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We read the history of the lives of cowboys, ranchers, and Western settlers in the many poems and poets' biographies that come our way.  Those real life stories of a vanishing way of life—historical treasures—should be gathered, shared and preserved. That's the inspiration for The Western Memories Project, another kind of "gathering," to celebrate and document Western life. You can get involved by sharing your own memories, by urging others to share theirs, or by interviewing those with a story to tell.  Email us. (Weekly, pictures and brief stories are shared in the separate Picture the West feature.) Jane Morton encourages others to preserve their family ranch histories. She writes, "... it is so important for people to write down what they know about the history of their ranches.  If they put it off it might be too late.  It could be a project for family Christmas presents.  What better than a ranch history?" Below: Smoke Wade The Joseph Creek School The 1952 Hashknife Branding Bruce Matley The Matley Ranch, "The Ranch That I Can't See" Jean Mathisen Haugen Saga of the Old ND Brand Continues for 123 Years LaVonne Houlton Mr. Miley's Palomino Roots..,in the Morgan World Cousin Don Landes The Christmases of My Childhood (1930's) Uncle Ed Titus Jane Morton When Grandpa Bet the Farm Ranch Beginnings The Straw Barn Nona Kelley Carver Ashes on the Snow Afterword by Larry Carver Carver Ranch House History Carver Family History Barbara Bockelman Trail Drive - Texas to Oklahoma, 1932   On Page 2: Jack Sammon On the Road with Rocklands Cattle Talawanta Rusty Calhoun L'il Ernie Janice Mitich Line Camp   More about The Western Memories Project What inspired the project How you can get involved               Elsewhere at CowboyPoetry.com, our weekly feature, Picture the West, features photos, old and new, of the ranching, cowboy, rural, and working life of the West of today and yesterday.  See the Photo of the Week here.

 

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The 1952 Hashknife Branding

(The following was posted as part of Picture the West in February 2008, and is repeated here as an important part of American ranch history.)

Nevada poet, writer, and gathering organizer Smoke Wade shared photos "depicting the 1952 branding of the Hashknife calves at the Cactus Flat branding corral, which sets on a flat along the Grande Ronde River in Washington. The Grande Ronde is a tributary of the Snake River, and Cactus Flat is about a mile from the Snake." Smoke tells:

It was my lot in life to be born the grandson of J.H. "Jidge" Tippett, a Hells Canyon area cattle baron. At the time of his death in 1963, he had pieced together a system of cattle ranches in SE Washington and NE Oregon that incorporated the use of over one hundred thousand acres of range land. This ranch system was comprised of five full time independent ranches, one seasonal ranch and at least one summer cow camp operation.

Jidge’s father’s family fell off the Oregon Trail some where around Butter Creek Oregon. By the time he was a young man, his family was living in Wallowa county, Oregon where he began building his empire. Jidge started out as a thirty-dollar-a-month sheepherder. The Hells Canyon of the Snake River region along the Idaho-Oregon border was well suited for sheep. The steep terrain and harsh climate made it difficult to raise cattle. There was little grass for gazing in the canyon during the hot summer months, and the steep canyon walls offered sparse feed at other times. Yet, Jidge was able to find a way to piece together his formula for success.

By splicing together a network of failed homesteads, he slowly began building an empire that would reach its heyday at the time of his death. By the early 1940s his children were becoming adults and he incorporated the ranch operation by placing each of his children on one of the ranches that he was accumulating. My mother was one of his children. This family partnership resulted in the Corporation brand, the Hashknife.

While each of the family partners was allowed to have their own brand and cattle, the bulk of the herd was of the Hashknife brand. Jidge owned one half of all cattle bearing the Hashknife brand, while the remaining half was divided equally between the partner family members. Some of Jidge’s children sold out of the partnership, and by 1952, there were four partners left in the Hashknife Corporation, my parents, two uncles and my grandparents.

To make the extensive ranch system work in such a harsh climate required the use of grazing land that could be used in the different seasons. Two ranches were for summer and fall pasture. Jidge acquired extensive grazing leases on Forest Service land where the summer Cold Springs cow camp operation was. Bureau of Land Management (BLM) land was "free grazed." Four of the ranches were sheltered in Hells Canyon and its tributaries, and these ranches were the "home ranches" for my family members. The home ranches were suited for late fall and early spring pasture as well as winter feeding and calving sites.

And, so our life followed the seasons, far from towns, stores, telephones, and modern convinces. We were born to the saddle, we lived a self-sustaining wilderness life, and, on occasions, the outside world would come peeking in to see what life lived twenty years behind the times was like. 1952 was one of those years.

Spring branding of the calf crop took place on each of the home ranches. The Rogersburg ranch where I was raised always contained one of the largest winter herds due to the extensive winter range we had. The calf crop was sizable and each year the spring branding at Cactus Flat was a joint operation for all family members. Often folks from town or perhaps college students would come up and join with us at branding time. In 1952, a journalist from a local newspaper, Bonnie Butler, brought with her a journalist from France. The French lady created quite a stir amongst the Hells Canyon cowboys during the branding, and fortunately, someone recorded this branding event on camera.

It was spring branding time for the Hashknife cattle operation. The cattle were herded towards the Cactus Flat corral which was on a flat along the Grande Ronde River in Southeastern Washington.

The old corral on Cactus Flat was on a bench along the Grande Ronde river about one mile from its confluence with the Snake River. Ironically, French fur trappers had named the "Ronde" for the peculiar way that the river wound its way through the canyon in giant u-shaped loops. This coincidence bore special interest to the foreign journalist. Many of the calves were born on Cactus Flat. At branding time, the cattle were herded towards the corral and separated—calves on the inside, cows on the outside.

The cows and calves were herded into the corral gate. The visible brand, the "X Quarter Circle," was my grandfather's brand.

Once the corral was full, the gates were closed and the rest of the cows and calves were held on the flat near by. Besides the branding crew, a group of cowboys were required to hold the cattle outside the corral. Note several of the cows display the Hashknife brand (Bar-D).

 

Once the corral is full, it was time to cut out (separate) the cows from the calves. The Grande Ronde river can be seen in the background. The road on the other side of the river was the way to town. From the Cactus Flat corral, it was a long 30 mile drive to the nearest town of Asotin, Washington.

The calves mill about in the corral while the mother cows wait anxiously out side the fence. During this time the term "bawling" became self explanatory.

The branding fire was built and the irons were heated to red hot in preparation of marking the calves. The fire also would heat a pot of coffee and the coals would cook a fresh order of mountain oysters for midday snacks. Branding was required by law to show ownership of the cattle.

