates. gravy, vegetables, salad and apple crisp for dessert. When we served dinner we let everyone guess about the meat. The soil team stuffed themselves with good home cooking. When everyone was stuffed to their satisfaction we told them they had been eating fresh venison. They didn't belive us.
One fall I happened to be home for deer season. My brothers were teen-agers and wanted to go deer hunting. So Dad took us. Early Saturday morning at the crack of dawn we got up, caught and saddled the horses and rode across the fields to the Castle rocks at the foot of the mountain. We arrived at the rocks and Dad points to Stines canyon and said, "Let's ride up to that bunch of quakies (quaking aspen)." We rode up to the quakies and out bounded a deer. Dad unlimbers his rifle and it's dead on the ground. He field dresses it and puts it behind the saddle.
Dad points to a big rock across the face of the mountain. "Let's ride over to that big rock." We rode half way across the mountian and sure enough in the buck brush below the rock out bounded another deer. Boom another deer bit the dust was field dressed and put behind the saddle. Dad says, "Lets ride to the edge of Almo canyon." We rode over to the edge of the canyon and another deer bounded out of the brush. Another deer bit the dust was field dressed and tied behind the saddle.
"Let's head for home," Dad says. We pointed our ponies down hill and rode down the mountian. We were riding along a ravine behind the Castle rocks when Myron bailed off his horse with his rifle. Boom another deer bit the dust with a head shot no less.
We rode along home and hung the deer in the root cellar. Mom was somewhat dismayed at the prospect of processing 4 deer. We skinned them out and a few days later we cut and wrapped in the kitchen. We were in the midst of this project when my sister who was still at college called. She was calling to inquire if we could feed the soil judging team. They would be coming in a couple of days. Mom said sure. I cut a roast big enough and plopped it in the roaster and put the pan in the freezer. A couple of days later we cooked a ranch dinner with roast, potates. gravy, vegetables, salad and apple crisp for dessert. When we served dinner we let everyone guess about the meat. The soil team stuffed themselves with good home cooking. When everyone was stuffed to their satisfaction we told them they had been eating fresh venison. They didn't belive us.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Ghost Story
Roland Rose's grandfather built the victorian gingerbread ranch house during the early 1900s. Two generations later, the ranch fell on hard times so Roland sold the ranch with the house to Burke Heaton. The Heaton family consisted of 14 children 12 of whom were still at home. Burke had been a dairy farmer until development squeezed him out. He sold out and bought a cattle ranch.
Until the Heatons moved in, the house had been rented out to a long string tempory residents and was down at heel. The Heatons moved in and started restoring the house. All the activity raised the resident ghost. The ghost started wandering through the house looking for "James". When the house was relatively quiet, the ghost would go in and out of rooms and ask, "Is James here?" If someone replied that James was not there the ghost would excuse himself. The Heatons built addition to house. During construction they found a bottle with ashes in it. They kept the bottle in bathroom until the bottle broke. When the bottle broke the ghost left never to be heard from again.
Did he find James? There are those who claim that the spirit world is very close to our mortal physical world. There are those who can see. For some reason that young man did not rest easy in the spirit world. There must have been something left undone here that he felt was important enough to come back to do.
Until the Heatons moved in, the house had been rented out to a long string tempory residents and was down at heel. The Heatons moved in and started restoring the house. All the activity raised the resident ghost. The ghost started wandering through the house looking for "James". When the house was relatively quiet, the ghost would go in and out of rooms and ask, "Is James here?" If someone replied that James was not there the ghost would excuse himself. The Heatons built addition to house. During construction they found a bottle with ashes in it. They kept the bottle in bathroom until the bottle broke. When the bottle broke the ghost left never to be heard from again.
Did he find James? There are those who claim that the spirit world is very close to our mortal physical world. There are those who can see. For some reason that young man did not rest easy in the spirit world. There must have been something left undone here that he felt was important enough to come back to do.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Summer vacation
Summer vacation? You mean we had a summer vacation??
