pg 310-317

 

Across the Years 310-317

                Jim’s first thoughts were the moisture must be conserved.  “I am going for the horses,” he said, slipping into his coat, as he went out the door, for rains no matter how short a one, made the air chilly out here in the high altitude.  So that day was spent in harrowing and re-harrowing the ground that had already been harrowed to hold the moisture in the ground beneath a dust mulch, a tiresome job walking in the plowed ground and sometimes riding the harrow all day. The horses, as well as Jim, would be plenty tired on days like this, but that was a part of dry farming, rain or any rain was always great for the growing grain, and grazing land alike, it revived and  freshened up the range grass too, for the many hundreds of head of cattle.  There were times, though, the rains followed the mountain ranges and only those in and around the foothills benefitted by it, that was why grain crops were always better on what was called the bench land, much higher than the flats or valley, which were even and level and uncut up as were the foothills ranches.  But, all this and more was Idaho, meandering rock strewn streams flowing from lofty peaks fed by melting snows the summer through, timbered mountain sides, where deer play and birds nest or wing overhead these verdant colored trees, while from highland ranges are panoramic scenes far beyond one’s view, of foothills crowned with that delicate hint of blue, while faraway to the horizon the sun sets like a ball of gold in a sky ablaze of reddish hue.  Who could wish for a more restful place filled with peace and quiet, away from the noise of a busy world and the well worn cement of city streets, the richness of springtime, its green fields co-mingled with the dainty flowers of the hillsides, a wild rose, filling the air with its perfume, at dawn pearled with dew, the early morning sweet note from the throat of a bird.  How oft have I watched them dip quickly with a splash or two in the creek, flutter their feathers and fly to a sage close by to sit a while beneath the sun to dry.  When with the sharp chatter of a ground squirrel taking fright, dashing for cover, a cottontail rabbit’s quick flight all in a moment of time. I was brought back from their world and to my own time.  The month of May passed and I went to Rupert to bring my sister and her three sons out for a visit and  tomorrow we would bring them from my folks’ place to our home for a week of visiting, what a happy expectation.  I had cleaned the house extra, baked cakes and pies and had everything in readiness.  I could hardly wait, but the day came, as all days had, and Jim went to bring them.  I did not go along, as I had added things to do.  While busy with the dust mopping, I heard a whistling swishing like noise, looking out the door, to see a large hawk sweep down to the point of almost picking up one of my young chickens.  The shrewdness of the mother hens saved the chicks by letting out one squawk after another until they had all scampered for cover, clapping my hands shouted harshly at it, rising rapidly into the air, soared off over the canyon, coming to rest on a large sagebrush at the edge of a gulley or deep ravine, to swoop down again in another attempt.  Still there, when Jim drove through the gate with our company.  I hurried out to have Jim take a look through the field glasses at it, telling them what had happened.

     “Just don’t worry,” he said, “if I am around when he shows up again, he won’t be bothering chickens anymore.”

     The two older boys hadn’t more than set their feet on the ground when they were off to a good start, for taking inventory of the ranch and its surroundings.  We hardly got started to the house when looking back, saw them climb to the top of the top-corral pole, sitting there, looking in all directions, then hung by their hands, swinging back and forth, and in the elapse of a few seconds, dashed past us, into the house ahead of us.

     I had put the dinner on to cook, so my sister and I visited while setting the table and getting other things ready.  I had set light bread dough that morning, now it was into loaves and rolls, nearly ready to bake.  I replenished the fire to finish the roasting of the meat, when this was done, slipped in the pan of rolls and loaves, the baking process filled the house with a tantalizing fragrant smell as the baking of bread had always done throughout the ages, from the outdoor Dutch dirt ovens, where they build a good hot fire and when the inside was hot enough, they’d let it die down to hot coals, then bake the bread.  That was the way our neighbors northwest of us did in cold weather, though they would pull the bed quilts back and set the large pan or bowl of dough in the warm bed, then put the quilts back over it, this kept it warm so it would raise better, these neighbors were of Greek ancestry.  Then the fireplace in olden days with its iron Dutch oven,  was another way of baking bread, until the iron cook stove or range was invented and came into use.  How well I remember my mother’s little old iron cook stove, and how proud she was when she became the possessor of one of the first of those new gleaming nickel trim ranges with an extra large oven and warming closet and  hot water reservoir.  How she delighted in doing her cooking with it, and the good meals cooked on it.  That always delighted the heart of a child.