While the calves and cows were being separated in the corral, a pit was dug and a hot fire started to heat the branding irons to a red-hot condition. The branding irons in this photo from left to right are: "4 F Slash," my father's brand; "UN," my uncle Biden Tippett's brand; two "J Inverted J" irons, my uncle Jack Tippett's brand; and three "Hashknife" branding irons. Along the back row there are six branding irons that resemble pipes and two smaller irons with the number "2." The pipe-like irons were the de-horning irons used to sear the young horns on the calves to prevent horns from growing. The number "2" irons were jaw brands to indicate the year of the birth of the calf, in this case—1952. 

The Hashknife was the most common used brand on our ranch and represented the partnership cattle belonging to my parents, my uncles and my grandfather, J.H. "Jidge" Tippett. Ironically, the Hashknife brand of my past greatly resembles the BAR-D brand of my present. 

Often the team roping method was used to catch and hold a calf while the branding crew branded, de-horned, castrated and vaccinated the calf. The man on the horse with his back to the camera is my father. I am the youth in front of the horse.

The calves were roped, team roping style, and stretched out on the ground. Sometimes, the use of a snubbing post was incorporated in lieu of team roping. The calves would be branded, de-horned, vaccinated, steer calves castrated, and often a waddle or dewlap was cut into the animal’s skin for easy identification from a distance. We also incorporated the use of jaw brands with a number depicting the year the calves were born. This was important as we retained many heifers for brood cows and we needed to know how old they were. In 1952, it was common to hold the steers for market until they had been through two summers. We called them "two-year olds," and the jaw brand was a way of keeping the steer herds separate.

At branding time, everyone on the ranch helps out. In this photo, a young Smoke Wade handles the front leg tie down rope.

This Cactus Flat branding took place a few years prior to the branding of 1952. In the fore ground, one can see the use of a "snubbing post" in lieu of using the team roping method. As was common at our branding, several calves at a time were roped and branding to speed the process. The young people sitting on the corral fence are students from Washington State College now known as Washington State University, Pullman, Washington.

The use of the de-horning iron is well demonstrated in this photo. The young man doing the de-horning is Joe Thompson, a ranch hand that worked for our family operation for many years. The ranch hand was always an integral part of running a successful cattle operation. Joe later become a ranch owner in Idaho.

 

 

The Hashknife brand is being applied by my uncle Biden Tippett.

 

My father, Don Fouste, carries the de-horning iron and a knife with a straight blade. Two types of knives were used in the branding process. While the castrating knife was a special blade often provided as an additional blade on most pocket knives in those days, a longer straight blade was used to cut the nub of the horn from the calf prior to using the de-horning iron.

 

Others in the photo are uncle Jack Tippett on the left and neighboring rancher, Pete Edgemond on the right. It has always been a western ranching tradition for neighbors to help out during branding time.

This remarkable photo is of a calf with the freshly applied Hashknife brand, the number "2" jaw brand depicting that the branding took place in 1952, the de-horned marks on his head, and what was called a "dew-lap" cut on his neck skin. The dew-lap was a way of cutting a piece of skin that would permanently hang from the animal to make their ownership easily recognizable. This over cut dew-lap was used in conjunction with the Hashknife brand. Some brand owners used an under cut dew-lap, while still others would cut what was known as a "waddle" on the side of the animals face or perhaps on their rear quarters.

 

The two ladies in the photograph are journalists covering the branding for an unknown publication. The lady with the sunglasses is from France.

 

Note the braided rawhide rope on the saddle, and the always present rain slicker tied on behind the saddle.

 

At branding time, as was the custom then, the crew would take a long lunch break and large midday meals would be consumed followed by a nap. The afternoon work shift would often end at dark. And the next day would begin before sunrise.

Several of the Hashknife cowboys take a deserved rest break from the branding. My grandfather, J. H. "Jidge" Tippett, leans against the truck tire and appears to be entertaining the lady journalist from France with his stories about life in Hells Canyon.

 

The photo records the authentic cowboy garb of the region and the era. Note the cuffed trouser legs of the reclining cowboy, uncle Biden Tippett. It was common for men to wear their new blue jeans un-washed for a time period and they often cuffed the legs of their pants. Eventually, repeated laundering would cause the jeans to shrink-to-fit and the cuffs would disappear. Many of the men also favored blue denim shirts, though my grandfather leaned preferred wool in all seasons.

 

Hats were usually course straw or battered felt. And lace up work shoes were as common as pointy-toed cowboy boots.  In the steep canyon country, a cowboy spent a great deal of time leading his horse, and shoes were often preferred to cowboy boots.

When the branding was completed at Cactus Flat, the Grande Ronde cattle were herded up a side canyon to an elevation two-thousand feet above the river where they remained until it was time to move them on to the higher summer pasture which was closer to the five-thousand foot elevation. The short cattle drive up this canyon would start early in the morning and end after stars were twinkling in the sky. Remarkably, the calves survived the branding ordeal with few complications. My father always told me that the calves actually enjoyed the branding process because it felt so good when it was over.

The branding had come to an end and it was time to move the cow and calf herd towards late spring pasture. This herd would be trailed up the distant canyon to an elevation about 2000' feet higher than the Cactus Flat branding corral. Trailing this herd two miles up the canyon would begin in earnest at daylight the next day and the night sky would be blazing stars before the cattle reached the ridge top. The herd would remain there about a month and a half, then the spring roundup would bring them back down to the river and the long drive to higher, summer pasture would begin.

 

And, again this photo depicts style and custom of the era. Cowgirls were often prone to wearing sleeveless shirts, and cowboys were not opposed to walking.

As a result of the journalists attending the Hashknife branding of 1952, we gained some notoriety as Hells Canyon cowboys which later lead to a feature article about canyon cattle ranching in Popular Mechanics. Jidge became Cattleman of the Year in the state of Washington, and went on to visit cattle ranches in South America where he made lasting friendships with Argentine cattlemen. His empire began to crumble after his death. The ranches were divided to sole ownership of his children. In the 1970’s, the U.S. Congress passed the Hells Canyon National Recreation Act and cattle ranching in the canyon became a thing of the past. Cactus Flat is now owned by the Washington Game Department. they have subsequently torn down the corral and erased all evidence of its existence. Today, I still own, in partnership with my siblings, 160 acres of the old ranch that we keep for sentimental reasons.

This story of branding would be no different from hundreds of other branding stories experienced by cattlemen everywhere, except for one thing—the Hashknife brand. While the Hells Canyon way of cowboy life slipped away from me over the years, a similar brand surfaced and became a big part of my life—the Bar-D, the brand of CowboyPoetry.com.

