Madeline Bedal was a student of mine at Westlake/Merrill Gardens, an assisted living retirement home in Fremont, CA, where I taught a memoir class. It began as a poetry writing workshop but nobody was particularly interested. I tried out all kinds of writing exercises with them. I brought in Big Band music (a hit) and memorabilia, I worked with themes— anything to spark their creativity. So many of my elderly patients were very nearly brain dead from lack of stimulation. I struck gold when I stumbled upon the memoir process.
Madeline, who was legally blind, dictated everything to me. She grew up in Whitefish, Montana, where she led a pioneer life, rich in memory and tradition. When she died, I was devastated as I had become quite fond of her. Her brother, Bill Stannard made a chapbook of her work, which I never knew about until after her death in November 29, 2006. Kudus, Madeline. Bill said that he sent the manuscript to Montana Arts Council, I don’t know whether or not he did that. I would like to think so. The Pruneyard in San Jose was once the Bedal Ranch. There is one tiny road named in memory of the ranch. I hope to find more of her pieces and post them, so this is a placeholder. Though he sent me the letter in 2006 I decided to post it in 2005 when he sent it out to all their relatives.
—Maureen Hurley See also: Della Madeline Stannard Bedal obituary
Apparently her daughter retyped the stories for a chapbook, so the order and text may differ. Since my Fielding Stories file is corrupted, I'm glad to have them. I was very careful not to alter Madeline's prose so I read her Storiesies aloud and she made corrections. I don't know if her daughter "improved" the stories. I think not. I only hope that they got to the Montana Historical Society.
FIELDING, MONTANA INTRODUCTION
Just southeast of Glacier National Park, in Montana, there's a small whistle stop and a tunnel that goes clear through the Rockies. The Great Northern Railroad ran from Spokane to Chicago, and in winter, there would be ice, snow slides, or falling rock. All of that track had to be kept clear of any debris or the train would derail. My father and uncle worked on those tracks and they saw to it that the railroad lines were kept clean and safe summer and winter.
I was born in 1914, near of what was later to become the town of Whitefish. Soon after I was born, we moved to the homestead, near that whistle stop, only it wasn't called Fielding yet. It's since been renamed Blacktail, after the Indians who live there. There were many other places along the line that have long since disappeared: Haver, Columbia, Browning, Glacier Park Station.
One of my earliest memories on the homestead is of my father cutting down trees with one of those double handled saws with my mother on the other end. There was a sort of a rhythm you had to get into: rocking back and forth, or it wouldn't work. My mother trimmed the branches while my father debarked the trees.
With those trees, they built our home from scratch. The bark was shaved off the logs and they were notched and laid down just like Lincoln Logs. The cracks were caulked with plain old mud and a preservative added to the logs creosote. They cut out the holes for the windows. We had real windows. Not like some folks. The back door was nailed together with 2 by 4' s, with a leather strap for a handle.
Our home was long, really three cabins strung together with a woodshed attached to the kitchen. The kitchen was the room you lived in because it was so large and the only room that was warm in winter. We nailed apple boxes up on the log walls for cabinets, with a curtain fringe made from flour sack.
We had a nice big store-bought maple table with six matching chairs. In one corner, was a butter churn the size of a small child. We always had plenty of fresh butter. We all took our turns churning the butter but during thunderstorms the butter wouldn't set and even Bessie wouldn't give us much milk.
The wood burning stove had a hot water reservoir built right on the side of it. The stove had a firebox on one side and an oven with a warming closet above it. It was brand new, the latest invention. We always had the nicest fresh bread and butter, it made a lovely sandwich with fresh butter and raw onions.
We also kept a copper boiler on top of the stove for washing, a coffee pot-the old granite kind- and cast iron pots and skillets. And several irons on the backside of the stove were always at the ready. They had a special handle that clamped on. Tuesday was ironing day. Monday was washday and Wednesday was baking day. Saturday was for mending and cleaning house and on Sundays we went to church. Well, whatever day the preacher came to visit us was "Sunday." He'd come on horseback on his route through Fielding and he'd stop at each and every homestead and minister to his flock.
We saved all our flour sacks. We’d wash them in Fels Naptha soap on the stove and the sacks would come out all clean and white, and we’d use them for curtains and clothing. Braided rugs on the floor. Gunny sacks at the stoop and at the door to wipe your feet.
For a sink, we had a basin on a bench to wash our hands and a pail filled with fresh water with a communal cup for drinking. No indoor plumbing. A small round mirror hung over the kitchen bench. You stood in line to part your hair.
The view from the kitchen window was of the fields that Dad had cleared. The log fences, the trees, wildflowers and cleared fields, mountains, the stream and the bridge. I remember the trees turning different colors with the seasons. I'd watch squirrels scamper up the trees and the birds flying. Big clouds in the distance. The animals in the yard. The chickens, Porky, Bessie and Big Fred in the pasture. I stood by that stove looking out, Tinkerbell in her gunnysack-lined apple box was nearly always asleep. The little lamb couldn't have a nice soft flour sack because we were all wearing them.
The outhouse was way out back near the barn. To make an outhouse, first you dug a deep hole, and hoped you didn't fall in after it was lined with quicklime. Then you built the outhouse around the hole. Once I spilled lime on my dress and it ate it all up. I was so sorry as dresses were hard to come by. In the house, if you had to go, there was always a slop jar.
So many details and I haven't even gotten to the rest of the house yet.
The bedroom had two big double beds. It was divided with a door in the middle. We had kerosene lamps on stands to light the room. Dad and Mother each had a trunk with all their treasures inside. We loved to go through those trunks so much, we memorized the memorabilia. In my mother's trunk was a crazy quilt made of all colors and embroidered all around-it was my great-great-great Grandmother Backhaus's quilt. I still have it.
In my father's trunk was a picture album of family ancestors. His was a rounded wooden trunk My mother's had leather straps and was made of slatted wood and fancy metal strips. It was painted dark blue with gold trim. The trunks doubled as seats with a throw on top.
Don't know why we even had a living room. Things were a little nicer there. It was always kept clean for folks to visit. It had the prettiest rugs, the most colorful curtains. There were straight-backed chairs. The lynx pelt was hung on the wall. It was more like a trophy room than a living room with all the stuffed animals and furs mounted on the walls and on the floors. We had a big grizzly bear rug on the floor; we used to lie on it with our head resting on its head. Mother kept her Singer treadle sewing machine in the living room. She did all her sewing there but it was cold. No potbelly stove. The kitchen was the warmest room, we all lived there. It was the heart of the house.