     Now with our dinner over, the afternoon was spent in visiting, at times we would go back to our childhood home, here we talked and lingered on this subject, until shadows fell over the valley and we knew it was time for our evening meal,.  My single sister at home rode down on horseback several times to join in the visiting.  The time went all too fast, and soon it was time for her and her three sons to go back for another short visit with our parents, then make ready for the trip home.  We got to visit one more time with them, and the next day father took them to Sublett, to take the stage to Rupert, where they made train connections and soon on their way to Havre, Montana, where her husband would meet and take them to their ranch home.  A week later, receiving a long letter, telling of their safe arrival and being settled once again.  I didn’t forget the boys though for some time, the younger one being too small for much playing, but the two older enjoyed being with their Uncle Jim while he plowed and harrowed the ground near the house, following back and forth in the furrows, made me think of my own childhood walking in the furrows behind my father and the enjoyment I derived from it.  Jim had a real wide board on the two sections harrows, here he would let the boys ride, provided they sat still and held on tight.  This gave them such a thrill, they would still be full of laughter upon returning to the house to tell their mother.  Things of childhood days are something one never forgets, even though their father had a ranch these boy’s few short years had been spent in the city of Portland, farming and ranching would be something new to them.

 

The next day, Jim had to go for hay again, down below Sublett.  But, I decided I had better remain at home, for Jim would say “No” before I asked.  I always enjoyed trips of that nature, still in my heart wanting to go, stood our in the yard watching until he was out of the section and gone from view.  There I stood all alone, except for littler short pudgy Jackie, saddled and tied to the rack.  Momentarily, I gazed in all directions, being in a valley, could see none of the dwellings or homes of our neighbors, the closest would be an eighty acres at most.  I was thankful this wasn’t Indian country, for I had suddenly become alarmed, when Jackie a that moment brayed.  Looking up, I saw Beauty and her colt, Billy Fortune, coming down from the bench.  When they came up to eat from the rack, I slipped a halter on Beauty, tying her to the hitching pole.  Then I felt better, thinking, if I have to go to my parents, picking up the curry comb and brush, spent some time currying and brushing Jackie and Beauty to alleviate my fears, then petting and rubbing Jackie’s soft nose, talked to him like a friend, he was so quiet and still he didn’t even try to eat, his ears so long I wondered if he really heard and thought my voice sounded a bit afraid.  Giving him a last pat, went to the chicken house and after admiring them I heeded their chirps, opening the gate.  The young chicks as well as the old hens, flocked out.  Some to the canyon and other around the house and corral,  thinking, had I done right, but, after seeing the different ways they went, I knew for sure I’d have to watch those down by the creek and with a sage stick, tried shooing them back.  It was of no use, they had gotten beyond that age, Fears for them took away thoughts of my safety and about that time, the old hawk, looking for a tasty meal, glided over the corral, making on big swishing noise, as he came in for the kill.  This scattered them in all directions, the barn, house and bushes.  He missed, but it wouldn’t be like him to be outdone.  The bushes were worse, this produced two gleaming eyes, lurking there unnoticed, seeing the chickens had become flusterated.  Dashing in among them, I hurled my stick almost hitting the intruder, as he grabbed a young rooster, getting only his tail feathers.  Then finally the old coyote made off up the nearest ravine with his mouth still full of feathers.  My thoughts were this was enough for one day, getting some wheat, I coaxed them back into the pen, thinking as the detached tail rooster went in, that’s that, and I am making no promises as to when you’ll get out again. 

    Going back to the house, I lay down to rest awhile before preparing dinner.  Jim had left early and should be back by noon.  Little realizing it, I was soon fast asleep waking only when Jackie’s bray fell on my ears.  Knowing Jim was returning, I hurried to build the fire, and soon in the midst of this task of getting something to eat, for Jim would want to harrow again in the afternoon.