Destiny is not for us to understand. It is for us to accept. It is my lot in life to live from beginning and, perhaps to the end, connected to the Brand. From cowboy to cowboy poet, the brand shaped like a Bar-D, that was then the Hashknife, is the common link that connects my past to the present.

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I hope this story lends an insight to the reader as to what real cowboy life was like 56 years ago in the Hells Canyon region.

 

Both Cactus Flat and the "saddle" at the head of the canyon are mentioned in my poems. Cactus Flat in "A Change of Season," and  "... up steep trails they moved, through saddles bathed in late spring showers..." from "Trailing the Herd" refers to the low pass at the head of the canyon.  

 

 
photo by Jeri L. Dobrowski; see her gallery of western performers and others at her site here.

Read some of Smoke Wade's poetry here.

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The Joseph Creek School

(The following was posted as part of Picture the West in December 2007, and is repeated here as an important part of American ranch history.)

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The Matley Ranch, "The Ranch That I Can't See"

(The following was posted as part of Picture the West in December 2007, and is repeated here as an important part of American ranch history.)

Bruce Matley ("Nevada Slim," half of the popular singing duo Nevada Slim and Cimarron Sue) shared the history of his family's Nevada ranch, photos, and his recent song, "The Ranch that I Can't See."  He also sent additional photos, courtesy of his cousin, rancher Wayne O. Matley.

The Matley Ranch was located on Mill Street, and was bordered by the Truckee River to the north, Matley Lane to the west, the Steel Ranch to the East, and the Kietzkie Ranch to the South. All of these ranches suffered the same fate.

My maternal great grandparents emigrated in 1863 from Ohio via St. Joseph, Missouri. Arriving at Honey Lake, California (adjacent to the present Susanville), they were unable to find really prime land available. Moving 40 miles south to Long Valley, California (near today's Doyle), they ranched until the later 1890s, when they took up a small ranch in the Truckee Meadows, where Reno began.

The Steinberger Barn, Doyle, California, 2002

My paternal Grandfather, John B. Matley, arrived from the Italian Alps at age 12, moved west, and at about age 20  married Grandma, in about 1900. These two built the home ranch to 1,000 acres of meadowland, and built nearly all the buildings:

Eventually 10,000 acres of BLM lease land were added.

Bruce at about age four on the porch of the ranch house his father built.

Bruce's cousin Wayne O. Matley shared additional photos from the family ranch:

The Matley children playing around the thresher, Matley Ranch, 1920s

Preparing to lower the boom on completion of the stack, Matley Ranch, undated

Tripping the nets dumps one half wagonload onto the stack, Matley Ranch, 1941

Beginning a new haystack, Matley Ranch, 1943

Wayne C. Matley on the pusher, Matley Ranch, 1943

Grandpa Matley's haystacks; the big stackyard in the meadow, Matley Ranch, 1943

Bruce continues: Percheron draft horses did the heavy work, which continued into my early youth. In summer, cattle were driven to Sierra Valley, California for summer range, a three day task to cover the 40 miles. I participated in the last years of this annual event. Suzi and I were fortunate enough to play the Vinton Cowboy Poetry Show in March, 2007, in Sierra Valley, and had a good chance to visit with old timers who remembered Grandpa and my uncles well. My cousin John F. Matley still ranches a few miles below Doyle, in Long Valley.

Grandpa was dead serious about his breeding of the Percheron draft stock. Here's an ad from the Reno newspaper: 

In this photo of a prize winning mare and foal taken in 1938, they are held by my father, Wayne C. Matley, also a singer, then aged 19.

Here is an earlier photo of Grandpa with his prize stallion, Lonroceitus:

The condemnation proceedings began in bits and pieces in the early 1950s. The whole mess went to the Nevada Supreme Court. By 1965, the ranch was gone. It lies under the Reno airport's runways, approaches, and terminals, and the maze of streets, warehouses, hotels and the like that grew up around it. The location of house I was raised in, built by my Dad's hands, is graced by a landing light tower.

This photo of Grandma and Grandpa Matley was probably taken in the early 1940s:

They were incredibly hardworking people, not in the least fancy. I don't know much about highly bred saddle horses or fancy saddle rigging or fancy hats and such because my family simply never felt the need for showy things. I, however, do feel the need to help hold the traditions and heritage together as best I can, and that happens to be by singing. At county fairs, in particular, there is an ongoing opportunity to reach the youngest kids with the music.
 

The Ranch that I Can't See

All this asphalt makes me angry

Such progress makes no sense to me

I’ll tell you now the story of

The ranch that I can’t see

 

Overland in 1863

Fleeing civil war and strife

Great Grandpa and Great Grandma came

Hoping for a peaceful life

 

Settling first up near Honey Lake

Then to Long Valley they moved on

Finally in the Truckee Meadows

The family’s roots at last went down

 

In their turn granddad and grandma

Built the ranch and saw through change

A thousand acres deeded home place

Ten thousand lease land range

 

Lean and fat years working side by side

Workhorses, cattle,  hay

Grandma she birthed eight youngsters

Six survived to take their place

 

Winters Dad and all my uncles

Plied the frozen fields to feed

With a team of gentle Percherons

And I’d pretend to drive, you see

 

And those stove-up old time ranchands

Taught many useful things to me

Gave me my first tobaccy chaw

How they laughed when I turned green

 

Learning ranchcraft and cowboy songs

There at  Daddy’s gentle knee

Now it’s a burning loss to me

The Ranch That I can’t see

 

Cause Reno town crept ever closer

And the elected thieves decreed

They would take it all “eminent domain”

To serve gambling fools and greed

 

So they build a sprawling airport,

Warehouses, streets and steel

We had to move right off of there

For years we fought that shifty deal

 

Yes, They built right on our heritage

Where I’d learned to ride and hay

Though we scattered to ranching elsewhere

The family never was the same

 

So I weep at all this asphalt

This progress makes no sense to me

Though I know it’s still there somewhere

The ranch that I can’t see

 

Though I know it’s still down in the land
The ranch that I can't see

© Bruce Matley, All rights reserved
These lyrics cannot be reproduced without written permission of the author

 

Learn more about the music of Bruce Matley, "Nevada Slim" and Cimmaron Sue at their web site.

 

 

 

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Saga of the Old ND Brand Continues for 123 Years

The ND brand, a clearly read horse and cattle brand has been in the Mathisen ranching family (my family) for ninety years. It is even older than that. A French Canadian, John Pelong, who came to America early enough to fight in the War of 1848 with Mexico, first took up the brand on August 14, 1884 in Fremont County, Wyoming Territory.