JACK’S BIRTH
Now I guess it's time to tell you about my family. I was the second child. My brother Fred was two years older, born on the eve of Christmas Eve. We always celebrated his birthday on Christmas Eve. My birthday was May 14, we didn't have parties because there was no one my age on the homestead~ to invite. My only brother born on the homestead was Jack, he was two years younger than me and we moved to Whitefish soon after. I remember it well when he was born.
My mother wasn't feeling well, Dad had gone off to work and to get my Aunt Gertie. So Mother sent us outside to the barn to keep out of mischief. She told us not to come into the house, to stay outside until she called for us. Well, lunch time came and went and it got later and later. We were so hungry my brother Fred snuck into the kitchen but he couldn't find anything to eat. All he could find was salt, pepper and sugar. He milked Bessie and mixed the salt, pepper and sugar with a half a cup of milk. I was so hungry. I was waiting for something good to eat. I tasted it and I didn't like his cooking at all.
Aunt Gertie still hadn't come, we waited outside for her so we could go into the house and eat. We'd almost made ourselves sick on Fred's cooking. Here my brother was being born and we were kept out of the house. No food. It was cold.
Bored, Fred climbed up the barn and jumped off the top of the hay mow. He came out all right. Then it was my turn. I couldn't see myself jumping a good story to the ground so I climbed back down the way I'd come up. By the time my aunt called us into the house, it was getting dark. That night while we were jumping off the barn, my brother was born. We came into the house and just sniffed our noses and walked right by the crib. We didn't even look at Jack. She gave us a good meal and put us to bed.
When we later moved to Whitefish in 1923, my sister Maxine and my youngest brother "Prince Albert" were born. "Prince Albert" wasn't his real name but I will tell you that story later.
WHAT IS LOVE?
What is love? It could be many things.
What comes to mind is the dear old lady we called Grandma
Armstrong. She wasn't my grandmother by relation, but she was the only grandma I really loved. She was always there for us.
I was born in 1914. My youngest years, before I went to school in town, were spent on our homestead in Fielding, Montana, just below Glacier Park, in the Rockies. During the early 1900s, there were only about five homes within miles and miles of wilderness. So we made do with what we had. And we all relied on each other.
Grandma Armstrong was the station master, she lived in the railroad depot, and she was also the postmistress. Every job that was around, that had to be done, that was her job. Anything of importance she would deliver to us on foot, any time, anywhere, throughout the valley. If there was anyone ill, she was the one who took care of them. If there were any deliveries to be made, she made them on foot-it was 5 to 10 miles between homesteads.
She always had time to stop and have a conversation with you, or if there was a message or a return post, she'd deliver it personally.
If you stopped by die depot, there was always a pot of coffee or tea on the potbelly stove in the center of the room. I remember the blue and white plates with flowers on them and the snow-white ruffled white curtains framing the windows, and the table laden with crumpets ready for you.
What I remember most was when she delivered our Christmas gifts in the snow. We always knew when she was coming. Grandma Armstrong was like Santa Claus. She brought cookies and candy. She came cross-country in snowshoes with a pack on her back.
This is what I call love.
She lived alone in the depot. I don't know how many years she did this community service, but she was so faithful and devoted, our lives were so much more beautiful because of her continuance. Her smile and being was angelic.
She was both the doctor and the nurse of the Valley, she was the one who was called up when babies were born, when people were sick or injured.
There was a flag train that came through the Fielding depot but didn't stop but it would blow its horn and it would echo all through the valley, a long, lonesome sound.
One time when the train horn blew, it spooked the horses my brother was driving and he fell off the buckboard and split his head open on the tracks. My father just let the horses go loose, and they ran crazily off until the buckboard overturned. He picked my brother up and carried him to the depot. Grandma Armstrong administered to him, flagged down the train and took my brother to the nearest town that had a doctor, which was in Whitefish.
Years later, in 1923, when we all moved to the newly built town of Whitefish, Grandma Armstrong moved with us, and retired from the life of selfless love. But she continued, even in town, to care for others-just the same as she did for us on the homestead.
THE OLD 27
One morning we all got in the buckboard and went up to visit my
Aunt Gertie, who lived about 5 miles from us. We passed the MacIntyre Ranch. They were well off, they had the nicest place for miles around. They used to have a lot of family come up for barbecues or sit on the front porch and visit.
I t was a long way to my Aunt Gertie's. There were lots of ruts and rocks in the dirt road. The road needed a lot of attention. We climbed up the mountain with its big switchbacks, and through the forest until you came to the clearing. They had two cabins at Aunt Gertie's a one-room cabin for guests-that was us-and a cabin for their home. Their cabin was huge, it had two whole rooms, a kitchen/dining/living room, and a separate bedroom.
My Uncle Fred and my father and my brother, Fred were going to take a little trip to the railroad station which was about three-quarters of a mile away to get some feed for the animals and some garden tools and seed for my mother. It was spring. We were out of feed. It was time to plant the garden.
There was so little train traffic in those days, everyone would drive right down the tracks to get to the depot. It was a very bumpy ride going over the railroad ties. The depot was also the post office and general store. There was a big platform, well built with milled lumber. not hand hewn logs like our houses. All our homes were made of logs. It even had real windows, pretty windows.
Grandma Armstrong, who ran the depot, had her dainty little touches: white starched ruffled curtains, a little table with a white cloth embroidered real fancy. A place that said welcome in the middle of the wilderness and everybody from miles around went there. It was the center of all things. And we'd always stop in for coffee or tea.
My mother and I went to stay with Aunt Gertie while the men took the team to the station. Old Chief and Buck were hitched to the buckboard. My brother Fred wanted to ride on the seat, he was six, he was finally old enough for it to be safe.
We heard the toot of the Old 27 coming down the tracks, coming around the last bend before the station. Where were they? Just crossing the railroad tracks but Old Chief and Buck, when they heard the train, they raised up and bolted and there was a real runaway buckboard for sure. They were on the tracks and the train whistle startled them.
Fred was thrown from the seat onto the tracks and he hit his head, it was split from his temple to his crown and back down the other side.
Now the Old 27 mail train to Whitefish didn't stop in Fielding for mail, it barreled right onto the next stop. There was a bag hanging over the tracks that the Old 27 engineer leaned out and grabbed as he went by.
Dad jumped off the buckboard and scooped Fred up in his arms and took him to the railroad depot/station where Grandma Armstrong was waiting at the ready. She gathered up some towels and bandaged Fred's head as best as she could and made him ready for the trip into town.
Uncle Fred ran down the tracks to flag down the train. (It didn't normally stop there.) The horses took off and ran away. The buckboard eventually flipped over, forcing them to stop.
