A Day of Thanksgiving

There's a “special” day for just about any reason you can think of, but my favorite of all has got to be Thanksgiving. We tend to take a whole lot for granted as we go on about our day to day lives, and it's good to have a time where we slow down and look around, and see just how good God has been to us. And what sorry people we are, because we don't deserve a bit of it.

I'm not a big fan of turkey anyway, and it really grates on me to have Thanksgiving Day denigrated to the status of “Turkey Day”. In fact, I seldom cook turkey. Usually we have roast beef and ham. And once in awhile, since we often have guests that expect the obligatory turkey, I will even roast a turkey breast, so we won't be deemed quite as weird as we are.

When the kids were little, we often went to Grandma and Grandpa's-- either one. Both sides of the family had lots of kids, and having all the cousins together was a lot of fun. Sometimes I wonder how the grandparents kept their sanity.



2 of my brothers, myself, and our kids at my folks when they lived in Canada. 
(Confusing since Canada's Thanksgiving is in October.)  Brother standing behind Dad on
 the right, and his bride on the left, are responsible for 5 of the boys-- and a little girl.

But the years when ranch-work wouldn't allow us to get away, I'd cook dinner at home, and invite the single cowboys, or people that didn't have anywhere to go. Old, young, it didn't matter. Thanksgiving is a time for family and sharing, and no one should have to eat alone. Those were special times, and when the kids were in college, they'd always bring home a stray—or two—or three. Apiece. We loved it.


Kids and friend from the Youth Challenge program playing on the ditch after dinner, Thanksgiving 2010

One year we had about six college age kids camped out in the basement. We were way out in the sticks, which worked well. They came to our Wednesday night church service with the kids, and when they got home they got started on a game of pinochle-- and didn't quit. All...Night...L-o-n-n-g!

They killed the pumpkin pie to keep them going. We could hear EVERY thing, all the giggling, roars of victory, and smart remarks. Even with pillows over our heads! I think Clayton and Nate finally crashed about 3 or 4 a.m. Because they had big hunting plans for 6 a.m. That was one of our all time favorite Thanksgivings.

This year it seemed like a week-long Thanksgiving. It has to be one of the best ever.

Our housewarming party was the Saturday before. In spite of hunting, preg-testing, and football championships, we still ended up with over 70 friends, family, and neighbors who stopped by and stuck around most of the afternoon. It was the coldest day of the year so far, but it was warm and comfortable in the house, and we had loads of food and a good time just doing some old-fashioned visiting.

I don't know if we could have pulled it off without those 3 lovely young ladies who we are fortunate to be able to call our daughters. Once the first door-bell rang, I pretty much left them on their own, to make sure all the food and drinks were out, to meet, to greet, to visit, and to make sure kids had help getting served.

We had plenty left for Thanksgiving, and I just left the table extended all the way out because all the kids and the 2 grand-babies were coming and staying overnight. Everybody else who had been invited already had other plans, so this year it was just us. That was special too.

Thanks to little miss “Happiness Captured”, we had the first family photos we've had since Clayton got married. We even color coordinated for the first time ever! Another good day to remember. And to remember how blessed we as a family, and we as a nation, are.

God forgive us for our un-thankfulness.

Blessed be the Lord, who daily loadeth us with benefits, even the God of our salvation. PS 68:19





Cowboy Carpenter



1986 - Cowboy carpenters patching roof
on cowcamp barn. It's gray tin now.

I'm not real sure how this fits with “scenes from the saddle” aside from the fact that this little cabinet looks like something we might have drug in from an old shop or barn. We've explored a lot of old homestead era buildings while out on the range, and have drug in more than one old, but salvageable item over the years.

At least that's the look I wanted. I looked all over the state and E-bay for a specific size cabinet that would fit on the end of that wall, and display my old “True West”, and new “Montana Brand” dishes. And, it had to fit my cowboy budget: fairly cheap, or free.