Pelong had come to the South Pass area with the gold rush and was nearly killed by Indians trying to steal horses in 1868. His partner, Oliver Lamoreaux was killed. John made it back safely to South Pass City by night. He took up some land on what is now North Second Street road near Lander in the 1870's and settled there. Later he traded land with "Dutch Ed" Stelzner. Pelong's land was called Deer Park on Twin Creek (about 20 miles south of Lander in west central Wyoming) and ran horses there.

One reason he moved so far from town was because he had a drinking problem. Periodically he would go on binges and let his half-broke mustangs pull his wagon to the Johnny Reed Stage Station six miles south of Lander (now the Ruby Ranch) and go on a drunk there. Then they would pile him in the wagon and head him out for town. The horses would pull up in front of Vaughn's Livery near Second and Main in Lander (the building is still standing). The livery owner would take care of the horses and Pelong would stumble over to St. John's Saloon and proceed to get "swashed" once again; then they would load him up, hitch up the horses and they would automatically haul him home to Deer Park.

John Pelong died in 1907. The brand was sold to a Portuguese sailor, Joaquin Antone who had a ranch near the Rawlins Junction on Highway 28 south of Lander. How or why a Portuguese sailor ever landed on ground near Lander no one knows!

In 1916, it is recorded that Antone's widow, Sarah, sold the brand to my great uncle, Andrew Keyford Mathisen. The Mathisen's came to Wyoming from Kamas, Utah in 1902 and settled at Dead Man's Gulch five miles south of Lander. There were nine children in the family, eight boys and one girl. One of the older sons was Walter "Walt" Mathisen. Walt worked with his brothers, Chester and Sam and helped their father rein 20-horse freight wagons up to the Geissler Store at Atlantic City and also haul freight from the rail heads at Rawlins and Casper (each about 120 to 150 miles from Lander). In 1922 Walt married a young school teacher from Wayne, Nebraska, Pearl Ross. Keyford killed himself in July, 1922 and Walt took over the ND brand and had it in continual use from 1925 until 1975 when he died. It was transferred to my father, Bob Mathisen and myself.

During those 50-odd years, Walt leased the old Schlicting Ranch (now the Malmberg Ranch) for several years and also homesteaded just below John Pelong's original hangout, Deer Park. Along with three sons, Bob, Bill and Bub and wife, Pearl, Walt also had two younger brothers, Gillis and Red who lived wit them. For a time they lived in the old Schlicting house (which had been hauled down from Fort Stambaugh near Atlantic City, when the fort was closed down in 1880). Later they lived in a 16x20 homestead cabin reconstructed from other logs from Fort Stambaugh. They also helped catch wild horses during the days of the CC Ranch outfit from Montana during the Great Depression. Pearl taught the boys school at the Schlicting house and later an old school dating from 1905 was moved near their homestead and the boys attended school there. They ran cattle as far as Atlantic City and the boys worked in the fields putting up hay and helping with the "Community" herd of cattle run by all the ranchers jointly.

The old original Schlicting ranch—the dugout was the original house built there and used by the Schlicting family; the house in the background was the house my grandparents and dad and uncles lived in.

Walt and Pearl and the boys moved to the old States Ranch on Willow Creek in the winter of 1937. Later they moved into Lander and Walt worked as a horse trader and also wintered dude horses from Jackson Hole for many years. He drove the horses over Union Pass, down past Dubois, Crowheart and onto wintering grounds he leased on the Wind River Reservation and then would drive them back to Jackson Hole in the spring.

My dad, Bob Mathisen and his brothers Bill and Darryl "Bub" Mathisen at the States Ranch in January, 1937

After Walt's death the brand was not used except by me on my art work and poetry. Bob, my dad, was a cowboy in his younger years and was foreman of the Williams Ranch in Sinks Canyon near Lander for a time. He worked 27 years as a Wyoming Highway Patrolman and 8 years as Captain the the Fremont County Sheriff's office under Sheriff Tim McKinney. Bob passed away in April 2002 at the age of 77. I continued to own the brand and married Ron Haugen in July, 2003.

In March of 2007 I sold the old ND brand at auction and did not know until recently who bought it. Ironically, Tara McKinney Berg and her husband (she is the daughter of Tim McKinney, my Dad's old boss) bought the ND. They live on the McKinney Ranch on Twin Creek not many miles from where John Pelong originated the brand in 1884 and where my father and grandfather lived on the Schlicting ranch. Tara says they plan to use it on cattle (my grandfather had used it on both horses and cattle)--so the old brand has finally cycled back to its home country and will be back in use.

© 2007, Jean Mathisen Haugen


 

   In 2004, Jean wrote, "I'm a native of Lander and Wyoming--my family has been here in the Lander Valley since 1869 and eight generations have been on ranches here.  I have been writing poetry (much of it cowboy poetry) since I was 8 years old and have published 6 books of poetry, along with poems appearing in about 25 chapbooks.  I also had poetry appear pretty steadily in the Wyoming Rural Electric News for 20 years.  I have participated in Gatherings in Wyoming, Montana and Idaho. I retired from the State of Wyoming DOT in October, 2003 and am now busily pursuing my writing."

Read more about Jean Mathisen Haugen's family and some of her poetry here.
 

 

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Mr. Miley's Palomino

One summer day during World War II, Mr. Miley came from Modesto to Cold Creek Ranch, pulling an empty horse trailer.  His purpose was to buy a couple of Palominos, and Uncle Ed had told him there were several in our area that might suit his needs.

After all these years, I've forgotten Mr. Miley's first name.  He was an old family friend from the days when he and my uncle had both farmed large properties out Old Oakdale Road from Modesto, in California's central valley.

Part of Cold Creek Ranch -Taken from the meadow - the land went clear up to
the lookout on top of the mountain (see arrow) on the 'dry' side.

The morning after he arrived, Mr. Miley and Uncle Ed drove  several miles farther out the road we lived on to see the Spannaus brothers.  The young men did have some Palominos, but for whatever reason they weren't what Mr. Miley was looking for.  The two men then set out toward Yreka, to look at some other golden horses Uncle Ed knew about.  Still, when the pair drove down our long driveway at the end of the day, the horse trailer was empty.

Next morning after breakfast the two intrepid horse-seekers set out once more, this time planning to drive over the Siskiyous into southern Oregon. Mr. Miley vowed stoutly that when they returned this time there would be two Palomino Horses in the trailer.  We could count on it, he said.