The train slowed down and they put my brother Fred in the car. They got him comfortable while Grandma Armstrong telegraphed
ahead to the nearest town for a doctor. They rode to the next town, to Whitefish, where the doctor was waiting with his black bag and all his tools ready to take care of the wounded.
They moved Fred onto a baggage card for an operating table right there at the station. The doctor stitched Fred up from his temple to his crown. And then they waited to see if Fred was all right.
After Fred recovered from the surgery, he was given a handful of candy canes. Dad and Fred returned to Fielding on the next train going their way. .
Mother and Aunt Gertie were waiting with Grandma Armstrong to see how Fred fared from his experience. We were so happy to see him, he looked so funny with his bandaged head like a turban. Of course, I was delighted to be able to share the candy too.
By the time Uncle Fred corralled the horses and they had calmed down enough to drive, it was nearly dark, we were ready to be on our way home where the farm anin1a1s were anxiously waiting for their oats and feed as their breakfast had been quite delayed that day.
OLD CHIEF, INDIAN PONY
I t was one morning in the fall of the year. My father saddled up the horses to get our provisions at the railroad station way up the mountain. We had two horses, Old Chief, the Indian horse my father bought from the Blackfoot Indians, in Browning, Montana. And the pinto that was my brother Fred's horse.
There were only two horses and four people to ride them. I was told to ride behind my mother on Old Chief. I held tightly onto the back of the saddle. My mother was in front, with my younger brother Jack, in her arms. We had to ride to the railroad station.
We got to the depot just fine. My uncle loaded the supplies onto my brother's pinto. My brother was laden with all the supplies, and the rest of us were all on the safe, broad back of Old Chief.
The railroad station was half-way up the mountainside and there were so many switchbacks you'd go sideways just to go forward. We were about half-way down the mountain when Old Chief's saddle began to slip and slide. My uncle hadn't tightened up the cinch enough at the station.
Old Chief knew when things were wrong. He was careful. But we were half-way down the mountain side when the saddle began to pitch. I'd slide from side to side on each turn.
Soon the saddle slid clear under his belly and my mother landed on the ground sitting upright miraculously holding the baby in her arms. Old Chief, he just stood there, stock still. But me, all fat and roly poly, I tumbled and tumbled down the steep mountainside.
Everything whirring by me and the gorge looming below. Somehow I found a bush and managed to grab it. I held on for dear life and there I was, dangling on the edge of a precipice. Otherwise I would've landed in the river below.
A fisherman below me heard the ruckus. He looked up and when he saw me dangling from that bush, he dropped everything, his fishing pole, his creel, and he climbed up the cliff and pulled me to safety.
He carried me the rest of the way back up the mountain too. He resaddled the horse, cinched it up tight. I climbed back on again. I wasn't afraid. We started down the trail toward home, in time for supper, in time to meet my father who was on his way home too. I was only four.
OLD CHIEF AND THE LYNX
It was the fall of the year, around 1918 or 1919, we were on our return trip home from picking up our monthly supplies at the railroad station, and the horses were going at a very easy gait, going homeward. We were all relieved that everything was taken care of for the month and we were on our way home.
We came to the beginning of the forest and Old Chief: the lead horse, stopped abruptly and he would not move a muscle any farther. Mother patted his head, coaxed him on, but he still wouldn't move. Mother never had to use a whip on our horses, they always went without too much urging. They were good horses, they always did what the were supposed to do.
But Old Chief wouldn't budge. So as Mother raised the whip, about to hit Old Chief, she happened to look up, and there on a branch above the trail, was a lynx ready to pounce upon his prey. Horses have an extra sense about them, they sense danger before it happens. And once again, Old Chief had saved our lives.
Mother threw down her whip and gave Old Chief his head. We returned safely back to my uncle's place. We retraced our steps back to safety, back to our Uncle Fred's cabin back up the mountain, in Fielding, Montana, where you'd think it was heaven way up in the Rockies. She threw down her whip and gave Old Chief an apple.
When we didn't return home, my father came looking for us first at his brother's place. Uncle Fred kept his rifle on a rack high up, near the ceiling. He filled his coat pockets with ammunition and my father and Uncle Fred took us safely back home. It was about an hour's journey. We returned safely home.
I was about four or five years old, I remember that, because my aunt lived there too on the homestead. My aunt was left alone all day with little or no conversation. She was so lonely, she'd talk and talk and talk, that's why I remember the stories so well. She'd come to town, we'd sit at her knee, and she'd tell us the stories again and again and again until the were committed to memory.
(That's why I'm telling these stores now for my little brother, Albert, who didn't grow up on the homestead. That's not his real name which is William Henry Stannard but we didn't like it. We thought he was too grand for that. "Prince Albert" we all called him after Queen Victoria's husband. And it stuck to this very day.) But the story doesn't end there.
F or the next six months, my father began to carry his rifle with him daily as he walked back and forth to where he worked at the railroad depot in Fielding. It was about an hour's journey each way on foot. He saw signs of the lynx following him. If my father happened to stumble and fall when he was walking, then the lynx, thinking he was injured, would attack. That lynx followed my father for six whole months. My father laid traps with meat to catch that big cat but a lynx won't attack unless its prey is alive and wounded.
One morning, shortly after my father left for work, he returned home to get more ammunition. We went through the fields to where the forest began, a clump of trees, bare-branched poplar. And there was the lynx in his trap, caught by one of his back legs.
We could hear him crying, screaming in pain. When the big cat saw us, he reared up on his hind legs, hissed and clawed at the air. We backed off to a safe distance. My father loaded his rifle and got close as he could and waited patiently for the lynx to calm down. He aimed carefully, and with one shot, he shot him between the eyes.
We had the lynx mounted on the living room wall of our cabin where it hung for years above the couch. I used to love to pet it. The fur was so soft. Who knows, it still might be mounted on someone's wall to this very day.
New Fallen Snow
Early in the morning Dad had just come back from the barn milking the cows. He called out to Fred and I, “Come quickly and see the new fallen snow.” Fred and I jumped out of bed, ran to the windows and then to the door opened wide. We drew back our arms and took several deep breaths of fresh air. The snow was softly coming down, 1 flake, 2 flakes and at times quite heavily. It was just what we had ordered and been watching for each day as fall drifted into winter and the nights were getting colder. With one jump and a bounce we grabbed our clothes and pants, which had been laid out the night before. Making sure we got the heavier, warmer clothes for the snowfall.
Mother inspected us to make sure we had our mittens, scarves, and snow boots. After we passed inspection we ran out into the beautiful snow which would soon be packed and ready for sledding. We ran outside to Daddy with our sleds.
During the night the snow had fallen and packed down making a good foundation for our sleds to whisk down the hill.
