FIELDING STORIES
Growing Up Homestead
in the Wilds of Montana
Madeline Stannard Bedal
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. 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 conversations with you, or if there was a message or a return post, she’d deliver it personally. If you stopped by the 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, 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 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 let the horses go, 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, that was in Whitefish.
Years later, in 1923, when we all moved to the newly built town of Whitefish, she 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 at my Aunt Gertie’s, she lived about 5 miles from us. We passed the MacIntyre Ranch. They were well off, they had the nicest place around. They used to have a lot of family come up for barbeques or sit on the front porch and visit.
It 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 switch backs, and through the forest until you came to the clearing. They had two cabins at Aunt Gertie’s A one-room for guests, that was us, and a cabin for their home. Their cabin had two whole rooms, a kitchen/dining/living room and a bedroom.
My Uncle Fred and my father and my brother, Fred were going to take a little trip to the railroad station 3/4 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.
Everyone would drive right down the tracks to get to the depot. It was very bumpy going over the railroad ties. The depot was a post office and a general store. It was a big platform, well built with milled lumber. All our homes were made of logs. It 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 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 were 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 for mail, it barreled onto the next stop. There was a bag hanging over the tracks that the engineer grabbed as it 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. She gathered up some towels and bandaged his 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 stopped 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 a 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 at the station. The doctor stitched Fred up from his temple to his crown.
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, with his bandaged head like a turban. Of course, I was delighted to be able to share the candy canes too.
By the time Uncle Fred corralled the horses and they had calmed down enough, it was nearly dark, we were ready to be on our way home where the farm animals were anxiously waiting for their oats and feed as their breakfast had been quite delayed.
OLD CHIEF
It 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. The pinto 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 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 there 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 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. 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 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. I found a bush and 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 heard the ruckus. He dropped everything, his fishing pole, his creel, and he 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 1918-1919, we were on our return trip from receiving our monthly supplies at the 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 always did what the were supposed to do.
But Old Chief wouldn’t budge. So as Mother raised the whip, she happened to look up, and there on a branch above the trail, was a link ((she says it as link vs. lynx), ready to pounce upon his prey. Horses have an extra sense about them, they sense things before they happen. 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, you’d think it was heaven 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 at his brothers 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.
(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. And it stuck to this very day.) But the story doesn’t end there.
For 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 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 he 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.
HUCKLEBERRY PIE
It was a great day, one of those clear, crisp days when you want to get out and get going where you want to go, and to do everything all at once. You have so much energy you just wanna go, go, go everywhere. Everything just seems to be right.
We were young, around four or five, and we were going huckleberrying. We got up early and got large lard cans ready to fill up with huckleberries. We were up and ready at dawn. 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 going into the lard cans. The berries were plentiful, juicy and delicious. We picked and picked and picked until our lard pails were overflowing. All morning long, and through the day we 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.
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.
Bessie 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 ans 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 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. The water below was gurgling over big rocks and soon there was no bridge left 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.
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 home cabin.
But the corral wasn’t big enough for Big Fred. He wanted out, so he pushed on the log fence until it broke and then he started out after us. We were between him and his grass. We were in the way of his field. It’s their nature to charge, to want to pierce you with their 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 and 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 rock. I was getting up and he 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 was about to pass out. I thought I was done for.
But just then, my father was at the ready with a pitchfork and came right after him. 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 glad that my dad 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 corral, day-dreaming 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.
TINKERBELL
When I was young, I had one brother, Fred, who was my only playmate. There were only about five homes within miles and miles. So we made our own fun with what we had.
Each year, in the springtime, the shepherds would come through our valley with their sheep and lambs. The youngest lambs were weak, couldn’t take the travel, so the shepherds would leave us the little lambs. We cared for them, we put them in a box with comfortable things, like our blankets and pillows, and we kept them warm behind the old wood stove.
We would be feeding the lambs all day long, feeding them, little lambs, with a bottle and a rubber nipple. They followed us everywhere, when we played. They’d stay around the house waiting for us to come outside..