Summer vacation started with Memorial day. We visited the dead relatives in the cemetery and met and visited with some of the living ones also. The kids played with their cousins who came to visit. The last weekend of May was the the first 4-H horse show in Alamo 60 miles away. I hauled 3 horses and 4 kids in a venerable 79 Dodge crew cab that once belonged to the US Forest Service. On the way we put-putted 2000 feet up Caliente summit. We are talking 2nd gear and a few steep stretches in granny. I suspect the Dodge tried to vapor lock but luckily didn't.
June arrived in all it's green glory and turned out to be one of the coolest June on record. June brought the 2nd 4-H horse show in Caliente the same week as the state high school rodeo. Number one son and his father went to Winnemucca to compete at the rodeo and mom stayed home to cover the horse show. This time it was 3 kids and 3 horses in the venerable Dodge 15 miles down the road. The horse show was remarkable for the number of horses and riders who parted ways. Leo who seldom bucks, crow hopped through the barrel pattern. Number 2 son stayed with him to win 1st place in the barrels. June was also the month we celebrated my parent's 50th wedding anniversary. This necessitated a trek to the ranch 8 hours away. My siblings and I did a surprise party for our parents. It was a fun time. I cooked peach cobbler in the dutch oven for the guests. We got to visit with people we don't get to see very often. My children met some cousins they had never seen. We left number 3 son at the ranch for an extended visit with his grandparents. He returned with one of his aunts in time for the family reunion.
We returned home in time for the 4th of July and the Farm bureau barbecue. Dutch oven chicken, potatoes, and cobbler. Next came Pioneer day (July 24th) and the family reunion. A couple of hundred people mostly children converged to visit and play and eat prodigious amounts of food. Pioneer day celebration consisted of a pancake breakfast, races, a pig scramble (number 3 son furnished some of the pigs) another sumptuous dutch oven dinner, lots of visiting, a parade ( the kids and their cousins rode horse back).
August arrived and the frantic scramble to produce the county fair. Months of planning culminated in the 2009 Lincoln Fair complete with amateur rodeo, exhibits, horse show and jack pot roping. No one got killed or maimed although there is permanent dent in the arena panels where the saddle bronc number one son was riding in the rodeo collided with the panels and ejected said son into the top rail. He walked away without a scratch and won the saddle bronc riding that night. Number 3 son won 2nd place in the steer riding. Mom collected a few more grey hairs. Once the fair was finished then came the annual peach canning festival. Eleven 20 pound boxes of peaches into quart bottles for winter consumption.
School has started and it is my opinion that school is a vacation.
Summer vacation started with Memorial day. We visited the dead relatives in the cemetery and met and visited with some of the living ones also. The kids played with their cousins who came to visit. The last weekend of May was the the first 4-H horse show in Alamo 60 miles away. I hauled 3 horses and 4 kids in a venerable 79 Dodge crew cab that once belonged to the US Forest Service. On the way we put-putted 2000 feet up Caliente summit. We are talking 2nd gear and a few steep stretches in granny. I suspect the Dodge tried to vapor lock but luckily didn't.
June arrived in all it's green glory and turned out to be one of the coolest June on record. June brought the 2nd 4-H horse show in Caliente the same week as the state high school rodeo. Number one son and his father went to Winnemucca to compete at the rodeo and mom stayed home to cover the horse show. This time it was 3 kids and 3 horses in the venerable Dodge 15 miles down the road. The horse show was remarkable for the number of horses and riders who parted ways. Leo who seldom bucks, crow hopped through the barrel pattern. Number 2 son stayed with him to win 1st place in the barrels. June was also the month we celebrated my parent's 50th wedding anniversary. This necessitated a trek to the ranch 8 hours away. My siblings and I did a surprise party for our parents. It was a fun time. I cooked peach cobbler in the dutch oven for the guests. We got to visit with people we don't get to see very often. My children met some cousins they had never seen. We left number 3 son at the ranch for an extended visit with his grandparents. He returned with one of his aunts in time for the family reunion.