Fred would run like the wind and go belly buster on his sled, grab the handles and coast his way down the hill. I tried my best to follow but somehow I always got tripped up on the rope and the slippery handles, which I didn’t know what they were for. But I sure learned fast. Dad had brought up from the barn, Old Chief, our horse, to tie him to the big sleigh. He was standing just beside the hill and off the tracks of where we were sledding. I grabbed my sled, ran like 60, plopped down on my tummy and left the rest to the sled. I thought surely I would go right down the hill, but no such luck, I forgot to grab the handles to steer the sleigh. Now I knew what the handles are for- I ran right into Old Chiefs back hoofs and he lifted his foot and planted it right in the middle of my back. I thought I was squashed to death. I screamed and yelled at the top of my lungs. But kind Old Chief had just barely touched me and I was not hurt at all.
After it was all over, I was bound to conquer the hill. Up the hill I went pulling my sled, starting all over again. This time I grabbed the handles and with my brother’s instructions I made it down the hill. From then on we had a pleasant day in the snow.
Soon Mother called it was lunchtime. We had vegetable soup, our favorite. We ran to the house and threw off all the snow clothing and enjoyed hot vegetable soup in our warm cozy kitchen.
HUNTING LODGE
When we lived on the homestead in Fielding, Montana, my father would take people from back east on hunting trips in the wintertime. In a photo, I remember visitors from New York, they were all lawyers and doctors. I remember they had pictures taken of their hunting trip. I got to observe them setting it all up.
The animals they shot were hung on the fence. He'd gather them all up together for a group photo. We had a log fence, we'd throw saddles on it and sit on them. He took the animal rugs from the living room and the hides, hung them over a stump and some bushes to make them look real, like live animals.
They all got their guns out-you had to have a gun in those days-and dressed themselves up in their hunting outfits and boots and they were all draped with our living room rugs...it made for an authentic looking background of their hunting trip.
They used a big old-fashioned black box on stilts. The photographer covered up his head with a cloth and he'd look out these two holes... In one hand he held a tray trough filled with white powder which made a flash of light when it was lit.
It was all such a mystery to me. .They took the camera with them back to New York and used to photographs for advertisements for future trips. Those pictures were in our album for years but my brother was leaving home, so they went with him... I would love to have some of those photos now.
A KNOCK AT THE DOOR
It was the fall of the year and everyone was getting ready, thinking of Christmas. My mother was sewing away on the Singer making Raggedy Anns for gifts. We were sitting on the bed looking at a
catalogue for what we wanted. It was so quiet. My father had gone into town getting supplies. He was getting my gift that night.
All of a sudden there was a knock at the door. Mother asked, "Who's there?" No answer. Another knock. Three times. Mother got her gun down from the mantle, loaded it, ready and prepared. When the knock came to the door again, she said, “If you don't answer when I count three, I'll shoot. I have a gun aimed at the door, aimed at your head."
We lived out in the wilds and thieves would come to steal your horses, steal your chickens, or eggs, they'd steal you clean. When no answer came, she opened fire and shot straight through the door.
We heard steps leaving the porch and the crunch of footsteps in the icy snow as he disappeared down the road. We stayed clear of the windows and doors for quite some time. She made a hole right through the door.
We were hidden under the table and we came out slowly and ran to our mother's skirts. We held on for dear life. We felt so protected under our mother's care.
UNREST IN THE HENHOUSE
There was a great unrest in the henhouse. We couldn't figure out what was wrong with our chickens. They weren't laying. They were nervous, walking back and forth, flapping their wings, making unusual noises for chickens. Even the rooster was walking cocky and making strange noises. The hens weren't making their quota with eggs.
We thought what to do...lt didn't seem to be animals bothering them. No sign of wolves or weasels or foxes. We kept on observing the henhouse. Mother was out looking for eggs and high up in the sky there was a speck spiraling around and around in a black circle. It was a hawk.
She goes in, gets her rifle, cocks it, loads it, and went out to the henhouse to get the hawk. We'd already lost six of our best laying hens and that made a huge hole in our breakfast routine.
The old hawk came down and swooped taking a hen. It was gone so quick, my mother's heart almost fell. To get that hawk was impossible. "He was back before, he'll be back again." There was snow on the ground. My brother and I stayed close to Mother, to be safe.
Mother was out, ready for him to circle. She waited her turn, and she shot, getting her hawk, but the gun backfired. She fell to the ground bleeding, It cut, her, making a “J” shape above her lip. My brother reached into his pocket and gave her a nice white handkerchief and pressed it on her lip. When she came to, we helped her to the house.
When you're living in the wilds with animals, there's always something going on. Your gun is your friend. It meets every stranger who comes to your home. And every animal. As a rule, they don't get past the gate. They meet the gun first. She got her hawk that day.
HUCKLEBERRY PIE
It was a great day, one of those clear, crisp days when you want to get out and get going to where you want to go, and to do everything all at once. You have so much energy you just wanna go, go, go everywhere. Anywhere. Everything just seems to be right.
We were young, around four or five, and we were so excited because we were going huckleberrying. We were up and ready at dawn. We got up early and got large lard cans ready to fill up with huckleberries. We were out picking early in the morning, at the break of day.
At first, we ate our fill of huckleberries. There weren't many berries going into the lard cans. The huckleberries were plentiful, juicy and delicious. We picked and picked and picked until our lard pails were overflowing. All morning long, and all through the day we picked and picked. At lunch time we ate sandwiches and apples under the shade of a tree. After lunch, we started for home, much earlier than expected, with all our berries. More than we needed.
When we got home, Mother went into the kitchen and started making huckleberry pies while we rested on the grass. My brother was whittling whistles from the willow tree. He'd cut the bark loose from the stick and hollow out the center and slide the bark back on again. I was looking for four-leaf clovers. I was always looking for good luck.
When the pies were done, the whistles completed, I found a four-leaf clover. We looked up and Dad was coming across the fields. We all ran out to meet him. We went into the cabin and ate a meal with delicious pie made with huckleberries we'd picked all by ourselves early that morning.
DARLENE
It was early springtime
It was early in the morning
The sun was shining
Trees were blowing in the breeze
It was a lovely day
When my father came in from the barn,
he announced that Bessie was ready.
We didn't have any shoes or stockings on.
We ran to the barn to see what was going on.
Besse had a twinkle in her eye.
Quite nervous she was, pacing back and forth.
She was usually so calm and contented.
We all gathered round her.
Mother went to Bessie's head
and told her to be quiet.
Everything would be all right.
Bessie said Moo!
And there was Darlene
in my father's arms.
He tried to stand Darlene on her feet. She'd kneel and fall many times before she was strong enough to stand. Mother kept petting Bessie trying to calm her. Bessie was really contented and delighted with her newborn child.