One night, the coyotes came down from the hills. One frightened little lamb, Tinkerbell, jumped through the window into my bed. It was safe for that one time. But another time the little lamb strayed a little too far from our loving care. The little lamb came up missing. We didn’t have anyone to play with.
We went out looking for that little lamb, my mother, my brother, me. We searched and searched and searched. We were so tired. We looked and looked, we searched the hillsides, we searched the fields, and the meadows, we searched the creek beds. I got so tired my mother sat me down by a bush and my brother went on ahead searching. It wasn’t long before he came back carrying the collar with a bell, Tinkerbell’s bell.
I was so upset by her loss I was not going to leave that plast where we last saw her until my mother had told me that Tinkerbell had gone to live with the wolves, and on a clear moonlit night I could see them dancing in the moonlight.. When the moon was full I stayed up looking for them.
I was never told what happened to that little lamb. Later, when I was older, I found out that my brother had found the remains, but no one ever said anything to me.
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 special 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 live
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 brother Fred 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 Victrola 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, 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 phonograph. 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 too like the one I’m telling you right now.
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 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 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 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 an 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. 3 times. Mother got her gun down from the mantle, loaded it, ready and prepared. When the knock cam to the door again, she said, “If you don’t answer when I count to 3, 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, steal you clean. When no answer came, she opened fire and shot straight through the door.
We hid under the table and came out slowly and ran to tour mother’s skirts. We held on for dear life. We felt so protected under our mother’s care.
We heard steps leaving the porch and you could hear the crunch of their footsteps in the icy snow as they disappeared down the road. We stayed clear of the windows and doors for some time. She made a hole right through the door.
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...It 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 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 6 of our best laying hens and that made a huge hole in our breakfast. There was snow on the ground. My brother and I stayed close to Mother, to be safe.
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.”
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” 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.
HUCKLEBERRIES
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 to see her.
We’d just finished eating, and were sitting around the table making plans for the day when some 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.
She showed my brother how to crank the Victrola 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.
She went into the other room. took down the shotgun from the rack above the bed, loaded it with some shells from the dresser and slipped out the door behind the cabin and confronted a grizzly. She waited for her chance, aiming very carefully, and took one shot and got him right between the eyes
We were still dancing to the funny music. My aunt came in with the gun, shaking all over. She didn’t tell us what had happened, 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 we just kept on dancing and cranking the phonograph. If she hadn’t shot it, 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 too like the one I’m telling you right now.
Madeline Bedal
When I was about 22, we went huckleberrying. We kept in contact with signals. I had a lot of berries and I heard this crush, crush, crush of the leaves behind me and I felt his breath on my back. I turned around and stared at him. He just stood there and looked at me, with both front paws resting on the rotted log. A great big black grizzly. I just went back to picking berries. What else could I do? He climbed up on the log and he got down and he took off. Then the others started calling me: “There’s a bear! There’s a bear! Time to go home.”
* * *
I was home from college one summer and I took a job as a governess to an 11-year-old girl. Her parents worked for the government on an Indian reservation. Everything I did she was supposed to do. Everything I learned, she was supposed to learn. Weekly, we’d go camping
One night we were going into Glacier Park. my boss came home to tell me how to fish. I read up on it before I went to sleep and thought, “I can do that!” I dreamt I was fishing just like the book said. I threw in my line and caught a fish. I threw it over my shoulder and It landed right in the paws of a cougar I didn’t know was there. In the morning we got down to the stream, I was telling them about my dream.
We found an ideal spot. I thought, “here goes nothing?” I threw out my line and darned if I didn’t get a fish! I remembered my dream. The fish was so huge I couldn’t handle it. All the fishermen were telling me how to bring it in and it was flopping all over. I put my foot on it but it slipped away so I sat on it until I was almost as wet as the fish And after struggling with it for 15 minutes. I finally hit it with a stick and a rock. So I had my fish for breakfast, a big rainbow trout but all the fishermen had left, because I’d made so much noise, they said that all the fish had left too.
Madeline Bedal
It 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 Blackfeet Indians, in Browning, Montana.. The pinto 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 onto the back of the saddle. My mother in front, with my younger brother Jack in her arms. We had to ride to the railroad station. We got there fine. My brother was on his pinto with all the supplies, we were all on Old Chief.
