This time I chose to include a silly story Dad put out in installments. It will be lots of fun for kids and grand kids. We hope you all enjoy these memos and stories. feel free to comment.
Memo #25
written June 1, 2002 posted to the blog August 1, 2014
From: Dad, Grandpa, Friend etc. Richard M. Pratt
Re: Returning Home
Today, May 26, 2002, has been a big and exciting day in the lives of the VanOrman / Rowbury / Pratt family. We welcomed into this world, today, our newest arrival from the spirit world. Maggie Lyn VanOrman, The daughter of Dustin and Josie VanOrman, as four generations stood in a circle Dustin (the father) pronounced upon her a Father’s blessing. I’m losing tract but I think, Maggie Lyn, is our 123 descendant! WOW! We’ve had a day of worship also as Stephen, his mother and Dad were the speakers in Sacrament meeting. The rest of the day was a day of visiting, feasting and rejoicing that Stephen has spent 2 years of his precious lifes years in carrying the Great Plan of Happiness to the people in the Missouri Independence Mission.
The following is how his Father, Roger Rowbury, felt about it and expresses the concern that I and Grandma have in welcoming each of you home. Grandma, of course, is already there preparing for each of us as we arrive thru the channel titled death.
“For the past two years, the Rowbury family has looked forward with great anticipation to the return of Stephen from his full time mission. Each week, we anxiously awaited the arrival of the postman as he delivered the good news from our beloved missionary in the Missouri, Independence Mission. Especially, we looked forward to the telephone conversations on Mother’s Day and Christmas.
Finally on the 24th of May we went to the Salt Lake International Airport to meet him. Before we left Provo, we looked up the flight on the Internet. We observed the monitor as American Airlines flight 2059 departed Dallas Fort Worth and headed Southwest. We determined that it was about fifteen minutes late, so we delayed our departure time accordingly.
Upon arrival at the terminal, we found that the flight had been delayed even further and that our wait would be even greater. Oh, we were anxious. That extra hour took forever. Eventually he did arrive and we were able to greet him and welcome him home. How wonderful it is to have him in our close proximity.
As I reflect on these past two years filled with our anticipation, I am reminded of another very important relationship. We have a very loving and kind Heavenly Father who is extremely concerned about our welfare. He looks forward to hearing from us just as we anticipated communications from Stephen. He also longs for the time when he can open his arms and greet each of us after we have completed this mortal probation. His love is so great and so boundless. His concern for us is never ending.
He mourns for us when we forget to communicate with Him through prayer. He is disappointed when we fail to do what he requires of us. He weeps when tragedy and misfortune strikes any of us and he rejoices at our accomplishments. He loves us as good parents love their children. Even more.
It is my hope and prayer that we will learn to understand and feel this relationship with our Heavenly Father, and to do all that we can to foster it. May we look forward excitedly to greeting our Heavenly Father after this life is finished. In the meantime let us do all that we can to allow this to happen.”
The following thoughts I take from the Ensign, June, 2002 page 16. They are not quite quotes.
Fatherhood and Motherhood is, in a sense, an apprenticeship to Godhood.
1. This earth life is a part of the plan of salvation that enables us to become like our Heavenly Parents.
2. Jesus Christ is our example to show us the way to return to our Heavenly Home.
3. A family that follows Jesus by keeping his commandments, which he also keeps, is an ETERNAL UNIT.
4. The Church of Jesus Christ exists to assist us to return with our family into the presence of our Heavenly Parents.
5. Husband and wife are co creators with God for the eternal welfare of their spirit children.
6. You teach most effectively by example.
7. The greatest work you will ever do in this life will be within the walls of your own home.
8. You must seek the Spirit of the Lord in LEADING your family.
9. The mother sustains the father and is his HELP MEET AND COUNSELOR.
10. Husband and Wife are one in purpose. (Equals)
11. You have the responsibility for the physical, mental, social and spiritual well being of your children.
12. You have the responsibility to lead your family by:
a. Governing, correcting, nurturing, and blessing them in meekness, tenderness, and love on the principles of righteousness.
b. Creating an environment in the home conducive to order, prayer, worship, learning, fasting, happiness and the Spirit of the Lord.
c. Teaching them the principles of faith in Christ, repentance, baptism, the gift of the Holy Ghost, enduring to the end and praying vocally and in secret.
d. And above all you must be an example of LOVING GOD and KEEPING HIS COMMANDMENTS (end of quote)
If we have such excitement and joy in welcoming home a beloved member of the family after an absence of only 2 years, it is impossible to imagine the fantastic emotions we will experience after a separation of 70,80, or 90 years. (However there should be some consolation that very few of you will live to 90)
the day will come when each of us will stand before the Lord, and report on our mortal life and our stewardships as earthly Parents. What will be your report?