It was time for Darlene's first meal. My father guided her to her mother's udder and tried to get her to drink. But Darlene wasn't about to nurse. A bucket of milk was filled. It was quite a chore to get her to eat. My father dipped his hand into the milk and into Darlene's mouth. She took to his finger, he replaced it with her mother's teat. Darlene had her first meal. I was five.
PORKY
Our pigs always ran loose, they were like dogs, they were our pets. Wherever we went, our pet Porky had to come too. As usual, my brother Fred was way out ahead. Porky was spoiled rotten, he was always the center of the stage. Whenever he saw my father he had to get to Dad first, not to eat but to greet him. He loved to be patted and scratched more than he loved food.
Porky chose to travel along with me, trotting at a slower pace. No longer a little piglet, he had grown a lot but he didn't know it. We had to cross the creek at the log bridge. It was built like a raft, it didn't have any sides. But he kept nudging me closer to the edge of the bridge. Hogging the bridge. The water below was gurgling over big rocks and soon there was no bridge left for me and I went down, down, down into the swirling water.
Next thing I knew, I was blowing bubbles and splashing water every which way, dog paddling, trying to scream, but I couldn't make any noise. My father came once again to the rescue. With his big strong arms, he pulled me out just in time for huckleberry pie.
Mother was at the door, come running to the door, arms open wide
GOIN FISHIN
My brother, who was older than I,
got to go fishing with our uncle.
I wanted to go fishing too.
But I always had to stay at home.
One specia1 morning it was my turn
to go fishing with my brother.
I'd been waiting a long time. I was so excited.
Off we took early one morning
to Stannard Creek
Grandma Armstrong, who ran the depot, had her dainty little touches: white starched ruffled curtains, a little table with a white cloth embroidered real fancy. A place that said welcome in the middle of the wilderness and everybody from miles around went there. It was the center of all things. And we'd always stop in for coffee or tea.
My mother and I went to stay with Aunt Gertie while the men took the team to the station. Old Chief and Buck were hitched to the buckboard. My brother Fred wanted to ride on the seat, he was six, he was finally old enough for it to be safe.
We heard the toot of the Old 27 coming down the tracks, coming around the last bend before the station. Where were they? Just crossing the railroad tracks but Old Chief and Buck, when they heard the train, they raised up and bolted and there was a real runaway buckboard for sure. They were on the tracks and the train whistle startled them.
Fred was thrown from the seat onto the tracks and he hit his head, it was split from his temple to his crown and back down the other side.
Now the Old 27 mail train to Whitefish didn't stop in Fielding for mail, it barreled right onto the next stop. There was a bag hanging over the tracks that the Old 27 engineer leaned out and grabbed as he went by.
Dad jumped off the buckboard and scooped Fred up in his arms and took him to the railroad depot/station where Grandma Armstrong was waiting at the ready. She gathered up some towels and bandaged Fred's head as best as she could and made him ready for the trip into town.
Uncle Fred ran down the tracks to flag down the train. (It didn't normally stop there.) The horses took off and ran away. The buckboard eventually flipped over, forcing them to stop.
The train slowed down and they put my brother Fred in the car. They got him comfortable while Grandma Armstrong telegraphed
ahead to the nearest town for a doctor. They rode to the next town, to Whitefish, where the doctor was waiting with his black bag and all his tools ready to take care of the wounded.
They moved Fred onto a baggage card for an operating table right there at the station. The doctor stitched Fred up from his temple to his crown. And then they waited to see if Fred was all right.
After Fred recovered from the surgery, he was given a handful of candy canes. Dad and Fred returned to Fielding on the next train going their way. .
Mother and Aunt Gertie were waiting with Grandma Armstrong to see how Fred fared from his experience. We were so happy to see him, he looked so funny with his bandaged head like a turban. Of course, I was delighted to be able to share the candy too.
By the time Uncle Fred corralled the horses and they had calmed down enough to drive, it was nearly dark, we were ready to be on our way home where the farm anin1a1s were anxiously waiting for their oats and feed as their breakfast had been quite delayed that day.
OLD CHIEF, INDIAN PONY
I t was one morning in the fall of the year. My father saddled up the horses to get our provisions at the railroad station way up the mountain. We had two horses, Old Chief, the Indian horse my father bought from the Blackfoot Indians, in Browning, Montana. And the pinto that was my brother Fred's horse.
There were only two horses and four people to ride them. I was told to ride behind my mother on Old Chief. I held tightly onto the back of the saddle. My mother was in front, with my younger brother Jack, in her arms. We had to ride to the railroad station.
We got to the depot just fine. My uncle loaded the supplies onto my brother's pinto. My brother was laden with all the supplies, and the rest of us were all on the safe, broad back of Old Chief.
The railroad station was half-way up the mountainside and there were so many switchbacks you'd go sideways just to go forward. We were about half-way down the mountain when Old Chief's saddle began to slip and slide. My uncle hadn't tightened up the cinch enough at the station.
Old Chief knew when things were wrong. He was careful. But we were half-way down the mountain side when the saddle began to pitch. I'd slide from side to side on each turn.
Soon the saddle slid clear under his belly and my mother landed on the ground sitting upright miraculously holding the baby in her arms. Old Chief, he just stood there, stock still. But me, all fat and roly poly, I tumbled and tumbled down the steep mountainside.
Everything whirring by me and the gorge looming below. Somehow I found a bush and managed to grab it. I held on for dear life and there I was, dangling on the edge of a precipice. Otherwise I would've landed in the river below.
A fisherman below me heard the ruckus. He looked up and when he saw me dangling from that bush, he dropped everything, his fishing pole, his creel, and he climbed up the cliff and pulled me to safety.
He carried me the rest of the way back up the mountain too. He resaddled the horse, cinched it up tight. I climbed back on again. I wasn't afraid. We started down the trail toward home, in time for supper, in time to meet my father who was on his way home too. I was only four.
OLD CHIEF AND THE LYNX
It was the fall of the year, around 1918 or 1919, we were on our return trip home from picking up our monthly supplies at the railroad station, and the horses were going at a very easy gait, going homeward. We were all relieved that everything was taken care of for the month and we were on our way home.
We came to the beginning of the forest and Old Chief: the lead horse, stopped abruptly and he would not move a muscle any farther. Mother patted his head, coaxed him on, but he still wouldn't move. Mother never had to use a whip on our horses, they always went without too much urging. They were good horses, they always did what the were supposed to do.
But Old Chief wouldn't budge. So as Mother raised the whip, about to hit Old Chief, she happened to look up, and there on a branch above the trail, was a lynx ready to pounce upon his prey. Horses have an extra sense about them, they sense danger before it happens. And once again, Old Chief had saved our lives.