I finally found this nice modern white laminated one, made in Japan, with the put-together-number stickers still attached to the various pressed wood pieces. BUT, and this was the biggie, it was the perfect size. And I just knew my favorite cowboy could remodel it for me.

He amazes me with the stuff he can do. As long as I don't mind a little...umm... “primitive” look. He calls it crude, but the antique stores call it primitive-- and jack the price up about three times. My taste may be “primitive”, but I guess that's because the style incorporates the distressed “cowboy character” I'm always harping on.

My cowboy took the cabinet outside and went to work on it. He knew I planned on beating it up, so he didn't worry about dinging it. Pleased with the outcome, he set it up on the concrete floor of my laundry/sewing room, and told me it was ready, and that he'd “tightened” it up for me as well.

“Hmmm, I need to get my putty knife and spackle, and fix those screws”, I thought to myself as I glanced at my waiting project when I walked by the room.

WHOA! Screws? I don't remember there being screws on the outside... I didn't have the heart to have a hissy fit and tell my favorite cowboy he'd just turned my expensive primitive cabinet into a cheap crude one. Instead, as calmly as I could, I just commented that if he was going to use screws on the outside, he should consider counter-sinking the heads.

“Well, I knew you planned on taking a hammer and wrecking bar to it, so I didn't figure the screws would make any difference.” was his cowboy logic.

 I managed to get all but 2 of the screws mostly hidden. The other 2 just had those edges that stuck right up there where it was impossible to get a nice smooth transition. Since I didn't really have a clue as to what I was doing, I did a lot of looking on the internet, and combined bits and pieces of several how-to instructions into my own thing.

Then I had another wild hair. I liked the way my re-finished old coffee table turned out so much due to the kid's “distressing” when they were little, that, wouldn't it be neat to carve all 8 of our names (mom, dad, kids and grandkids) into my project, along with the year of our house!

Someone told me, at least once or twice, that not every idea that pops into your head is a good idea. This was probably one of those.

It took me at least 2 full days to get them carved to where they looked kind of right. By the time I'd done Ray and I and the girls, I had figured out that names longer than 3 or 4 letters were too long. I reduced Clayton and Kristine to initials on the other side, but spelled out their 2 kids full names. The good thing is, I strategically placed them to help camouflage screws.

So, this is how I work under pressure-- spend 2 days carving names when I need to be cooking, baking, and cleaning for our housewarming party! I finished a final coat of varnish by 3 on Friday morning, with 35 hours left to get ready for our housewarming... no wonder I stress out. (In highschool I studied for tests the night before with a flashlight under my covers!

Next week... Housewarming and Thanksgiving

Here is a link to a fun blog where I found the best info to get me going: http://movitabeaucoup.com/2010/07/19/how-to-antique-and-distress-furniture-with-paint/)

Cowboy Heart

"Cowboy Conference" Two graduated "wannabe's", and Colt, during fall gather.

It's been said that “a person wrapped up in himself makes a pretty small package”.

Until I married Ray, I never gave much thought to the differences between cowboys aside from the main categories: real working cowboy, rodeo cowboy, and wannabe-a-cowboy. I of course, had my sights set on the first category since I always figured that was the only “real” cowboy.

A guy I worked with up north finally told me that all I was going to find up there were loggers, and that if I wanted a cowboy, I needed to move down here, since this was ranch country, and this was where the “real” cowboys were.

I'd never been to this part of the state, and even up there we made fun of Butte-- next best sport to telling North Dakota jokes! I listened to him though, and I'm so glad. I still run into him once in awhile since he retired in Butte. He's one of my favorite friends from my past, and he is tickled to death that his advice was so successful.

He's the kind whose happiness comes from having a hand in the happiness of others. He is an unusual single person in that his world doesn't revolve around himself. If he weren't an Irish construction engineer, I could probably call him a “real cowboy”. I think if I went deeper into my cowboy distinctions, they would have a general breakdown encompassing most situations: (Bear in mind, I'm coming from a skewed perspective since I happen to be married to the world's best “real cowboy”.)