“Effective family leadership, brethren, requires both quantity and quality time. The teaching and governance of the family must not be left to your wife alone, to society, to school, or even to the church. We encourage you, brethren, to remember that priesthood is a righteous authority only. Earn the respect and confidence of your children through your loving relationship with them. Tell your children that you love them.” OFTEN (Howard W. Hunter 14th President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.)
I LOVE YOU, Dad, Grandpa etc. Richard M. Pratt
How the West Was Fun!
By Richard Marden Pratt
This will come to you in installments! Truth will be bolded. Story or that is to say fiction will be regular print! You will get a feel for the early 1900s or the days I grew up in.
As we crested the rise, I whoaed my big sorrel gelding, Ginger, to a stop and stood tall in the stirrups to try and get the circulation back into my bowed and aching legs but even more important to get away from the leather of the saddle that I was glued to.
By the looks of the sun it was mid afternoon and I had left the house more than ten hours earlier, the stars still twinkling in the azure sky of an early spring morning, probably about the middle of March. I had trailed a herd of cattle out to the South range of the Colockum hills facing the Columbia River in Central Washington where the grass was early to release the pressure on our dwindling hay supply.
The cattle led, by old “Blue”, had resisted all the way. Like people, having had a free handout and shelter all winter they had no desire for freedom and the luscious new grass of spring. I knew that withing 48 hours old “Blue” would lead them all back to the ranch where they would moo their complaints at being put on their own. I would usually have to take them out three times before they would stay put. They were even more difficult to round up and bring home in the fall. This was the first of several herds to be taken to different settings during the next few days. Often there would be another rider but today I was alone. (My first date with Mother was her helping do this)
The cattle of that time in our area (about the late 1920s) were not the big, heavy, docile slow moving creatures confined to fenced pastures. But rather they were long - legged, fast, and mean. When hazing them along the only safe place was in the saddle.
Cattle also have a “pecking” order and usually an older Cow, never a bull, dominated the herd and they followed her wherever, such was old “Blue”. She was aptly named. Her coat was blue with just a tinge of white like frost on the tips of her hair. Long legged and rangy she was as independent as old Nick and with her new calf she was as feisty as a cowboy jilted old maid school “marm”.
Prominent on her right hip, burned in with a red-hot branding iron and placed there when she was a small calf was our brand the “D bar D” about 6 inches long and 2 inches high. All our cattle were branded in the same place. It could be seen a mile away with binoculars. Our horses were branded on the left shoulder as it disfigured them less there.
The Was registered in the state of Washington under my Grandfather’s name, Christian Leroy Peterson, but we used it on all the Peterson and Pratt livestock. The brand was not recognized as ours if it was in any other place than that designated.
I remember how as a boy tending the branding fire I would dream of when I would be big and strong enough to rope the calves from a horse or be the one to grab the roped calf, an ear with the right hand, and the nose with the left and throw it on its side holding it there, while someone else quickly tied its front feet together, pulled the top hind leg into the front get and lashing the three securely. No matter the size of the animal they were at this point quite helpless and of course they always had to be thrown with the right side up.
I would be brought out of my reverie by some one yelling, “hey kid, bring the
How the West Was fun part 2 (remember the BOLD IS ALL TRUE! No fiction until regular type!)
We left off with......”hey kid, bring the
hottest iron.” it had to be cherry red hot. We used three irons so one was always ready. The smoke and stench of burning hair and flesh dominated all the other animal smells. Then the iron was quickly returned to the fire. (The branding iron was on the end of a cool, about 3 foot long, iron handle.)
The poor calf would bawl with pain but it was not yet thru. We dehorned them so they couldn’t gore each other, by sawing off their horns with a carpenters hand saw and the males had to be desexed. When the horns were severed each throbbing stub would shoot a hair line fine stream of blood into the air as much as 5 or 6 feet but would soon stop.
Some of our neighbors added even more indignities to their cattle to help identify them such as carving a design in an ear and / or on the underside of the neck cutting a strip of hide about 3 inches long leaving it attached on one end and it healed and grew into a pendulum swinging “wattle” as it was called.
By the end of the day the cattle were terrified, the men and roping horses were exhausted. And if you will use your imagination try and picture man and beast covered with a mud of blood and manure and only the most primitive of bathing facilities.
In my mid teens Dad got his first truck. Along about sunset he would call our, “All who want to clean up jump on the truck.” everyone did, and five miles later we were at the “old China Mines” on the banks of the mighty Columbia River. Oh what a treat we would usually just take off boots and hat and jump in. Gradually removing clothes as they became somewhat clean until we were divest of all clothes, washing each others backs, diving from a 15 foot high cliff and completely forgetting the stench and exhaustion we had felt only a few minutes earlier.