Mother threw down her whip and gave Old Chief his head. We returned safely back to my uncle's place. We retraced our steps back to safety, back to our Uncle Fred's cabin back up the mountain, in Fielding, Montana, where you'd think it was heaven way up in the Rockies. She threw down her whip and gave Old Chief an apple.
When we didn't return home, my father came looking for us first at his brother's place. Uncle Fred kept his rifle on a rack high up, near the ceiling. He filled his coat pockets with ammunition and my father and Uncle Fred took us safely back home. It was about an hour's journey. We returned safely home.
I was about four or five years old, I remember that, because my aunt lived there too on the homestead. My aunt was left alone all day with little or no conversation. She was so lonely, she'd talk and talk and talk, that's why I remember the stories so well. She'd come to town, we'd sit at her knee, and she'd tell us the stories again and again and again until the were committed to memory.
(That's why I'm telling these stores now for my little brother, Albert, who didn't grow up on the homestead. That's not his real name which is William Henry Stannard but we didn't like it. We thought he was too grand for that. "Prince Albert" we all called him after Queen Victoria's husband. And it stuck to this very day.) But the story doesn't end there.
F or the next six months, my father began to carry his rifle with him daily as he walked back and forth to where he worked at the railroad depot in Fielding. It was about an hour's journey each way on foot. He saw signs of the lynx following him. If my father happened to stumble and fall when he was walking, then the lynx, thinking he was injured, would attack. That lynx followed my father for six whole months. My father laid traps with meat to catch that big cat but a lynx won't attack unless its prey is alive and wounded.
One morning, shortly after my father left for work, he returned home to get more ammunition. We went through the fields to where the forest began, a clump of trees, bare-branched poplar. And there was the lynx in his trap, caught by one of his back legs.
We could hear him crying, screaming in pain. When the big cat saw us, he reared up on his hind legs, hissed and clawed at the air. We backed off to a safe distance. My father loaded his rifle and got close as he could and waited patiently for the lynx to calm down. He aimed carefully, and with one shot, he shot him between the eyes.
We had the lynx mounted on the living room wall of our cabin where it hung for years above the couch. I used to love to pet it. The fur was so soft. Who knows, it still might be mounted on someone's wall to this very day.
New Fallen Snow
Early in the morning Dad had just come back from the barn milking the cows. He called out to Fred and I, “Come quickly and see the new fallen snow.” Fred and I jumped out of bed, ran to the windows and then to the door opened wide. We drew back our arms and took several deep breaths of fresh air. The snow was softly coming down, 1 flake, 2 flakes and at times quite heavily. It was just what we had ordered and been watching for each day as fall drifted into winter and the nights were getting colder. With one jump and a bounce we grabbed our clothes and pants, which had been laid out the night before. Making sure we got the heavier, warmer clothes for the snowfall.
Mother inspected us to make sure we had our mittens, scarves, and snow boots. After we passed inspection we ran out into the beautiful snow which would soon be packed and ready for sledding. We ran outside to Daddy with our sleds.
During the night the snow had fallen and packed down making a good foundation for our sleds to whisk down the hill.
Fred would run like the wind and go belly buster on his sled, grab the handles and coast his way down the hill. I tried my best to follow but somehow I always got tripped up on the rope and the slippery handles, which I didn’t know what they were for. But I sure learned fast. Dad had brought up from the barn, Old Chief, our horse, to tie him to the big sleigh. He was standing just beside the hill and off the tracks of where we were sledding. I grabbed my sled, ran like 60, plopped down on my tummy and left the rest to the sled. I thought surely I would go right down the hill, but no such luck, I forgot to grab the handles to steer the sleigh. Now I knew what the handles are for- I ran right into Old Chiefs back hoofs and he lifted his foot and planted it right in the middle of my back. I thought I was squashed to death. I screamed and yelled at the top of my lungs. But kind Old Chief had just barely touched me and I was not hurt at all.
After it was all over, I was bound to conquer the hill. Up the hill I went pulling my sled, starting all over again. This time I grabbed the handles and with my brother’s instructions I made it down the hill. From then on we had a pleasant day in the snow.
Soon Mother called it was lunchtime. We had vegetable soup, our favorite. We ran to the house and threw off all the snow clothing and enjoyed hot vegetable soup in our warm cozy kitchen.
HUNTING LODGE
When we lived on the homestead in Fielding, Montana, my father would take people from back east on hunting trips in the wintertime. In a photo, I remember visitors from New York, they were all lawyers and doctors. I remember they had pictures taken of their hunting trip. I got to observe them setting it all up.
The animals they shot were hung on the fence. He'd gather them all up together for a group photo. We had a log fence, we'd throw saddles on it and sit on them. He took the animal rugs from the living room and the hides, hung them over a stump and some bushes to make them look real, like live animals.
They all got their guns out-you had to have a gun in those days-and dressed themselves up in their hunting outfits and boots and they were all draped with our living room rugs...it made for an authentic looking background of their hunting trip.
They used a big old-fashioned black box on stilts. The photographer covered up his head with a cloth and he'd look out these two holes... In one hand he held a tray trough filled with white powder which made a flash of light when it was lit.
It was all such a mystery to me. .They took the camera with them back to New York and used to photographs for advertisements for future trips. Those pictures were in our album for years but my brother was leaving home, so they went with him... I would love to have some of those photos now.
A KNOCK AT THE DOOR
It was the fall of the year and everyone was getting ready, thinking of Christmas. My mother was sewing away on the Singer making Raggedy Anns for gifts. We were sitting on the bed looking at a
catalogue for what we wanted. It was so quiet. My father had gone into town getting supplies. He was getting my gift that night.
All of a sudden there was a knock at the door. Mother asked, "Who's there?" No answer. Another knock. Three times. Mother got her gun down from the mantle, loaded it, ready and prepared. When the knock came to the door again, she said, “If you don't answer when I count three, I'll shoot. I have a gun aimed at the door, aimed at your head."
We lived out in the wilds and thieves would come to steal your horses, steal your chickens, or eggs, they'd steal you clean. When no answer came, she opened fire and shot straight through the door.
We heard steps leaving the porch and the crunch of footsteps in the icy snow as he disappeared down the road. We stayed clear of the windows and doors for quite some time. She made a hole right through the door.
We were hidden under the table and we came out slowly and ran to our mother's skirts. We held on for dear life. We felt so protected under our mother's care.