It seemed like an especially long day, as we waited for the men to return. Because Mr. Miley had been such a critic of the horses they'd already seen, we just knew that whatever he bought was bound to be special.

We waited all that day, visions of gorgeous golden horses with flowing flaxen manes and tails running through our minds.

Cold Creek's driveway

At last the truck and trailer came rumbling down the long drive, and we dashed out, eager to see what they had found.  But, wait a minute - it didn't look like there were any horses in the trailer!  When the rig quit rolling, Aunt Margit and I went to the back of the trailer.  "Land sakes!" said my aunt, as I burst out laughing.  One side of the trailer was empty.
There, in the other side, contentedly munching hay, was a pretty little Jersey cow!

"Well," said Mr. Miley, a bit sheepishly, "At least she's the right color!"

© 2005, LaVonne Houlton

Roots...in the Morgan World

LaVonne Houlton writes: Some years ago my daughters and I went to visit one of my uncles and his wife. We took along several photos of our Morgans to show them. Uncle John looked at a couple of pictures of BLOSSOM'S LASS (013320 - Golden West National Junior Champion Mare of 1965), and said, "Yes, she's Morgan all right. She looks just like the team Dad used to have." Well! I really perked up at that, because it was the first I'd ever heard of Morgans in our family before mine.

Blossom's Lass, the mare that Grandpa's team was said to look like.

My grandparents came from Norway in 1880, and first settled in Dakota Territory. Later, they farmed, and raised purebred Jersey cattle in Minnesota's lush Red River Valley. The farm was along the Thief River, a few miles from the village of St. Hilaire. The nearest town of any size was Thief River Falls, some eight miles north of St. Hilaire.

My mother was the youngest of ten children, so by the time I was born my grandparents were already 76 years old. Luckily, they lived 'til I was eleven, long enough for me to know and remember them well. Grandpa was very dignified and soft-spoken, and he walked straight as an arrow, even in his 80's. His hair and moustache were snow-white, his eyes were ice-blue. Though he always seemed so gentle and kindly, he loved to tease, and there was always a spark of mischief hiding in those clear, blue eyes. It must have been really sparking the day he set out to get the Morgan team.

My grandparents in Modesto, California, in their later years. about 1932, I think.  When I was little, Grandpa and I would take walks down the long farm lane, holding hands, me chattering away in English, while he answered me in Norwegian (my grandparents would never speak Engllish to me, which was a wonderful thing, really).  Anyway, I was such a chatterbox
that Grandpa called me his "little woodpecker' (in Norwegian of course).

Going to town in those days consisted of hitching one of the work teams to the spring wagon and setting off down the dirt road. Grandpa's teams were O.K. in the fields, but on the road they had one speed -- plod. Everyone else's horses seemed to go faster, and finally Grandpa got left in the dust once too often. The next day he took off for parts unknown, and when he returned he was driving a beautiful pair of Morgans - one brown, one black. As Uncle John told me, "Nobody EVER passed Dad on the road after that!"

The Morgans weren't just a Sunday-Go-To-Meeting team, either. They did their stint in the fields along with the big teams, and Uncle John said they came in in the evenings in much better shape than the big horses did. The Morgans would be ready to go again after supper, driving the family to choir practice, or on errands, etc. My uncle couldn't remember where they had come from, or what their names had been.

When we got home, I wrote to my Aunt Mary, who was next-oldest of the children. She was then past 90, but she, too, remembered the Morgan team. She had good reason to remember, because the first night they were at the farm she took them out to the water trough, and as she was used to doing, dropped the lead ropes while they drank. The Morgans promptly raised their heads high, and headed for their old home, miles away. Grandpa was not pleased with Aunt Mary, and the next day he had the trip to make all over again.

Aunt Mary said the Morgans were beautiful horses, and very gentle. Grandpa was very fond of them. I had hoped she would remember just where they had come from, and that they might have had distinctive names that could give a clue to their breeding. What Aunt Mary wrote though was "We called them Brownie and Blacky." So much for pedigree seeking.

They are all gone now, those old relatives of mine, and I will never know more about Brownie and Blacky than I learned from one conversation, one letter. But I like to think about Grandpa Brevik on the day he first drove his fine Morgan pair to town. I can just see him, sitting straight as an arrow, a small smile hiding beneath his moustache, and a big glint of mischief in his ice-blue eyes, as he left all the other farmers -- at last -- in the dust.

The Brevik family and their 10 children, taken just a few years after the Morgans
came to the farm.  Aunt Mary is the first lady on the left, back row; Uncle
John is the 1st boy from the left, middle row, and my mother's the little girl standing
between her parents, T. M. and Magnilda Brevik. Margit, the lady on the right, back row married E. R. (Ed) Titus, 
of whom I've spoken several times. This picture was taken in St. Hilaire, Minnesota.

© 1979, LaVonne Houlton
Reprinted from the Northern California Morgan Horse Club KORRAL, May 1979

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Cousin Don Landes

You may have heard Oakdale, California called "the Cowboy Capital of the World," and Don Landes was a pretty well-known cowboy there back in the 40's and 50's, and he also was an unsung rider in many a Western filmed in the foothills around Jamestown, California.  If you could ever get ahold of that wonderful old movie, "Smoky," and watch Fred MacMurray ride the bucking bronc, that's not Fred, that's my cousin Don.  Looking at the Brevik family portrait above, Don's mother, Helen, is 2nd from the right in the middle row.  

Don and Cecil (that old car, I think, is the Jewett - later at Cold Creek Ranch, a buck rake was
fastened to the front of it, and it was great at haying time!)

When I was 5 and Don was 9, the critter that we had to ride was Cecil, the clever burro.  Don used to give the teacher a ride to the one-room little old red schoolhouse at Keystone in a cart behind Cecil.  One time he and I were going to 'camp out' in the 'wilderness' on Keystone Ranch - we gathered up cans of beans (no can opener) some coffee(!) and I don't remember what else, except two old blankets for bedrolls. We went up in the hills, and thought a dry creekbed looked like a fine campsite.  We unloaded everything from the sledge which Cecil had pulled for us.  We were just getting our 'camp' nicely set up when a rattler rattled close by (the area was full of them) - Don grabbed my hand and ran; I fell down, and he continued to drag me across the stony creekbed, dumped me into the sledge, and off we raced, leaving all our gear behind.  Boy, did I have skinned knees!  We weren't very popular with our folks, either, because someone had to go back up there and retrieve all our stuff!.  Besides, it hadn't occurred to either of us to seek permission for such a camp-out!