The railroad station was half way up the mountainside and there were so many switchbacks you’d go sideways to go forward. We were about half way down the mountain when the saddle began to slip and slide. My uncle hadn’t tightened up the cinch. Old Chief knew when things were wrong. He was careful. 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 sitting upright holding the baby in her arms. Old Chief, he just stood there. But me, all fat and roly poly, I tumbled and tumbled down the mountainside. I found a bush and 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 heard the ruckus . He dropped everything, his fishing pole, his creel, 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.
Madeline Bedal
CORRUPTED TEXT This is why I should've posted these much earlier, all UNIX text....Most of the stories are intact. I will need to compare line.
INDIAN PONY
brother had found the remains when he found her collar, barbecuesandplacephonograph
© 2005 Madeline Stannard Bedal, Westlake Country Inn
These stories were developed with Maureen Hurley
in a Memoir class at Fremont, CAThese stories were developed poet taught Glacier Park, in the Rockies. of wildernessways knew when she was coming. G community servicecame through the Fielding depot but
just looseand et
y Aunt Gertiewhofor miles he mountain with its big switchcabin for guests—that was us—was huge, it ,separate which was about three-quarters It was time to plant the garden.There was so little train traffic in those days, ea ride also the post office and There. not hand hewn logs like our houseseven had her dainty little touches: ite starched ruffled curtains, amiddle of the was the center of all things. wentld Chief and Buck were hitched in Fielding right Old 27 leaned out and he to the railroad depot/station at the readyFred’stop.slowed downo the next town, to Whitefish, thethere station. The doctor stitched p from his temple to his crown. And then theywaited to see if Fred was all right.ful of candy canes.
red fared from his experience. We were so happy to see him, he looked so funny d to be able to share the candy to drive that day
› `Indians, in Browning, Montana. And tthat tightly safe, The railroad station was half- go forward. We were about half- enough at the statione was careful. But we were half-miraculously ,Everything whirring by me and the gorge looming below. Somehow managed to grab it. I below me looked up and saw me dangling from the bush, and he s fishing pole, his creel, and up and when hew saw me dangling from thatwhen he
to the depot
climbed up the cliff and
e fall of the year, around 1918 or home picking uprailroad were good horses, they about to hit Old Chief, nch above the trail, was a linkdangeritswhere way up first ’kept his rifle on a rack high upries again and again and again until the were committed to memory. after Queen Victoria’s husbandalive and
the big cat to Anywhere. so excited because we were berries huckleall and picked early that morning
,he Hogging the bridge. for me oor, come running to the door, arms oen wide.p homethis morning and leaned in a fury
just under his weight
a bull’shis.
a, “Swim little fishies, swim!”or gramophone. Little did we know that igroup imal rugs from the living room and they were our making Raggedy Anns for gifts. Threethey’d hot straight through the door. hequite and came out slowly and ran to e.were denwe unusual noises for chickens. Ethere six routinehe ground bleeding, It cut, hershape station whichthey waitedcanes. Dadhis handlearned , an oral history project. Special thanks to Alex Chan of the , for making this possible.Madeline Stannard Bedal was boin in 1914 on a homestead in Fielding Nontana. born914 on a homestead in Fielding M project
FIELDING, MONTANA
Just southeast of Glacier national Park,there’s a whistlestop and a tunnel that goes clear through the Rockies. My father worked on the tracks to keep them clear of any debris, rocks or snow. The Great Northern Railroad ran from Spokane to Chicago. In winter, there would be ice, snow sides and all of that track had to be kept cleanheast of Glacier N and Mclean. there would be ice, snow sides, falling rock, that track had to be kept small d ran from Spokane to Chicago, and iand uncle
I was born in 1914 near of what was later to become the town of Whitefish. We moved soon after to the homestead, only it wasn’t called Fielding yet. It’s since been renamed Blacktail, after the Indians who live there.near that whistlestop, . There werre amny other places along the line that have disappeareed.clear of any debris. worked on thosethe railroad linesfter the Indians who live therelong since disappeare
One of my earliest memories is of my father cutting down trees while my mother trimmed the branches. They built our home from scratch. It was long, like three cabins string together with a woodshet attached top the kitchen.y mother trimmed the branches. From those trees, t with a woodshed
The kitchen was the room you lived in because it was so large and the only room that was warm in winter. We nailed appleboxes up on the log walls for cabinets, with a curtain fringe. We had a nice big storebought 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.