We returned home in time for the 4th of July and the Farm bureau barbecue. Dutch oven chicken, potatoes, and cobbler. Next came Pioneer day (July 24th) and the family reunion. A couple of hundred people mostly children converged to visit and play and eat prodigious amounts of food. Pioneer day celebration consisted of a pancake breakfast, races, a pig scramble (number 3 son furnished some of the pigs) another sumptuous dutch oven dinner, lots of visiting, a parade ( the kids and their cousins rode horse back).
August arrived and the frantic scramble to produce the county fair. Months of planning culminated in the 2009 Lincoln Fair complete with amateur rodeo, exhibits, horse show and jack pot roping. No one got killed or maimed although there is permanent dent in the arena panels where the saddle bronc number one son was riding in the rodeo collided with the panels and ejected said son into the top rail. He walked away without a scratch and won the saddle bronc riding that night. Number 3 son won 2nd place in the steer riding. Mom collected a few more grey hairs. Once the fair was finished then came the annual peach canning festival. Eleven 20 pound boxes of peaches into quart bottles for winter consumption.
School has started and it is my opinion that school is a vacation.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Memorial Day
For those of us who live out at the end of a long winding road, Memorial is the day we go visit the dead relatives.
During my growing up years Memorial day meant a trip to the cemetary the day before to spruce up the graves before the out of town relatives arrived to decorate graves. The community cemetary was a fenced 10 acre plot of sagebrush and Indian rice grass littered with tombstones on the east facing slope of the Cemetary Hill. On the north boundary stood the white washed outhouse for the convinience of the low capacity bladder crowd.
We would load the back of the pick-up with rakes and shovels. Dad and Grandpa would ride in the cab, kids in the box. When we arrived at the cemetary custom dictated that we would start with the graves of our direct line. We would remove the rements of last year's flowers if any. We would take a shovel to the cheat grass growing on and around the mound then reform the mound with the rake. While we worked, Grandpa would tell stories about the people who were burried in the grave we were working on. When we finished with the direct line, we would branch out and start doing the extended family. Grandpa would explain the relationships and maybe a few of his memories about that person. Often times there would be other families at the cemetary doing what we were doing. This would be an excuse to exchange stories of common ancestors and maybe gossip about some members of the extended family. We would go home knowing a little bit more about who we were and how we got here.
I learned my family history. Some of my cousins envy the knowledge I have of the family and the relationships. I didn't work very hard for it. I just listened and tried to remember what I was told.
There are people from the city who are shocked and appalled at the condition of the cemetary. They are used to manicured greens with no effort on their part. They ignore the history staring them in face and don't recognize the opportunity to teach the rising generation about their roots. A lot of that rising generation is so busy playing with their electronic toys that they are cutting themselves off from their roots.
Now I'm working on teaching the rising generation about their roots. It's challenging. We don't have the excuse of going to the cemetary to clean graves. The school year doesn't end until after Memorial Day. So they don't have much opportunity to know the dead relatives on my side of the family. I do make sure they learn about the dead relatives that are buried here where we live.
During my growing up years Memorial day meant a trip to the cemetary the day before to spruce up the graves before the out of town relatives arrived to decorate graves. The community cemetary was a fenced 10 acre plot of sagebrush and Indian rice grass littered with tombstones on the east facing slope of the Cemetary Hill. On the north boundary stood the white washed outhouse for the convinience of the low capacity bladder crowd.
We would load the back of the pick-up with rakes and shovels. Dad and Grandpa would ride in the cab, kids in the box. When we arrived at the cemetary custom dictated that we would start with the graves of our direct line. We would remove the rements of last year's flowers if any. We would take a shovel to the cheat grass growing on and around the mound then reform the mound with the rake. While we worked, Grandpa would tell stories about the people who were burried in the grave we were working on. When we finished with the direct line, we would branch out and start doing the extended family. Grandpa would explain the relationships and maybe a few of his memories about that person. Often times there would be other families at the cemetary doing what we were doing. This would be an excuse to exchange stories of common ancestors and maybe gossip about some members of the extended family. We would go home knowing a little bit more about who we were and how we got here.