    I was getting the dinner on to cook when Jim called, then came on to the house. “I just wanted to know you were alright,” he said, stepping in the door.  “I was worried about you there and back.”

     “I never felt better, “ I replied, but when we sat down to eat, I told him of the happenings of the morning.

     “ You really did have a time—you had better lay off things like that, even if you lose all of the chickens,” he commented.

     After the horses had finished their feed of hay, Jim lined them up together, drove over to the harrow and hitched them on to finish out the day.  Back and forth they went, this was something that could and should be kept done, it was a never ending task of preserving the moisture, working at it until evening shadows began to gather, when he unharnessed, releasing the horses for the night, then calling me to bring the milk bucket.

     We had had a nice heifer to freshen, she was in a separate corral, with her calf in a small pen.  He had only milked her once or twice, leaving the calf with her, but now the milk would be good so the calf would be kept penned up and fed.  I strained the milk into pans, and set back for the cream to raise for butter and milk to drink or made into cottage cheese, this we were very fond of, with plenty of eggs, also made numerous custards, puddings and pie fillings, one of our favorite dishes for supper was what they called “Float” in those days, it was milk brought to a boil in a skillet or fry pan, thickened with flour, eggs and sugar with flavoring added, if one liked it.  This was served hot with bread and butter, or placing a slice of bread in one’s plate, ladling the hot thickened milk over it.  And so that night I fixed just that for supper, it was one of Jim’s boyhood favorites, and away back when Jim’s father was a boy they called it “Pap.”  We never knew and never found out why it was called “Pap.”

     After supper we went out to drive off some of the horses, that still remained at the rack, leaving one tied there to round them up with in the morning.  It was such a lovely night, we remained for some time counting the stars and looking at the  “Big Dipper” in the sky above us.  When the night air was ripped by that howling coyote, somewhere out yonder in the dark of night, his wailing cry fell on our ears, as though he were lost or in a confused state of mind.  I said to Jim, “He’s crying for the chicken he didn’t get this morning.”

     “May be, “ he answered, “but let’s go in, this night air is a bit chilly.”

      “It was always thus, due to our climate, walking hand in hand to the house, I continued to look up into the great blue yonder.

     “Look, look,” I exclaimed, “a falling star or meteor.”  We stood thus amazed as it sped by like a ball of molten metal, with a stream of fire behind it.  It seemed to be quite low to the earth and rather scary looking.  We figured it must have landed somewhere in the mountain above Shirley creek.  I said to Jim, “What if that had landed on our house?”

     Then he said, “we wouldn’t have had any house, for it could have weighed considerable and along with the fire too.  Well, you have already guessed it.  I can tell by the look on your face.”  Laughing we went in and retired for the night, sleeping soundly until the bird calls from the canyon drifted through our partly open window, the whistling and singing was terrific, as the first faint rays of the pre-dawn flickered, from behind the mountain top, giving all life to know a new day was evident.  One should never ask for more than the beauty that abounds in Idaho, with the fresh clean air, that gives a body that wonderful feeling with that very first deep breath, during the wee small hours when the sun ascends from behind those craggy peaks, to flood the land and cause all plant life to grow, the cat calls and whistling, floating in through the open window on a soft spring breeze, as it lightly caressed my face, taking all notions of arising for the day, soothing me back to sleep, while my mind told me it was time to get up.

     When finally I broke through the sleepy spell, to find Jim was up and gone, I knew not how long, but from the clock it must have been for some time.  He had built the fire, but it was our, and the tea kettle had boiled low, re-kindling the fire and then to refill the tea kettle, the water bucket was empty, so removed the lid from the cistern close by the door and drew up one, then to get the whole cracked wheat on and the bread for toasting in the oven.  This finished, I heard the horses coming on the run, but first stopping at the creek for a drink, gave me time to get out by the road, to head them in the corral.  I then put up the poles and started for the house, and later when Jim came up the hill riding Babe, he said, “I’ve really had a time, they got out last night and two of our neighbor’s horses are in with them.” 