On the woodburning stove there was a hot water resevoir built right on the side of the stove.The stove had a firebox ot one side and a warming closet above it. summer and winter I was bornmany with one of those double handle sawsand an overn with
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The bark was shaved off the logs and the were notched and lasid down like lLincoln logs. They cut out the woondows after it was builtre notched and lasid down just like Lincoln LHour homereally three cabins striu attached toWithTyre notched and laThe cracks were caulked and a preesvative added. They cut out the wo. We had real windows.e cracks were caulked and a preserThey cut out the holes for the wi Not like some.O The back door was nailed together with 2 by 4’s, with a leather strap for a handle.
We also had a copper boiler on top of the stove. .
We saved our flour sacks, we’d wash them in Fels Naptha on the stove and the sacks would come out all clean and white, and we’d use them for curtains.
For a sink, we had a basin and pail to wash our hands. We used a ladel to get cleanwater, it was the communal cup, we all drank out of it.
kept A coffee pot_the granite one—cast iton pots and skillets. And several irons on the backside of the stove always at the readyBraided rugs on the floor.
The outhouse was way out back. In the house, if you had to go, there was a slop jar. You dug a deep hole, and hoped you didn’t fall in after it was lined with quicklime. Onece I spilled lime on my dress and it ate it all up. I was so sorry aas dresses were hard tro come by. built the outhouse around it. or or the train would derail.it was lined with quicklimeThet On or the train would derailthey and safe on the homestead folks made from floursacks-on A coffee pot—the granite one—cast irall soap G No indoor plumbing.and hoped you didn’t fall . Then youthe hole ate it all up. I was so sorry always Park, there’swhistle stopwhistle stopwerestrungapple boxesflour sackswood burningreservoirovenladleto
So many details and I haven’t even gotten to the living room yet.FIELDING, MONTANA ( IINTRODUCTION)
Just southeast of Glacier National Park, 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 sides, 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. We moved soon after I was born 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.
One of my earliest memories on the homestead is of my father cutting down trees with one of those double handle saws with my mother on the other end. There was a sort of a rhythm you had to get into: 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 after it was built. 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 sacks.
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 butter wouldn’t set and even Bessie wouldn’t give us much milk for butter.
On the wood burning stove there was a hot water reservoir built right on the side of the stove. 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 with onions.
We also kept a copper boiler on top of the stove. A coffee pot—the granite one—cast iron pots and skillets. And several irons on the backside of the stove always at the ready. They had a special handle that clamped on. Tuesday was ironing day. Monday was wash day and Wednesday was baking day. Saturday was for cleaning house and on Sundays we went to church.
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. Gunney sacks at the stoop and at the door to wipe your feet.
For a sink, we had a basin on a bench and a pail to wash our hands. We used a ladle to get clean water, it was the communal cup, we all drank out of it. 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 windows was of the fields that Dad had cleared. 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 gunneysack 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. 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.
Don’t know why we even had a living room. Things in there were a little nicer. It was always kept clean for folks to visit. It had the prettiest rugs, the most colorful curtains. There were straigthback chairs. The lynx was hung on the wall. 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.
Now I guess it’s time to tell you about my family.