UNREST IN THE HENHOUSE
There was a great unrest in the henhouse. We couldn't figure out what was wrong with our chickens. They weren't laying. They were nervous, walking back and forth, flapping their wings, making unusual noises for chickens. Even the rooster was walking cocky and making strange noises. The hens weren't making their quota with eggs.
We thought what to do...lt didn't seem to be animals bothering them. No sign of wolves or weasels or foxes. We kept on observing the henhouse. Mother was out looking for eggs and high up in the sky there was a speck spiraling around and around in a black circle. It was a hawk.
She goes in, gets her rifle, cocks it, loads it, and went out to the henhouse to get the hawk. We'd already lost six of our best laying hens and that made a huge hole in our breakfast routine.
The old hawk came down and swooped taking a hen. It was gone so quick, my mother's heart almost fell. To get that hawk was impossible. "He was back before, he'll be back again." There was snow on the ground. My brother and I stayed close to Mother, to be safe.
Mother was out, ready for him to circle. She waited her turn, and she shot, getting her hawk, but the gun backfired. She fell to the ground bleeding, It cut, her, making a “J” shape above her lip. My brother reached into his pocket and gave her a nice white handkerchief and pressed it on her lip. When she came to, we helped her to the house.
When you're living in the wilds with animals, there's always something going on. Your gun is your friend. It meets every stranger who comes to your home. And every animal. As a rule, they don't get past the gate. They meet the gun first. She got her hawk that day.
HUCKLEBERRY PIE
It was a great day, one of those clear, crisp days when you want to get out and get going to where you want to go, and to do everything all at once. You have so much energy you just wanna go, go, go everywhere. Anywhere. Everything just seems to be right.
We were young, around four or five, and we were so excited because we were going huckleberrying. We were up and ready at dawn. We got up early and got large lard cans ready to fill up with huckleberries. We were out picking early in the morning, at the break of day.
At first, we ate our fill of huckleberries. There weren't many berries going into the lard cans. The huckleberries were plentiful, juicy and delicious. We picked and picked and picked until our lard pails were overflowing. All morning long, and all through the day we picked and picked. At lunch time we ate sandwiches and apples under the shade of a tree. After lunch, we started for home, much earlier than expected, with all our berries. More than we needed.
When we got home, Mother went into the kitchen and started making huckleberry pies while we rested on the grass. My brother was whittling whistles from the willow tree. He'd cut the bark loose from the stick and hollow out the center and slide the bark back on again. I was looking for four-leaf clovers. I was always looking for good luck.
When the pies were done, the whistles completed, I found a four-leaf clover. We looked up and Dad was coming across the fields. We all ran out to meet him. We went into the cabin and ate a meal with delicious pie made with huckleberries we'd picked all by ourselves early that morning.
DARLENE
It was early springtime
It was early in the morning
The sun was shining
Trees were blowing in the breeze
It was a lovely day
When my father came in from the barn,
he announced that Bessie was ready.
We didn't have any shoes or stockings on.
We ran to the barn to see what was going on.
Besse had a twinkle in her eye.
Quite nervous she was, pacing back and forth.
She was usually so calm and contented.
We all gathered round her.
Mother went to Bessie's head
and told her to be quiet.
Everything would be all right.
Bessie said Moo!
And there was Darlene
in my father's arms.
He tried to stand Darlene on her feet. She'd kneel and fall many times before she was strong enough to stand. Mother kept petting Bessie trying to calm her. Bessie was really contented and delighted with her newborn child.
It was time for Darlene's first meal. My father guided her to her mother's udder and tried to get her to drink. But Darlene wasn't about to nurse. A bucket of milk was filled. It was quite a chore to get her to eat. My father dipped his hand into the milk and into Darlene's mouth. She took to his finger, he replaced it with her mother's teat. Darlene had her first meal. I was five.
PORKY
Our pigs always ran loose, they were like dogs, they were our pets. Wherever we went, our pet Porky had to come too. As usual, my brother Fred was way out ahead. Porky was spoiled rotten, he was always the center of the stage. Whenever he saw my father he had to get to Dad first, not to eat but to greet him. He loved to be patted and scratched more than he loved food.
Porky chose to travel along with me, trotting at a slower pace. No longer a little piglet, he had grown a lot but he didn't know it. We had to cross the creek at the log bridge. It was built like a raft, it didn't have any sides. But he kept nudging me closer to the edge of the bridge. Hogging the bridge. The water below was gurgling over big rocks and soon there was no bridge left for me and I went down, down, down into the swirling water.
Next thing I knew, I was blowing bubbles and splashing water every which way, dog paddling, trying to scream, but I couldn't make any noise. My father came once again to the rescue. With his big strong arms, he pulled me out just in time for huckleberry pie.
Mother was at the door, come running to the door, arms open wide
GOIN FISHIN
My brother, who was older than I,
got to go fishing with our uncle.
I wanted to go fishing too.
But I always had to stay at home.
One specia1 morning it was my turn
to go fishing with my brother.
I'd been waiting a long time. I was so excited.
Off we took early one morning
to Stannard Creek
-it was named after my father.
There was a bend in the stream
with a log over it.
My brother took a willow branch,
tied strong packing string on it,
he took a straight pin, bent it almost double
and put a worm on the end of it.
I sat on a log, quiet and peaceful,
my line, with my worm wiggling in the water...
All of a sudden there was a yank,
I screamed, "I caught a fish!"
And I fell into the water.
My brother came running,
he pulled on the pole
and on the other end was a frog
And that was the end of my fishing days.
SWIM LITTLE FISHIES!
When my grandfather went fishing,
he never killed the fish.
He'd bring them home alive
and give them to my sisters.
They'd put them in the bathtub,
fill it with water.
They'd pat them as if they were pets
tied strong packing string on it,
he took a straight pin, bent it almost double
and put a worm on the end of it.
I sat on a log, quiet and peaceful,
my line, with my worm wiggling in the water...
All of a sudden there was a yank,
I screamed, "I caught a fish!"
And I fell into the water.
My brother came running,
he pulled on the pole
and on the other end was a frog
And that was the end of my fishing days.
SWIM LITTLE FISHIES!
When my grandfather went fishing,
he never killed the fish.
He'd bring them home alive
and give them to my sisters.
They'd put them in the bathtub,
fill it with water.
They'd pat them as if they were pets
and say, "Swim little fishies, swim!"
DANCING WITH BEARS
It was in the fall of 1919-1920. I was about 5 years old, my brotherFred was 7, there were no more huckleberries left in the mountains. My father and mother had some very important business to take care of in town and Fred and I went to stay with Aunt Gertie and Uncle Fred.
We had just gotten up in the morning quite early and finished a great breakfast of pancakes and lovely maple syrup, bacon and eggs-our favorite breakfast. Aunt Gertie always did special things when we came over to see her.