     “I thought that looked like more horses than we have, “I replied,

     They were gentle work horses, so Jim just snapped halter chains in their halter rings and turned them in his field through our gate, about a forty from our house, then harnessed his, tying them to the pole over the rack to eat hay.  While we went to eat, I quickly set the table and put the food on while Jim washed up and combed his hair.  We then returned thanks for our blessings and all the good things set before us, asking for his loving care of us during the day. 

     There was always something to do on a ranch like this; he knew too he would have to haul water in the not too far distance, for the cistern was getting quite low, then there would be the job of cleaning it before re-filling, it was made egg shape at the bottom.  He would take a large bucket of hot lye water and a clean broom, when empty, and go down a ladder to the bottom. Here he would take the broom, washing the cement sides and bottoms, then scoop the water back in the bucket and tie it to a rope for me to pull up and throw out.  Then several buckets of clean water went down for rinsing and back up the same way.  When this was done, it was ready to be refilled.  This usually took up most of a day, by borrowing our neighbor’s big tank that lived west of us, on the edge of the flats, this tank was set on the running gears of our wagon.  When filled we would have good water for drinking and household purposes for some time and of course, a lid that fit extra tight to keep out dust and particles from the elements, like little whirligig dust storms that arose during dry weather, for we often had them.  They would whirl in an eddy over a dry dusty field, several at a time, as though chasing each other.  For days this would go on, then to climax it, we’d sometimes get a slight shower or perchance a good rain, a beneficial one and those were always welcome.  Time seemed to slide by, and the weeks much faster, but when one is busy this so often happens.

     That evening a familiar sound arose from the canyon, one we had not heard since living here, that of the hoot owl, his voice though harsh, but distinct, clearly wafted on the night air.  We listened, every so often as the “hoo, hoo” continued.  When finally it faded away or we had slipped unconsciously into slumber land. We heard them often at my folks’ place, but this seemed a bit out of the ordinary, as though in his flying or hopping from bush to bush had made it this far from his old habitat,  the wild choke cherry grove, on Shirley Creek, close to my parents’ place, the cherry grove where the coyotes would hide and when all were unaware, sneak out to make off with a chicken, grabbing and disappearing into the brush or up a gulley to consume his prey.  So our friend, the owl, remained, making his home in the canyon below our house.  His nightly “hoos” became a friendly sound, added to our night bird’s whistle like cries, that took up much of the night, and the unearthly yapping that split the air in the lonely silent hours, at a time when all things should be sleeping, but I have been told the night is something of a wonderment or mystery for earth’s wild creatures.  It is a time when the largest to the smallest do their prowling, these stealthily wild animals, denizens of den and burrow, hiding by day in a sly way in tangled mesh, weeds and brush, the like of which covers the openings to holes or place of a safe retreat.  While humans sleep they come out to prey on animals, smaller than they to forage for food, so to speak, while each tries to evade the other.  Wild ducks and geese do much of their flying after dark shadows encompasses the earth, either with eyes that can penetrate the night, or are endowed with their own sense of direction, or with a bit of radar to assist them in landing.  Perhaps many, many miles away in the early hours of dawn, on some inland or hidden lake or river, to seek food for the day, it all seems so puzzling when one tries to solve these intricate ways of the life of God’s wild creatures, and how they have been given perceptive powers to care for the welfare of themselves and their young.  Turn our tame animals loose to forage for themselves the year through and how long would they last, without the aid of man, so the deer, elk and all wild animals have been wonderfully instilled with the know how of the preservation of life.  For instance we have passed the Sublett dam in Cassia County early in the morning and there were the wild ducks floating around on this inland reservoir, hunting their food, having flown perhaps miles during the night to land in this mountainous surrounded spot in the forest dim hours of daylight before man even thought of rising, so there they were with the love cooing murmurs of the turtle doves swaying from the willows near the lake’s edge.  Nature at dawning is God’s world in all its wonder and wonderment.  An early morning expedition is one of the nicest things a person can do, one comes in contact, better with nature and is confronted with the realism of it, watching the sun make its glittering appearance, the sudden alertness of all wild creatures, the peaks being lit up with the soft golden rays, the dew-pearled grass and trees shimmering with the first faint light, the waters of a lake smooth and shining like some well-polished floor when the scarlet beams first touch it, the trackless waste of the night giving away to day, here one sometimes wonders if they are dreaming , being faced with these mysterious things of the world in which we exist or have our being.  Did you ever take note of the sunrise pouring its rays of gold on a verdant dressed timbered mountain side?  How it seems to glitter and dance as it sifts through the dense clustered boughs making patches of light beneath and between clustered boughs making patches of light beneath and between spaced so that any small flowers or grasses growing there might get its share.  Then too, the sighing of the wind through these branches leave a mournful tune in your ear to be remembered for aye and a day, and so my thoughts wandered, as I stood early the next morn, by the corral gate waiting, looking east, first to the Shirley Creek mountains and then south to that magnificent snow capped peak of the “Black Pine” range.  I thought how it had stood, through ages, with a forest on its back and springs of water flowing down its side, watering vegetation as it flowed.  There it stood, in its loftiness, weathering the storms that swayed its forest and beat upon it, year after year, turning to view lesser mountain ranges in the Heglar area.