Don Landes, LaVonne (Hanson) Houlton, Summer, 1930,  
with Cecil and Ginger the dog at Keystone Ranch.

(I had to laugh when I looked more closely at that picture.  It must have been taken very soon after our excursion up into the hills - Mother always made me wear long stockings, even in summer, if I had skinned-up knees. Ever since that time I've always loved the smell of tarweed, though I sure hated having it stuck all over my legs and shoes if I walked out in it.  I remember that we had a whole cigar box full of rattles, from snakes that had been killed at Keystone - sometimes Don and I would get a bunch of them out and see who could find the one with most rattles.  Didn't take a lot to entertain us in those days, apparently!)

That Keystone Ranch was also owned by our Uncle Ed Titus, who in turn owned the Triangle Bar Ranch in the Badlands, a dairy farm of the same name in Modesto, California, and later owned Cold Creek Ranch in Northern California.

Don Landes

Don passed away in Oakdale, in May 2001.  He was 81 years old.  If any of the old-timers from the rodeo circuit remember him, I'd sure love to hear from them!

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The Christmases of My Childhood (1930's)

I remember them as being so wonderful!  Our Norwegian family seemed so big, and everyone was so happy to be together.  Grandma and Grandpa lived with my Aunt Margit and Uncle Ed, so everyone congregated there for Christmas Day. The house was big, with large, high-ceilinged rooms. The star on top of the beautifully decorated, enormous tree just barely cleared the 12' ceiling. Presents were piled high beneath the tree.  The house was redolent with the odors of roasting turkey and spicy pumpkin pies.

At home, early on Christmas morning, my little sister and I shared our own gifts, then sat down to a delicious Norwegian snack of lefse and fruit soup. Then we all set off for the big event!

First, I would run to meet Grandma and Grandpa -- "Glade Jul!"  Grandpa, with his white hair and moustache and smiling blue eyes -- and Grandma, soft and cuddly as a feather pillow, her red hair faded to a look of apricots in whipped cream.  Soon, family by family, everybody began to arrive -- until we numbered about 30 in all.

One Norwegian dish I could never learn to like was the lutefisk - hard-dried cod, that had gone through a series of water baths since Thanksgiving, to leach out the lye it contained.  Now, here it was, all soft and white, with accompanying cups of melted butter.  The dining room, large as it was, could only accommodate the grownups, so we children had our own table set up in the kitchen.  It was like a 'rite of passage' in the family, to graduate to the 'big' table!

One of my father's crops on our ranch was Emperor grapes, a late table variety and so delicious that I've tried in vain to find them again ever since. Anyway, after the harvesters had left, Dad and I would glean the vineyard, getting quite a few lugs of various sized bunches.  I would set up a little roadside stand and sell them, which gave me "lots" of money for Christmas presents.  Everyone got a gift in those days - no drawing of names for us!  On some special day before Christmas Mother and I would go to town, and she would deposit me in the wonderful Woolworth store.  Here, I happily bought lace hankies, small jewelry, "Evening in Paris" perfume, things to embroider, mens handkerchiefs, socks and toys, all selected with a particular relative in mind.  I have no memory of gifts I received on those long-ago Christmases, but I do still recall the thrill of making my own spending money, and buying and wrapping all those special little gifts for those I loved!

Christmas 2005 - age 80

© 2005, LaVonne Houlton
These words poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

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Uncle Ed Titus

 

Poet, writer and horsewoman LaVonne Houlton shared family pictures from the early 1900s for our Picture the West feature (May 21, 2007). She told us:

[The photo above is my uncle] Elbert R. ("Ed") Titus and one of his Belgian stallions, "King," on the old Triangle Bar Ranch in the Badlands of North Dakota, about1918. The ranch was near Bullion Bluff and the "Little Mo" River, and part now is in the Theodore Roosevelt National Grasslands Park.

Ed was from an old New York Dutch family, and his wife Margit came to America from Norway, in 1879, as an infant. They first tried farming in Minnesota, but their land was too boggy, so they opted for a homestead in Dakota, and a sod house to begin with. The first couple of years Margit baked bread and rolls and sold them in Fryberg and Medora, and to neighboring bachelor ranchers, to help them get started.

I've been told that this barn could hold up to 40 shod horses during the winter.

This is the couple in front of their sod house:

This is their 1901 wedding photo: 

 

LaVonne comments:

The story of how they met is kind of interesting, too.  E. R. (Ed) Titus  left New York, heading for the Klondike and possible riches, working his way across the country as he went.  He stopped near Stavanger Township, Traill County, North Dakota  in 1900 to work in the Grandin Farms grain fields for the summer. 

Liking softball, he got together enough young fellow farm hands to form a couple of teams, to play on their day off.  Their 'playing field' was right across the road from the ranch of Halvor A. Nash. 

Recently widowed, Halvor had summoned his niece Margit Brevik from St. Hilaire, Minnesota, to help out with his children and cook for the hay crews.  It didn't take Ed long to notice the pretty young lady across the road who seemed to work so hard.  By September, 1901 they were married, and the Klondike was a forgotten dream.

---

 

  In 2004, Lavonne Houlton wrote:  I am now 78 years old; wrote my first poem at age 12, and kept right on writing them - all kinds, but my favorite are the narrative western kind.  I've always loved the country and horses.  Raised and showed registered Morgan Horses for 35 years (Viking Morgan Ranch, Modesto, California). I'm a mother, and a grandmother.  My profession was Social Work, but over the years I've written many articles on horses, some historical, some current. These appeared in The Morgan Horse Magazine, Western Horseman, Thoroughbred of California, Horse Lovers, Horseman's Courier, and California Horse Review.

In the 1960's I wrote a monthly column, "LaVonne's Line," that ran in the old Piggin' String magazine  for a decade or so, and sometimes I included a poem or one of my "Peanuts Horse" cartoons.

Born a "city child," I was lucky to have had an uncle and aunt who ranched in the Dakota Badlands in the early days.  Their cattle and horses grazed on land that's now a part of the National Grasslands of North Dakota -- near Bullion Butte, and along the Little Missouri River. From my uncle, I heard many tales of colorful characters - like Bill Follis, one-time boss of the 777 outfit and a veteran of many cattle drives on the old Chisholm Trail. And like Pete Pelissier, the "Buffalo Bill of the Missouri Slopes," who rounded up wild horses every year, and once ran a Wild West show of some renown.  I heard of the old Hashknife outfit, of Teddy Roosevelt and the Custer Trail Ranch, of round-ups and disasters, of long gone but well remembered horses named Van Zandt and Bon Dieu.