I learned my family history. Some of my cousins envy the knowledge I have of the family and the relationships. I didn't work very hard for it. I just listened and tried to remember what I was told.
There are people from the city who are shocked and appalled at the condition of the cemetary. They are used to manicured greens with no effort on their part. They ignore the history staring them in face and don't recognize the opportunity to teach the rising generation about their roots. A lot of that rising generation is so busy playing with their electronic toys that they are cutting themselves off from their roots.
Now I'm working on teaching the rising generation about their roots. It's challenging. We don't have the excuse of going to the cemetary to clean graves. The school year doesn't end until after Memorial Day. So they don't have much opportunity to know the dead relatives on my side of the family. I do make sure they learn about the dead relatives that are buried here where we live.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
The Thirty Year Reunion
Last fall I attended the 30 year reunion for the class of 1978. It was a hoot. We told stories and laughed until our sides ached.
I graduated from a small rural high school. There were 30 people in our class. I was related to about a quarter of the class and several of the teachers. Because we were a small high school everyone was involved in as many activities as they wanted or as their parents would permit. Every able bodied man that wanted to be part of the football team played on the team. If the football coach could have worked out separate showers there were several females he would have recruited also. Because we were so small people who played sports also participated in drama and music. When we went to speech and drama contests around the state we competed against the big schools. The speech and drama contestants from the large schools were much more flamboyant people than we ever met.
By the time we graduated we knew each other pretty well. It's fun to get together and vistit and find out what everyone is doing. Our last reunion alot of people who live close didn't bother to come but we managed to have a fun time.
The most memorable conversation involved Trudi, wing commander in the space cadet corps. You know her, the cheer leader who always dated upper class men. Who had to have the teacher's jokes explained to her. She's the one whose junior prom dress still fits her. She was there with husband #2. We were going down the list of people who weren't there and filling in where they were living and what they were doing. Someone mentioned that Kenyon was living with wife #2 in Santa Clara, near St George. Trudi speaks up and says, "I like St George. That's
where I'm going to find my third husband." We all laughed and laughed. Trudi was bewildered and then it dawned on her what she had said. As she fumbled around trying to extract her foot out of her mouth, June, one the more out spoken members told her, " I know I've said this to you before, JUST SHUT UP." We laughed some more.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Writing What You Know
I am not a writer by profession. My forays into writing fiction have ending up sinking into a mire of detail. On the other hand I've had alot of fun tellling stories (mostly true) about people and places I've seen and known. To communicate with a wider audience than found around the kitchen table I've written some of them down in letters or journal entries or Friday Challenge entries.
Writing what I know is the only way I know how to write. I enjoy reading a wide variety of fiction. Louis L'Amour is one of my favorite authors. I will agree that his plots are not the most original, but what a gold mine of information. My paternal grandfather was born in 1892. He left school at the age of 11 and went to work. He herded sheep, farmed, mined and eventually put together his own outfit. I grew up living next door. From an early age I remember sitting in the truck with my grandfather waiting for my father to finish what he was doing. To pass the time my grandfather told stories about his younger years. He told about his parents, siblings. grandparents, and assorted other relatives living and dead. When I started reading Louis L' Amour I recognized the characters. I think the reason Louis L' Amour was so successful was that he wrote what he knew. He had listened to the old-timers tell their stories, he had lived the life therefore his stories had a ring of authenticity.
We are all story tellers in one way or another. Story telling is how information has been passsed between humans for millenia. Some of us are good enough to get paid for it when we write it down.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
I was thinking about our need to discuss issues as a committee. I thought about the diversity of our schedules and the long distances and the high price of gas. I thought of using the internet. We could use a chat room, but then we would all have to get together on the computer at the same time. What do you think about using a blog?? This blog was easy to create. I can post an issue for discussion and people can drop by and comment as they have time. Post a comment and tell me what you think.
Jule
Jule
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