Slowly, I eased my aching backside down on the saddle and tickled Ginger with my spurs. He knew we were turning homeward and would need no urging. The 10 hours it had taken to get the cattle to this point he would now cover in 4, still the stars would be shining in the sky before we reached the ranch house and our first food since we left there. I don’t know why but I seldom if ever carried a lunch. People who ride horses for fun do not ride them 14 hours. One is completely numb and can hardly craw off after such a time and has to cling to the saddle until feeling returns to legs and he dares to try a step. I can only imagine how the poor horse felt. We changed horses when we could to rest them.
We had left the cows in a specially lush grassed vale about ½ mile back. I knew as soon as they got their fill “old Blue” would lead them all home again and I would have to repeat the process of returning them to the open range.
The Judkins place was one of the many places unwisely homesteaded by the pioneers in the Colockum hills. On our range there were a dozen or so such places. They settled by a sweet cold water spring, built a house and other buildings then either didn’t have enough farm land or more often were so far from a market that there was no sale for their produce. So they deserted all their improvements packed what they could in a wagon and looked for “greener pastures”. I knew where all the places were and what time in the summer the fruit would be ripe. It was blackberries at the Judkins place in mid June. I would eat all I could hold and pick my hat full for Mama to make jam.
But the Tom Goodwin place was my favorite, nearly a days ride East from the Judkins place. Two apricot trees had somehow survived. The cattle had completely stripped off all greenery and limbs as high as they could reach making the trees resemble huge umbrellas. But in early July they were loaded with the best tasting cots. I would stand up on my saddle and eat my fill. Maybe this was why I never carried a lunch. Each place seemed to have their speciality and if they had nothing else, there was always the delicious cold spring to quench one’s thirst and revive their horse.
I knew Tom and Lottie Goodwin very well for when they moved it was on to a ranch only two or three miles from ours. They were the same age as my parents and had the same number of kids, seven, and here is why they moved. (I’ll be back to Judkins in a minute)
They moved there shortly after their marriage and built a little cabin, made other improvements and planted trees. It wasn’t long until they were expecting and NO doctor, NO midwife, not even a neighbor!
They had no idea how to figure the due date, just a couple of teenagers totally cut off rom civilization.
In the middle of a cold, cold winter they were running out of food. Tom would have to leave and be gone for several day. Hoping for the best they kissed goodbye and he left promising to hurry as fast as horse flesh could go.
He was scarcely out of sight when labor commenced. She secured the doors and window, stoked up the fire, stripped off all her clothes and put on Tom’s extra pair of wool long johns, got a pair of scissors and collapsed in bed.
Hours later she birthed a beautiful little girl. Using the scissors she snipped off a lock of her hair and tied the cord, then cut it and tucked the baby down inside the underwear next to her skin, falling back exhausted. Only to go into labor again and brought forth a baby boy. Following the same procedures they were all safe for the moment all three inside the wool undies.
But when Tom got home several days later both babies were dead and his wife nearly so. He dug one grave and buried them in it, no casket just wrapped in a bit of clothing. He rolled a big stone on the grave to mark it.
I don’ know why but my brother, Leroy, would ride several hours out of his way to visit that grave and remember the story of why they moved. Their next child, a boy named Harry, was only a few months older than myself. And I was even sweet on his sister Greta for a time but that’s another story. (The forgoing was true! Note the type change!)
Ginger picked his way carefully down the steep rock strewn hill and I could smell the wood smoke before I could see it. When we came in sight of the Judkins house it was curling skyward from the old chimney. I couldn’t believe it the past 5 or 6 years only mice, packrats and an occasional skunk had lived there.
I had a little argument with Ginger before I could rein him in and ride over to investigate. He wanted home, barn, oats and to be free of that confounded saddle even more than I. As I approached, I hallowed the house as was the custom. No answer. Riding around to the front I noticed what appeared to be some rags lying on the porch. They moved slightly so I stepped down and climbed the rickety steps to investigate.............TO BE CONTINUED!
investigate.....
Pulling back the rags I found myself looking into the prune wrinkled face of a little very ancient old lady. Eyes closed she was shivering with cold in the early spring nippy air and seemed to be about ready to leave this world.
I rushed to my horse, stripped off the saddle and hurrying back to the lady, rolled her up in the hot sweaty old saddle blanket. What a luxury when a cowboy is half frozen to revive himself thus.
She stopped shivering and shortly opened her eyes. When they focused in on my anxious face, she faintly gasped, “Save it, save it.”
“Save what, marm”, I replied, remembering the manners my mama had taught me.
“The recipe for Pioneer, campfire bread, I’m the last to know it and it must be saved.” she urgently whispered.