We'd just finished eating, and we were sitting around the table making plans for the day, when some strange noises came from the back of the cabin. Tubs banging. It didn't make an impression on my brother or me but a worried look came over Aunt Gertie's face. We'd begged her to play the gramophone many times. This time she let us play with it.
She showed my brother how to crank the gramophone and she soon had us settled. I was dancing with delight. We were having a great time, it was so splendid that we could do it ourselves-we had begged her for so long. Fred was delighted to crank and crank and crank. Aunt Gertie took advantage of the time while we were preoccupied with the gramophone to slip away.
Unbeknownst to us, she went into the other room, took down the shotgun from the rack above the bed, loaded it with shells from the dresser and slipped out the door behind the cabin to confront a grizzly. She waited for her chance, aiming very carefully, she took one shot and got him right between the eyes.
We were still dancing to the funny music. We didn't hear anything. My aunt came in with the gun, she was white-faced and shaking all over. She didn't tell us what had happened, or how dangerous it was. She just sat at the table a long time composing herself. When she got over the shock of it, she knew she had a real bear story to tell.
And all the while, we just kept on dancing and cranking the gramophone. Little did we know that if she hadn't shot the bear, it would've torn the whole cabin down looking for food: the bacon, pancakes, the eggs and the syrup.
She didn't know that I would also have a bear story to tell to you like the one I'm telling you right now.
BIG FRED: BULL STORY
It was early in the morning, my brother Fred and I went across the pasture with Dad to milk the cows. As we passed the corral, Big Fred, our steer (destined for future dinners), was wanting to get out. It was such a lovely day and he was quite frisky.
We went on our way and went to milk the cows. When we were finished we headed back to our log cabin home.
But this morning the corral just wasn't big enough for Big Fred. He wanted out, so he pushed and leaned on the log fence until it broke under his weight and then he started out after us in a fury. We were between him and his grass. We were in the way of his field.
It's a bull's nature to charge, to want to pierce you with his horns. They seem to go mad. That's why they're dehorned. Big Fred still had his horns and he knew how to use them.
I stumbled on a rock as Big Fred charged me. He was after us already and we were running for dear life. My brother was faster than me and he was running as fast as he could. I couldn't keep up with him. I had to go and stumble on a stupid rock.
Just as I was getting up Big Fred was charging at me with his hot breath, hot eyes and sharp horns. I felt myself surrounded by Big Fred in all directions. I was trying to get up to get away from Big Fred. I turned, only to look into his fierce eyes. I was so scared, I thought I was about to pass out. I thought I was really done for.
But just then, my father was at the ready with a pitchfork in his hand and he came right after Big Fred. With his pitchfork, he steered Big Fred in the other direction.
I was never so thankful in all my life. I gulped a big breath of fresh air and ran to my mother's arms. She hugged me closely I was so glad that my father finally got Big Fred into the barn. He tried to bash it down while my dad fixed the corral.
Later, Big Fred was put back in his newly mended corral, daydreaming of a time when he was going to get out into all those fields of luscious green grass, just there for the eating. Little did he know he was going to be on the dinner table a little sooner than expected.
DANCING WITH BEARS
It was in the fall of 1919-1920. I was about 5 years old, my brotherFred was 7, there were no more huckleberries left in the mountains. My father and mother had some very important business to take care of in town and Fred and I went to stay with Aunt Gertie and Uncle Fred.
We had just gotten up in the morning quite early and finished a great breakfast of pancakes and lovely maple syrup, bacon and eggs-our favorite breakfast. Aunt Gertie always did special things when we came over to see her.
We'd just finished eating, and we were sitting around the table making plans for the day, when some strange noises came from the back of the cabin. Tubs banging. It didn't make an impression on my brother or me but a worried look came over Aunt Gertie's face. We'd begged her to play the gramophone many times. This time she let us play with it.
She showed my brother how to crank the gramophone and she soon had us settled. I was dancing with delight. We were having a great time, it was so splendid that we could do it ourselves-we had begged her for so long. Fred was delighted to crank and crank and crank. Aunt Gertie took advantage of the time while we were preoccupied with the gramophone to slip away.
Unbeknownst to us, she went into the other room, took down the shotgun from the rack above the bed, loaded it with shells from the dresser and slipped out the door behind the cabin to confront a grizzly. She waited for her chance, aiming very carefully, she took one shot and got him right between the eyes.
We were still dancing to the funny music. We didn't hear anything. My aunt came in with the gun, she was white-faced and shaking all over. She didn't tell us what had happened, or how dangerous it was. She just sat at the table a long time composing herself. When she got over the shock of it, she knew she had a real bear story to tell.
And all the while, we just kept on dancing and cranking the gramophone. Little did we know that if she hadn't shot the bear, it would've torn the whole cabin down looking for food: the bacon, pancakes, the eggs and the syrup.
She didn't know that I would also have a bear story to tell to you like the one I'm telling you right now.
BIG FRED: BULL STORY
It was early in the morning, my brother Fred and I went across the pasture with Dad to milk the cows. As we passed the corral, Big Fred, our steer (destined for future dinners), was wanting to get out. It was such a lovely day and he was quite frisky.
We went on our way and went to milk the cows. When we were finished we headed back to our log cabin home.
But this morning the corral just wasn't big enough for Big Fred. He wanted out, so he pushed and leaned on the log fence until it broke under his weight and then he started out after us in a fury. We were between him and his grass. We were in the way of his field.
It's a bull's nature to charge, to want to pierce you with his horns. They seem to go mad. That's why they're dehorned. Big Fred still had his horns and he knew how to use them.
I stumbled on a rock as Big Fred charged me. He was after us already and we were running for dear life. My brother was faster than me and he was running as fast as he could. I couldn't keep up with him. I had to go and stumble on a stupid rock.
Just as I was getting up Big Fred was charging at me with his hot breath, hot eyes and sharp horns. I felt myself surrounded by Big Fred in all directions. I was trying to get up to get away from Big Fred. I turned, only to look into his fierce eyes. I was so scared, I thought I was about to pass out. I thought I was really done for.
But just then, my father was at the ready with a pitchfork in his hand and he came right after Big Fred. With his pitchfork, he steered Big Fred in the other direction.
I was never so thankful in all my life. I gulped a big breath of fresh air and ran to my mother's arms. She hugged me closely I was so glad that my father finally got Big Fred into the barn. He tried to bash it down while my dad fixed the corral.
Later, Big Fred was put back in his newly mended corral, daydreaming of a time when he was going to get out into all those fields of luscious green grass, just there for the eating. Little did he know he was going to be on the dinner table a little sooner than expected.
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