Thanks to my uncle, this horse-loving child always had something to ride -- be it the broad back of a Belgian draft horse on the way home from the fields in the evening -- or a burro named Cecil whose aim in life was to scrape a kid off against a fig tree or the corner of a barn.  There was at one time a Shetland Welsh cross mare, and I even rode the fat and congenial Hereford bull, Prince Domino, a few times.  Lastly came Minnie, companion of my teen-age years, of whom I write in my poem "Cold Creek Remembered." Minnie and I covered many miles of tough, lava-strewn terrain in Northern California's Siskiyou Mountains.  There were Herefords and horses, dreams to dream, and many trails to follow.  And in the evenings there were the stacks of Western Livestock Journals, with poems by Bruce Kiskaddon and Cowpoke Cartoons by Ace Reid with which to while away a few hours.

You can email LaVonne.

You can read some of  LaVonne Houlton's poetry here at the BAR-D.

 

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When Grandpa Bet the Farm

Jane Morton writes, "I grew up on the plains of eastern Colorado in the midst of the drought and the depression.  My father taught school and helped his father with the family farm near Fort Morgan.  This farm had been in the family since 1911 when my great-grandfather bought the original 320 acres.  They owed the bank, and there was little money coming in, so the whole family had to pitch in and help if we were to keep our land."  continued below

She writes about her grandfather, William Edmon Ambrose, in this poem from her award-winning book, Cowboy Poetry: Turning to Face the Wind:

When Grandpa Bet the Farm

A fellow making money
   grazing cattle on his land
Got Grandpa thinking time had come
   when he too should expand.

Though Grandpa winter-grazed some stock
   each of the last four years,
The biggest herd he'd ever had
   was 'bout a hundred steers.

By fall of 1928, he thought
   he'd move ahead,
And up the number of the setters
   he wintered, and he fed.

He had some apprehension
   when he went to buy a herd,
So took the banker out with him
   to see if he concurred.

Steers weighed around six hundred pounds
   and cost ten cents per pound.
The banker said he liked their looks
   and thought the deal was sound.

Two hundred sixty steers in all
   went onto Grandpa's range
The last week in October
   right before a weather change.

A blizzard shrieked in from the north
  and Grandpa felt a chill,
The thought of steers out in that storm
   Enough to make him ill.

"They're likely driftin' south," he said,
   "their backs to wind and snow."
He never did have much to say,
   but what he said was so.

One day more the storm raged on,
   and then the weather cleared.
But when he went to find his steers,
   it was as he had feared.

His eyes swept over prairie land,
   grass blanketed in white.
As far as the horizon, though,
   he saw no steers in sight.

Next morning when his son got there,
   they saddled up and rose.
With Grandpa thinking all the time
   of money that he owed.

They let the dog go out with them,
  although he was high-strung,
and he had never worked a herd,
   so scattered and far-flung.

The horsemen made their way down south,
   encountering drifts of snow.
The horses found the going tough.
   The progress was made slow.

They finally caught up with some setters,
   who'd stopped along the way.
Kept riding till they found the rest
   much later in the day.

Then gathering strays, they headed for
   corrals behind the barn.
The horses were exhausted
   and the dog not worth a darn.

The men themselves were 'bout played out,
   and weakened steers hung back.
They had to push them hard's they could
   to keep the drive on track.

As steers came near the home corral,
   they all got in a rush,
And pushed and shoved and crowded in
   'til six died in the crush.

As far a winter weather went,
   it downhilled all the way.
The temperatures turned bitter cold.
   That winter came to stay.

Though Grandpa planned on feeding some,
   mid-winter when it snowed.
Before Thanksgiving he bought feed
   shipped in by railroad.

As long as cattle prices held,
   they'd make it through the spring.
When steers went down five cents a pound,
   he saw those hopes take wing.

He sold one-half immediately,
   kept half should they rebound.
Then six months later sold the rest,
   which brought three cents a pound.

Before he went to buy the steers,
   he'd saved almost four grand.
By time he sold he'd gone through that
   like water drains through the sand.

He'd lost money he had saved
   and thousands more besides,
Some seventeen to be exact.
   All he had left was pride.

The man he tried to emulate
   lost all he hoped to own.
Then he committed suicide,
   and never paid his loan.

But Grandpa stayed and strove to pay
   despite desperation, drought.
Bankruptcy not an option,
   nor was suicide an out.

It took him more than ten long years
   to pay back money owed,
And I believe the rest his life
   he rued that episode.

He went without and worked the farm
   and left it free of debt.
So though he gambled and he lost,
   I'd say he won the bet.

© 2003, Jane Morton, from Cowboy Poetry: Turning to Face the Wind
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

In her book, she adds "The winter of 1928-29 started in October, and lasted through March of 1929.  A foot of snow fell on Morgan County on October 31. Then the sun came out, and the snow melted leaving the fields a sea of mud. On November 3, temperatures ran 4 degrees below zero.  On November 7, seven inches of snow fell and about 35 percent of the beet crop remained in the ground.  On November 22 the thermometer dipped to 14 below zero.  By December 9 the beet fields were frozen to a depth of ten inches.  By January 31, the best harvest was over.  The Great Western Sugar Company said the beets were no longer salvageable and delivery to the company ended.

Farmers who had both livestock and beets recouped some of their losses by letting their cattle feed on the beets.  However, Grandpa hadn't planted beets that year since he had decided to graze cattle, so for him that winter was a total disaster.

 

Ranch Beginnings

Jane Morton shared the story of "Ranch Beginnings" as recorded by her father, W.E. Ambrose Jr.:

My grandad, William Harrison Ambrose owned heavily mortgaged land across the road from my dad's brother Jim.  Harry, as they called him, was more interested in mining than in farming, though, so he rented his farm out and spent his summers in Breckenridge.  When winter came he came down from the mine and moved in with Jim and his family.

Dad decided to buy his place, so he took over the mortgage on the two hundred acres Harrison had been renting out.  One hundred and twenty acres were supposed to be irrigated, but we could only irrigate twenty, because the rest were above the ditch.

On March 9, l9l6,  Dad and I came to Fort Morgan on the train.  We traveled in an emigrant car, a rented boxcar that carried our livestock, equipment, furniture and us.  That summer and winter it was just the two of us.  We left Mother and Sis in Arvada.  Mother's brother, Redge, was taking care of our garden track in Arvada.

Our livestock consisted of two cows and two weaned calves.  We had one old red cow and she had the two calves we came down with.  We'd paid $800 for a tractor that was to be delivered to us in Fort Morgan.