“Well”, says I, “you better talk fast cause I don’t think you’re gonna be around much longer.”
There was a long silence and I was afraid she had already departed this life. But then she seemed to revive a little and in a low voice cried out, “Water, water.” I quickly pressed my old canteen to her lips, thinking she wanted a drink. But she pushed it away, exclaiming, “NO, NO you fool, water is for the bread.”
Then taking one last gulp of air she murmured, her voice becoming fainter with each word, “water, sugar, flour, salt.” and with my ear right on her lips I thought she said, “and have a feast.” and she died. No instructions as to how much of each or how to prepare it.
Well, I sat back on my haunches and said over and orver, so as not to forget, “water, sugar, flour, salt and have a feast.” “Water, sugar flour, salt and have a feast.” I would have to figure our quantities and methods later.
But I figured in as much as the government does all sorts of fool things to save so called endangered species, surely this old Pioneer recipe was worth saving. Far more than the Colorado River Sucker.
With this thought, I came back to the reality of what to do with the body. That little lady, whoever she was, deserved a proper burial and it was my bounden duty to see to it. There was no way that Ginger would let me lay her across his neck and balance her there while we road the long road home. Neither did I cotton to the idea of all those weary miles trying to stay awake and keep her from falling off.
A quick survey of the house and out buildings revealed no digging instrument bigger than a teaspoon in a half eaten bowl of mush.
Then, hallelujah, I spotted a badger hole out 5 or so feet behind the house. Going almost straight down into the ground. And disappearing into darkness.
I laid down on the hole and put my arms around it, each hand going about half way to the opposite elbow. Running back to the old lady, I placed my arms around her, and glory be the hole would be tight but I figured with a little persuasion she would fit. I could then roll a stone over the hole and say some kind words and go home a knowin’ I had done my duty.
I got her to the hole only to face a new dilemma, which end should I put in first? Decidin’ no one would want to be buried standing on their head. For that could cause all kinds of troubles, such as all the blood draining into the head and running out the nose. UGH! So I removed my saddle blanket, for which I would later be very grateful, wrapped her rags tightly about her and with half of my lariat bound her up like an Egyptian mummy, and started her down the whole feet first, it was tight but she went in fairly easy ‘til we got to her hips. I tried revolving her like an auger bit and slowly gained but eh sun was gettin’ so low in the West that other means would need to be used.
Removing one boot and my dirty sock, I gently placed my bare foot on her head and holding her arms up straight by the wrists I gave my full body weight to the issue and kerplunk, down she went ‘tel her head was about six inches below ground level, that was it. She must have reached the bottom of the hole. (Only I found out later ‘twas not so.)
Her arms and hands, form the elbow up, were still above ground and waving in the breeze as those pleading for help, and maybe they were. It was ghostly eerie. Considering the options such as cutting them off and laying them on her head under the stone I would place there was just improper. But, perhaps, if I pulled her out and put her head first down with arms bound to her side her feet would be below the ground and a “foot stone” would seal her in snug and tight. Yep it worked, and by now she slipped in and out of the hole more easily each time she entered and exited it.
With her feet below the ground, I hurried over to a good sized rock a few feet away. Too big to carry but being somewhat round could be rolled over to become her foot stone.
Before I reached the rock, I heard a “whoosh” behind me. Wheeling around, I was amazed to see that little old lady all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey a rocketing into the sky at least ten feet above ground and rapidly ascending.
I thought, “good grief, I buried a live person, oh well!” thought I, “she’ll be dead when she hits the ground.” so I returned to the stone, and with much grunting rolled it to the hole. Then gathering up the poor soul from where she splattered I returned her to her final resting place murmuring some apologies into her ear as I did so. By now I had become so attached to her that I cried when she sank out of sight or the last time. Or so I thought.
Quickly rolling the stone into place, I sat down on it to catch my breath. It had truly been a long day. I could see Ginger edging closer to the homeward tail and if I didn’t act soon I would be walking home alone and I would have blistered feet plus saddle sores.
But before I could make a move to stop him, there was another “whoosh” which sent me a rollin’ one way, the foot stone another and the poor corpse a sailing through the twilight sky once more.
Coming to a stop, I turned back to the hole, and came face to face with the biggest badger ever. His body as big as a large dog’s, but legs so short his belly drug the ground and each leg equipped with giant claws capable of disemboweling man or beast or dig a hole faster than a powered post hole digger. And was he ever mad.
Now I don’t savvy Badger talk, but even a dummy could figure out what he was a sayin’! To begin with he as using every cuss word in the Badger dictionary as he told me to quit plugging up his front door.