     When the pounding of horses’ hoofs attracted my attention, there was Jim coming down the west line fence with the bunch on the gallop.  I removed the bars, then stepped back to head them in.  I had not long to wait, before the leader of the bunch went in, and then the rest as Jim rode up and pushed the poles back across saying, “That’ll hold them, I’ve had quite a ride.”  Putting his arm around me he said, “Let’s go eat, I am hungry.” 

     So to the house, only a short distance, stopping near the house to take a quick look over our garden, it seemed to be doing real well for the little moisture we had had.  I had set the table and the breakfast in the warming closet was soon on the table.  We sat down to eat, we hadn’t more than finished when a neighbor rode up, Jim went out to talk, while I cleared things away then went at the sweeping and dusting.  After accomplishing this, I took a look out the door, to see them comfortably seated on a pile of post, laughing and talking as though they had perched themselves atop the pile of post for the rest of the day, and the horses in the corral seemed to care less, for they stood biting and currying each other’s mane, as though there for a good long rest.  Ah hour later they were still there, Well, I thought a rancher does get tired of the every day grind, so back to my sewing, trying to get the last stitch of it finished and neatly put away. 

     My nurse had said I should rest more and do less strenuous work, and no more climbing hills and this was the one thing I loved to do, stay out of wagons and off of mules’ back, how could I do that? I was born to do those things, I half-heartedly agreed to her demands, but still did them at times modestly.  So, I lay down to rest for a short while before dinner, awaking some time later, found the man gone with Him and the horses also gone, so I set about to fix the noon meal.  The time though soon went by, and when Jim came back I asked him who his nice friend of the morning was.

      “Well,” he said, “they are really nice folks, I got acquainted with some of them before at Rupert.  They are a very large family and they came to Rupert from Missouri, about four of the brothers and their families have homesteads below us, over toward Heglar and Yale, I was where he could contact the fellow that owned the rail, to rail brush with, that I had been working with, and like most Missourians or most people, he liked visiting, especially where one seldom sees other people.  I invited him and his wife over and we got an invite to Congregational Church at Yale,  where they have services each Sunday, that makes it nice for the people over that way.”

     Then a week or so later, Jim received a letter as did other of our neighbors, wanting to know if we wanted to have a Congregational Sunday School and church at Sublett, using the Shirley Creek school house to hold our meetings in.  So Jim answered telling them he thought that would be alright.

     May was on its last week, and the way time seemed to vanish June Winds would soon be blowing aver the land, blessing the hillsides with its usual numerous multi-color of flowers, the Indian paint brush, the blue-bells, larkspur and thousands of dainty yellow, pink and white flowers, that kept close to the sage for protection using some of its shade through the mid-day sun.  The wild roses, already were perfuming the canyon along Shirley Creek, especially mornings and evenings such a delightful perfume.  I kept a freshly picked vase of the flowers each day.  There were times when Jim would take time out to bring me a lovely bouquet, and this was one of the evenings.  He did his very best for it couldn’t have been prettier.