S, we our flour sacks. Win 1914, d:Columbia, Browning, Haver, Glacier park Station.rocking ndows In one corner, Thad built right on the side of it; it made a lovely sandwichraw pper boiler on top of the stove; a old kind— and were mending and
Well, whenever the preacher came to visit on orseback on his route through Fielding. He would stop at each anevery homesteadwas Sunday. He’d come n his route through Fielding and he’dd water. Therehe view from the kitchen windowThe log fences, the trees, wildflowers and fields, mountains, the stream and the bridge where Porky pushed me off. ains, the stream and the bridge near the barn To make an outhouse, ybuildmakebeds. Iith all their treasures inside.We loved to go through them, we memorized the memorabiloa. In my mother’s trunk, a crazy quilt made of all colors and embroidered alll around, I still have it. it was my hreat-great-great Grandmother Backhaus’s quilt. I In my father’s trunk was a picture album of family ancestors. His was rounded wooden trunk my mother’s had leather straps and was slatted woood an metal. It was painted dark blue with gold trim. They that doubled as seats with a throw on top. those trunks so muchorabiloa. In my mother’s trunk was it was my gtrunk a dfancy stays It was more like a trophy room with all the stuffed animals and furs mounted on the walls and floors. We had a big grizly rug on the floor, we used to lie on it with our head resting on it’s head. I was the second child. My brother Fred was two years older, born on the eve of Christmas Eve.We always celebrated hisson the t with our head resting on itTthe living roomcehingspelt than a living rooom celebrated his birthday on Christmas Eve. My birthday was May 14, we didn’t have parties because there was no one my age around to invite. on the homesteads
When we later movd to Whitfish in 1923, my mother gave me my first party. My sister maxine And my youngest brother “Prince Albert” were born in WEhitefish. “Prince Albert” wasn’t his real name but I will tell yoou that story later.
My only brother born on the homestead was Janc, he was two years younger than me and we moved to Whitefish soon after. I remember when he was born. My mother wasn’t feeling well, Dad had gone off to work and to get my Aunt Gertie. Mother sent us outside to keep out of mischief. Well, lunchtime came and went and it got later and later.She told us to stay outside until she called for us. We were so hungry my brother Fred went into the kitchen but he couldn’t find anything to eat. All he could find was salt, pepper and sugar. ind was salt, pepper and sugar. He milked Bessie and mixed the salt, pepper and sugar with the milk. I was waiting for something good. I didn’t like his cooking at all.
Aunt gertie still haden’t come, we waited outside for her so we could go into the houseI was so hungry. Aunt Gertie still hadee. My brother was born and we were kept out. We almost made ourself sick on Fred’s cooking. Fred climbed up and jumped off the hay mowtop of the . He came out all right. Then it was my turn. I couldn’t see myself jumping a good storye to the ground so I climbed back down the way I’d come up.
By the time my aoaunt calle dus iit was getting dark. She gave us a good meal and put us to bed. That nioght my brother was born.bia, Browning, Haver, Glacier pPJACK’s BIRTH
Park fresh butter andwhatever day“” and minister to his flock.cleared t, Tinkerbell in her gunneysack-first
rounded wooden trunk Mmade of stripsThe trunks there zbear JACK’S
jackJ
not to come into the house, a half a cup oftasted it and I ertie still hadnbeing Bored, the barn to see myself jumping a good storeyBy the time my aoaunt calle meal and put us to bed. That niMy sister MBy the time my while we were jumping off the barn, Wee just sniffed our noses and walked right by the crib, noses out of joint “Prince Albert” were born in Winto the house, it. We came into the house ands and walked right by the crib We didn’t even look at jack. We didn’t even look at Jis real name but I will tell yo Iinside. Wememorabiliaall around—itwoodroomcelebratedlunch timeourselves
it well So snuck to eat’d and eathere m of the houseNo food. It was cold.
the barn tHere, , smaller than this piece of paperand north of Kalispell,
No food. It was acold December day, the ground was all spongy from frost
from freezing. But it was nice and warm in the barn. The hay and the animals made it cozy.
was bired and loft A I came out the barn door, there was Aunt Gertie coming through the field. We were so overjoyed to see her, we knew we’d finally get into the house. We ran to greet her and went into the house with her. We didn’t know there was a baby on the way. We hadn’t been told. But she told us to wait in the barn a while longer. anythingWhen our mother said something, we obeyed. ther said something, we obeyed or it was the switch. Fs on foot. She never rode on horseback
We were so glad to get into the house, we were anxious to see our mother too. But we were so tired weAunt Gertiewas nice and warm in the barn. But t hay mowï‡\