I hope you all can forgive me for what I did next, but I was at the breaking’ point so I just pulled my gun and shot that poor badger dead, careful to shoot him in the eye so as not to put another hole in his beautiful grey coat which came up to his short tufted ears and ended at his black nose with some faint fine black line a streaking his face.
Gently, I returned that poor lady to her crypt which was getting easier all the time, rolled the rock in place and sat down on it to skin the badger. TO BE CONTINUED......
HOW THE WEST WAS FUN PART 4(......the rock in place and sat down on it to skin the badger......
Ginger had long since headed home. I was considering staying the night in the shack but knew I couldn’t for when Ginger arrived home sans saddle and rider Dad and the ranch hands would spend the night looking for me. So in a few minutes, taking the skin as a trophy, I would lope homeward as fast as my bowed legs would churn. Besides, I was so hungry I was even considering eating the badger but not having any salt decided against that.
The clip - clop of a trotting horse raised my eyes and around the far corner of the house came a rider on an old dilapidated roan. Both rider and horse had seen better days. The rider seemed all hair only his eyeballs showing as hair and beard cascaded down clear to his shoulders. His clothes were worn and soiled and he obviously could benefit with a bath. Well armed with a revolver on each hip a huge Bowie knife in his right boot and a saddle gun in its scabbard under his right leg. He spelled doom! But I’d had enough for one day and bellowed out at him, “who the blankety blank are you?”
Out of all that tangled hair came the snarl, “I’m a bounty hunter.”
I came near calling him a liar but the heavy arsenal he carried cautioned me not to. Instead I said, “bounty hunters are as extinct as dinosaurs.”
He replied, “yep,” I’m the only one left and soon as I collect the $10,000 bounty on Calamity Jane that I’ve trailed to this very cabin, I’m going to retire.”
“Wait,” I blurted out, “Calamity Jane got killed in the shootout down at the O.K. Corral near ten years ago when Jesse James and his boys waylaid ole Wyatt Eyrp. She got caught in the crossfire.”
“That’s right” says he, “only that was not Calamity and she got away. But I’ve got her dead to rights now.”
“Well I think you’re a mite late as she is dead and buried.” I told him.
He answered, “the reward is dead or alive. Being dead she’ll be easier to handle, show me the grave and I’ll dig her up.”
“Over my dead body” snarled I for I was completely fed up with the whole rotten day!
“That’ll be easy to fix,” says he as he reached for the knife in his boot. Just as a rifle shot rang out from the far corner of the house. His hat went a sailing in the breeze, but unhurt he slithered off the nigh side of his horse, yanked his carbine out of its boot and leveling it across his saddle returned the fire.
Then came the nerve frazzling, blood numbing war scream of the West’s meanest Indians, the Apaches. And I remembered hearing that Geronimo and his 17 warriors had escaped the reservation for the third time and were terrorizing the whole Western States. Six hundred U.S. Calvary in bands of fifty were running their horses to death trying to catch them.
The Indians were such superb athletes that they could massacre a rancher’s family and hands and 24 hours later and a hundred miles away repeat the same. The cavalry thought there were two or three Geronimos.
but those Indians had trained themselves to sleep on the back of a running horse.
Only two had to stay awake. One to take the lead and the other horses would follow with a rider in the rear to hurry up the laggards. I’ve gone to sleep on my horse many times but always fell off. (True)
the shooting intensified, the war whoops grew louder and I knew my time had come unless I could find a hiding place. The house was still keeping me from the Indians view.
The badger hole, of course, why hadn’t I thought of it sooner. Still sitting on the rock, I jumped up, rolled it aside gently took hold of Calamity’s ankles, mumbled a muted apology and hauled her out for about the seventh time. Gently laying her down while noticing that she could sure use a fresh hair do, but having no more time I dove head first down that well used hole.
Smack, I hit the bottom and I knew my feet were still sticking out, desperate I felt around in the stygian darkness and discovered that it wasn’t the bottom but just a sharp turn and a squirmin and a wormin I negotiated the turn and entered into a spacious underground room, spacious after what I had just been through. I suppose it could be called the badgers living room or den. It seemed to be about six feet square but I couldn’t sit up there was just room to turn over. But I was comfortable and the Indians would never find me. Knowing that they traveled fast I just stretched out to take a nap figurin they’d be gone when I awoke. I could still hear the shooting but very muffled. I shuddered to think of the fate of the poor bounty hunter but soon as they were gone I’d crawl out, put dear Jane back down the hole for the last time and go home. After all it was my boundin’ duty above all else to save the bread recipe which from time to time I would repeat to the tune of “Turkey in the Straw,” “water, flour, sugar, salt and have a feast,” singing it over and over again. Off key of course.