There were some trees on the property.  A row of trees along the creek, about a  hundred feet apart and a row of willows.  I have no idea who planted them.

At first we packed our water from Jim's across the road.  Then we put casing down with a post hole digger.  We went about 40 feet to water.  Then we used a sand bucket.  It was a pipe about four feet long with a trap door.  We dug the well a hundred feet deep.

We planted twenty acres of oats and alfalfa.  The land had already been plowed and forty acres of beans and a little corn had been planted by the time we got there.  The corn didn't amount to much.  The beans did real well, so we bought a threshing machine.  We pitched the beans in with a fork and threshed them.

We lived in a little one room shed across the road at Jim's place.  My job was to get home from the school up the road, peel the potatoes and put the dried prunes or dried peaches, or whatever we had on to cook.

There was a country school on the corner of Jim's place, and it was known as the Ambrose School.  I went there part of the seventh and all of the eighth grade.  Sometimes there were as many as twenty or thirty students.  When beet harvest started, we went down to five.  The others had to work topping the beets and getting them out.

Ambrose School

The war was coming, so prices were high.  We sold the beans that year for $8000.  That was a lot of money.  That winter we built the granary.  In the spring Mother and Sis moved down.  We put a stove in one side, linoleum on the floor and wallpaper on the walls.  We lived there for five years.  There were two big rooms upstairs.  Upstairs was cold.  In the winter when it got light enough, you could see frost on every nail, but downstairs with the stove, we never felt the cold.

We built a straw barn in back of the granary for the cattle and the horses. We strung hog wire over poles for the roof.  The sides were made of two sections of wire placed four feet apart.  We packed the space between the wire with old straw that wasn't any good.  The animals wouldn't eat it unless it snowed and they were in there for two or three days.  Then they'd pull the straw out and eat on their straw shed.

In 1921, the  year I finished high school, we built the house.  Every day we got a load of gravel down by the river.  We had a hand driven cement mixer, and we mixed the cement with that mixer and poured it into forms.

The house cost $4000, including the lumber and the plaster.  We did all the work ourselves except for the lathes.  Mr. Beggs on the corner built a house a year or two before, and it cost him $8000 and he lost his place.

We didn't have any power tools.  We got the blueprints from the lumber company.  All of the boards are on a bias.  They ran from one corner to the next.  Every board was laid on the same bias, so there was no give.

The Ambrose Ranch House

 

The Straw Barn

Jane Morton recorded her father's description of their straw barn: We built a straw barn in back of the granary for the cattle and the horses.  We strung hog wire over poles for the roof.  The sides were made of two sections of wire placed four feet apart.  We packed the space between the wire with old straw that wasn't any good.  The animals wouldn't eat it unless it snowed and they were in there two or three days.  Then they'd pull the straw out and eat on their straw shed."

Jane preserved the memory in verse:

Straw Barn

My dad and my grandfather built a straw barn.
Out of woven wire fencing and straw.
It would shelter two cows, and their calves and a team
In the winter when weather turned raw.

They set two rows of poles and strung wire down each row,
Then they packed the loose straw in-between.
That's the way they constructed each one of the sides
That first summer when Dad turned thirteen.

For a roof they laid framework across the four sides,
And they topped it with straw and hog wire.
They sloped it southwest so the snow would melt off,
And they tried not to worry 'bout fire.

The advantage of having a barn made of straw
On the plains where fierce blizzards blew in,
Was that livestock could nibble the walls in a storm
When they finished their food in the bin.

© 2003, Jane Morton, from Cowboy Poetry: Turning to Face the Wind
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

The following photo of a similar barn is from the Prints and Photographs Online Catalog at the Library of Congress:

 

 

  Jane Morton continues her own story...

During the '40s the debt was paid off, and the family went into the cattle business.  As the financial situation improved we bought more land.  By the late sixties we had acquired 14,000 acres, the herd had grown to 800 head of Herefords, and the "farm" had become a ranch.

When I married, my husband and I, besides being educators, were involved in the ranch and ranch activities including branding, round-ups, and cattle sales.  Dad had one man on the payroll and farmed out some of the big jobs, such as cutting corn for silage.  Otherwise the family did it all.

After attending my first cowboy poetry gathering in Colorado Springs, I began to write and recite poems about our family and the ranch. Now retired, my husband and I live near Colorado Springs on the edge of the Black Forest part of the year and in Mesa, Arizona the other part.  We participate in cowboy poetry gatherings throughout the western United States.

Cowboy Poetry: Turning to Face the Wind
winner of the Will Rogers Medallion Award

Read Jane Morton's poetry here at the BAR-D.

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Ashes on the Snow

The ranch house that had been home to four generations of Carver families was burned in a training event for the local volunteer fire department in December.  It had been condemned two years ago, as the wiring was no longer safe and the well had gone dry in the drought. The earliest entry in the abstract was a receipt from The U. S. Receiver, dated 1888.  Alfred's grandfather had purchased it in 1911.  It had survived about 25 years of being rented after we moved away.

 

Ashes on the Snow

 They burned the ranch house down today,
 Left ashes on the snow.
 Inspectors said the wires were bad.
 They said it had to go.
 Oh, we had sold it some time back.
 Sometimes one cannot stay...
 But lots of memories were there.
 They will not not go away.

 The logs were rotting, as logs do
 After many years.
 But they had held when times were tough
 And life was sweat and tears.
 Not that it was a fancy place.
 For style, it won no prize.
 But it was home, and that meant more
 to humble rancher's eyes.

 It had been moved up from the field
 To a place there on the hill.
 The memory of the warmth it held
 Will let me see it still.
 The biggest window faced the lane
 So we could plainly see
 When friends were coming by to talk
 Or share a cup of tea.

 Most entered by the kitchen door
 Where fresh bread might be baking.
 And we might sit out on the step
 When backs were tired and aching.
 The cow dog joined our reverie
 But he is long gone, too.
 He added pleasure to our days,
 And guarded all night through.

 Our sons were raised at that old place.
 We taught them what we could
 Of honesty and dignity,
 And their response was good.
 But times moves on, we can't go back
 To that time long ago.
 They burned the ranch house down today,
 Left ashes on the snow.

© 2003, Nona Kelley Carver
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

After Nona Kelley Carver's son Larry read her poem, he wrote:

This wasn't any old ranch house, it was my family's.  It had been a big part of our life, four generations of Carver, my brother and I were the last. When we were there, the two bedrooms on the southeast side were his and mine.  They were the p