I don’t know how long I’d been asleep when I was startled awake by the whimpering of a hungry baby. Not remembering where I was I sat up suddenly or tried to and smacked my forehead on the ceiling so hard that it knocked me out. When I came too I had a headache and could feel the blood running down both cheeks and into my ears from multiple cuts and scratches on my forehead. And the baby was still crying only louder.
Cautiously I felt around and in a corner found a nice bed of dry grass and a little furry ball that in the darkness I could only guess it to be a baby badger. It felt about the size of our collie dog’s new born pups and settling down in my hands began to lick my fingers with its wee tongue.
Suddenly a great wave of remorse swept over me as I realized that I, yes I was responsible for making this sweet little baby an orphan. There fore it was my boundin’ duty to adopt him and raise him as my own son. Yes I would be his daddy and his mommy and right now he needed milk. The shooting had stopped and safe or not I must return to the outside world and see what I could do about procuring it.
I’ve found in life if you forge ahead even against the impossible you can always reach your goal.
So back up the hole I go till I reach the turn where my head bangs into some thing hard and wet. Remember my eyes are useless, everything must be identified by feel and smell. Carefully feeling I realized that the hard, wet, something is the scalped head of poor Jane. At least the Indians were thoughtful enough to bury her again after taking her scalp. They must have also rolled the rock back on her feet because pushing with all my might I could only push her up about six inches then collapsing back down she also would slither back to the turn.
Temporarily defeated, I slumped back into the den and picked up my crying baby, Charlie, as I was now calling him. Somehow I just knew that “Charlie” was the English equivalent of his badger name given to him by his loving parents.
So I laid there remembering you’re never licked until you think you are and I was not ready to think that. I started feeling around in the dark hoping to find a sharp stone that I might dig a new tunnel up to the outside....TO BE CONTINUED!
HOW THE WEST WAS FUN part 5 (I started feeling around in the dark hoping to find a sharp stone that I might dig a new tunnel up to the outside.........
I reasoned that as I loosened the dirt, gravity would cause it to fall into the den and before day light Charlie and I could be on our way home. Sure enough I found such a rock but even more exciting, I found, on the opposite side of the room, another hole leading in the opposite direction from the one I had entered the den from. And I remembered an old one eyed mountain man name of Weimer that once worked for Dad saying that badgers always had a front and back entrance to their den. (True)
So you see, by not giving up, I suddenly have two ways to freedom. I decided for various reasons to exit the back hole. I knew it would be tight and decided to remove all my clothes, lay on my tummy with hands and arms extended like diving and that I could propel myself five or six inches at a time by flexing my toes ahead digging them into the dirt and pushing back. (Hey grand kids give it a try, all lights off, clothes off, lay on your living room carpet flex toes ahead and literally propel yourself forward. Helps if you rub a handful of cooking oil on your front but I warn you, I, your grandpa, refuse to be responsible for any wild reactions from your mother! Incidentally I just now laid down on the carpet with clothes ON and NO lubrication and sure enough I could move ahead in that fashion.)
A length or two down the tunnel and something started tickling my feet ‘till I just had to stop and go into a fit of laughter. Then I realized it was little Charlie taken’ advantage of my lacerated legs and feet and “popped” toenails he was lickin’ up my blood. My chest swelled with pride as I thought, “That’s my boy letting nothing go to waste.”
Encouraged, I renewed my efforts, flex toes ahead, squirm them into the gravel and push, squirm them into the gravel and push some more.
I hadn’t gone more than another length when I froze to the ominous BZZZT of a Rocky Mountain rattler. The most deadly of all the 17 species of rattle snakes. An untreated bite is always fatal and that in a few minutes. And I remembered reading that they especially loved Badger holes. (True)
I immediately threw everything into reverse only to discover there was no reverse. My options appeared to be, stay and starve to death, which wasn’t a bad idea after what I’d been through and then I remembered little Charlie and I vowed I wouldn’t give up without trying. I considered the options, which didn’t take long. It was stay put and starve slowly or advance and die quickly. I could just picture that old snake all coiled, head weaving back and forth, tongue flickering in and out daring me to make a move. My fingers found a pebble, remember my hands and arms are straight ahead. I considered flipping it but decided it would only make him mad and he might charge for I have often seen them do just that. (True)
then a little light went on in my head, the only lite in the inky hole. I remembered and envied my tobacco chewing cowboy friends, there horses loping along, they would see a small varmint alongside the trail and expectorating with great force and accuracy completely wipe the unfortunate creature out.
The one time I wished for a “chaw.” But the stifling heat in that confinement and the adrenalin flowing my mouth was chuck full of plain old spit. I wallowed it into a big ball under my tongue, pursed my lips to the size of a soda straw, took in a deep breath just as Charlie tickled my feet again with a howling laugh I expectorated, there was a splat, the BZZZT stopped. Waiting a few minutes, I knew of course that the snake was unharmed but maybe he had to go for a towel or whatever a snake dries themselves with.
Slowly I inched ahead at any moment expecting the pin pricking fangs of that old serpent in my face or hands. I remembered my Grandma Peterson being struck twice in the fleshy part of her right hand between the thumb and forefinger. Four tiny red dots were all that marked the wound. In the half hour it took to get her to a doctor, and even tho Grandpa had sucked much of the poison out, her arm had turned a blackish - bluish color to the elbow and swollen twice its size. She recovered after two very painful weeks of walking the floor, back and forth and crying with the pain. Grandma died about a year later at the age of 61 and the Doctor declared that the snake bite contributed to her untimely death.(True) A few inches more I came to where the snake had been and I knew it was a mother for my hands reached them first, a whole clutch of rattle snake eggs. I counted about 30, about two inches long and one inch in diameter. The shell is not hard like a hen’s egg, but rather soft and some what like parchment, grey in color. As a boy I had found them, and watched them hatch, into a little seven or eight inch snake and feisty from the moment it exits the shell and already poisonous. For a moment I hesitated fearing that if ready to hatch there was no way I could avoid crushing all thirty eggs, turning them into thirty squirming little worm like death machines. Combined they would be more deadly than their mother.
Then that tiny light in my mind reminded me that a rattle snake’s mothering instincts ends with the laying of her eggs and they are left to fend for themselves, and here is the payoff, these fresh laid eggs could be a great help, as you pass over them, slowly revolve your body in the crushed egg yolk and slimly white. This will not only sooth the multiple cuts and scratches accumulating on your body from sharp rocks and gravel, but it will also lubricate your whole body and increase your speed. Oh what a boon! Much of the pain was eased and I increased each thrust from five or six to seven or eight inches. Soon I’m barreling down the tunnel at a remarkable speed. Never did hear from the mother snake for which I have no regrets.
Well, dear reader, whoever you are I will not linger on the other adventures before I exited except to mention the luminous eyed earth worms, that gave a wee bit of light and helped to avoid the other creepy crawlies namely black widow spiders, scorpions and four inch long centipedes.
With my accelerated speed I soon saw stars and realized the journey was about over. Yes, I’ve learned that whenever one is in a dark whole like a tunnel or a well the stars can be seen even in the daytime. (True) Of course my hands reached the outside first what a glorious feeling of freedom to reach in every direction and feel nothing, wonderful nothing. But like all parents I can’t stop to enjoy it for Charlie is a crying his heart out.
Two or three more thrusts and I stand up, little Charlie is my hands, he seems to be gettin’ some comfort out of licking my snake egg, blood smeared skin but I’ve got to find him milk and soon. However, I did wish for a photographer, male of course, to document my story for I know it sounds some what implausible.
The sun was just sinking in the West leaving perhaps thirty to forty-five more minutes of daylight. At this moment even more important than milk is clothes, already my teeth are chattering in the early spring night. I consider pulling dear Jane out of her grave once more and retrieving my clothes but opt against it, no way am I going to disturb that dear souls rest again. Then spying my saddle and saddle blanket the problem is solved. First I cut another length off my lariat, remember I had already used a piece to truss Jane up for her burial. But I am careful to preserve a rope long enough to lasso me a cow......TO BE CONTINUED
How the West was fun part 6 (but I am careful to preserve a rope long enough to lasso me a cow.)
Pulling one end of the saddle blanket over my right shoulder and letting it hang down to my waist in back, I pull the other end up between my legs and secure it all with the rope around my waist.
How did I cut the rope with out a knife? I knew some one would ask that. Very simple. Revert to “stone-age-man”. Boy! Did he ever have life easy. Stones were his tools, plentiful and cheap, the first “throw - aways.” there was always more. Just lay the rope over a boulder puck up a fist size rock, whack the rope four or five times and it’s in two pieces. The cutting rock doesn’t even have to be sharp. But it helps.
Fixed for clothes, cuts and abrasions medicated with snake eggs, I only have two more problems, milk for Charlie and a ride home, just minor details after the problems already solved.
Just then I hear a moo and looking up, just as I had expected, here came old Blue leading her grass stuffed entourage to the spring for their nightly drink a nights rest and a return to the ranch. All I’ve got to do is persuade one of them to give me milk and a place to put my saddle. Wow what a day it had been wouldn’t trade it for any other.
Soon the cattle had finished drinking and were starting to bed down for the night. Tucking Charlie into my toga, I slowly moved toward Blue, sweet talking her as I did. And hoping she would remember the hand that had fed her all winter. Sure enough she rhythmically chewed her cud quietly looking at me ‘till my hand touched her head, slowly I worked my fingers around her ears and started caressing and scratching. Cows love their ears scratched and you can soon be their friend. Gently I slipped my lariat over her head and tied it to a nearby tree moving form her ears carefully scratching her side I moved to the milk bar. Holding Charlie in one hand I took a nipple in the other put Charlie up real close and squeezed. The first squirt nearly drowned him but he was ready for the next and three or four squirts later he was full. For the first time he quit crying and I tucked him back under my toga where he soon was fast asleep. Figuring what’s good for babies is good for adults I then helped myself and must have squirted a quart of that warm fresh milk in my mouth occasionally missing and the residue joined my snake egg, blood, mud disguise.
Carefully, I placed my saddle on old Blue and cinched it tight. As cows can’t sweat I figured she wouldn’t need a blanket. (True) untiing the rope I climbed aboard. I didn’t know what to tell Blue, but she seemed to know what to do and giving a commanding moo ordering the others to fall in line she swung off down the trail never looking back. She knew the others wouldn’t dare not to follow. It was just getting dark and I looked at about a fourth a mile of cows and calves following in single file. In all my finery I thought of Napoleon leading his troops into battle. He didn’t have antything I didn’t have.
To pass the weary miles away I tried repeating water, flour, sugar and salt and have a feast out loud to the tune of “Turkey in the Straw.” we only stopped once to feed Charlie and replenish my energy. And along about midnight we arrived at the barn. Lighting the barn lantern to see to give Blue an ample reward of hay and grain, I heard a noise like wimpering in the manger. And looking in there was our collie cow dog with a fresh litter of pups nine all told.
I thought a dog’s milk bar comes in equal numbers. She’s got ten and only nine pups. I wonder if she’d notice a tenth puppy. Charlie was just their size and like them his eyes were not yet open. They were black and white and he was grey but dogs are color blind. (True) carefully I presented Charlie to the extra nipple and he grabbed right a hold and nestled down among his new brothers and sisters. I hurried to the house and couldn’t clean up or go to bed ‘till I had the recipe perfected. This is what it finally worked out to be:
Pioneer Bread
2 cups warm water, 1 tsp. Salt, 2 tablespoons sugar, honey or molasses. Add flour and stir
keep adding flour until a stiff batter forms. Cover and allow to raise 45 minutes. Pour into 8 x 8 well greased pan, cover and let raise 45 minutes. Bake at 350* about 45 minutes. OH YES! Don’t forget the yeast 1 teaspoon.
My first try came out hard and flat and I broke my right eye tooth trying to eat it. Just got it crowned recently cost $137.70 I can show you the bill. I went back through Jane’s last words water, flour, sugar and salt and have a feast. Now I realized she was saying, “and don’t forget the yeast.” Sure enough follow that recipe it’s easy and very good bread. I like the 8 x 8 pan of it makes a flat 2 inch thick loaf with lots of chewy crust.
By the time the bread was perfected it was daylight and I spent the day cleaning up, doctoring my punctured hide and sleeping. I visited old Blue once during the day, gave her some grain and scratched her ears and told her she had to lead the herd back out to the range the next morning or starve. She seemed to understand. Of course I accompanied them riding
ginger. Who I had given a good talking too. He kind of hung his head but probably didn’t understand.
Charlie, oh yes I’m sure you want to know how he turned out. I expected him to grow up to be a dog seeing how he was raised by a dog mother and nine dog brothers and sisters. But no way. My boy was a natural leader and he soon had those nine pups thinking they were badgers. By the time they were six months old all ten were digging holes everywhere especially in the area between the house and the “out - house”. One didn't dare step outside at night without a lantern. In fact we lost three cowboys and hunt tho we did we never found them.
But one good thing came out of it. Dad estimated that we had enough “out - house” holes dug to last the next two hundred years.
And I had to change Charlie’s name to Charleen for soon she had a big liter of somethings. We decided to call them Bad-pups.
Figuring that in another six months we would have 20 badgers digging holes and in as much as Dad was pretty discouraged with the depression on and he couldn’t even pay the interest on the mortgage or taxes. He sold the cattle and just walked away from the ranch and bought a little pear orchard some fifty miles north near the small town of Dryden, Washington. I was now eighteen years old. (true) Bidding Charleen goodbye, was a tender moment but she didn’t seem to mind which was quite a let - down.
Our new home was in a horse shoe bend of the Wenatchee river and here started a new life. I returned to high - school and found my first love, drowned twice in the river and many other exciting events. All to be told at a later time if I’m still alive.
So goodby for now
Dad, Grandpa, etc. Richard M. Pratt
PS the bread recipe has been handed down for several generations! (True)