Real Working Cowboy > has a passion for quality of life, even if it means living at the so-called “poverty” level, and going without some things. That passion comes from caring about basic life, loving to work hard outdoors, and the ability to spend quality time with family. He cares about the welfare of the things under his stewardship, and the welfare of others. He gives very little thought to what others think as long as he's confident he's doing the right thing to the best of his ability. He's very likely to have faith in Jesus Christ, and to glorify Him as the Creator--or at the very least, he lives a life in line with God's laws.

Rodeo Cowboy > also has a passion for life, with a narrower focus. He revels in improving his personal skills to the point where his performance is consistently sharp. Quality of life is not nearly as important, since his passion stems from always looking ahead to his goals. He has a faithful, loyal circle of friends within that focus. Often, his main job is simply a means of subsidizing his personal quest for excellence. He's often on the road, and his main focus is the thrill of the next contest, and making it to the top. Some have a relationship with Jesus Christ, but are more likely to manage that relationship to fit their own personal goals, rather than align their goals to the relationship.

Wannabe a Cowboy > This can actually be broken down two ways. The ones who “wannabe” so bad that they make it happen, and then the ones who think it would be fun to be a part of that circle, but are not willing to make the sacrifice. They are content to put on the garb and look the part-- and maybe even fool a girl or two, as well as themselves. Often the latter category will grow up and move on, but some never do. Some actually work on ranches and make pretty fair hands. But they got no heart. They're in it for the glory. 

It's been fun over the years, to watch some wannabe's become the genuine article. The gal from a wealthy family in Connecticut, the working class young man from Pennsylvania. The black kid from Alabama (with top level political connections) who stole his grandfather's old pickup at age 15, and headed west. Farmers from Wisconsin and Kansas, a couple young high school dropouts from Montana, and this dairy farmer from up north (but south of the border). 

Clayton and Colt, one of the kid's favorite cowboys.



“Real Cowboys”, regardless of their occupation, have a heart for others. Their own success comes from helping others be successful.

Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others. Phil 2:4

Flying Time



Clayton, his wife Kristine, and Kyle, heading out on a miserable, slippery
November day to search for missing cattle.



You'll find a lot of ranchers up-in-the-air about this time of year. Sometimes finding all your cattle for fall round-up can be a bit of a challenge. One of our old neighbors came up short 30 calves this fall. Most of those though, spend summer in an area that's become infested with wolves, and since most of the mother cows are accounted for, it's a pretty good chance that their babies fell victim to the local wolf packs. Pretty pricey dogfood considering the price of calves this fall.

Sometimes, especially with yearlings, there will be little bunches that have found themselves a nice pocket of trees somewhere, or are up on a higher, steeper place than the mountain goats. Those can be a bugger to get even if you find them by flying. Footing can be scary in the summer, but downright treacherous this time of year. Usually it's best to ride to the top of the ridge above them, then bother them until they start moving. (i.e: scream and holler until you're hoarse, and roll and throw rocks down the side of the mountain.) At least they're in the pasture where they belong.

Then you have the case of gates left open by inconsiderate people-- or sometimes torn down by game, or even cattle. The stolen gate I talked about last week, resulted in a case of twenty-some missing cattle. The rancher ended up having to hire a plane to try and find them. Sure enough, they'd all gone through the missing gate to the other side of the mountain. Today Ray and another cowboy drove to our old place-- about 100 miles each way, then rode up the mountain from that side, bringing the missing cattle down to those corrals, and hauling them home from there. A lot of extra time and expense.

On another “flying time” note, I sent out our first batch of invitations for a housewarming we're planning. Scary thought. Can't change the date now. Time to kick in my “work under pressure routine”. I only have one piece of furniture left to refinish, and I want to get that done. Anything else that's not done will just have to wait, or I won't have a clean house or enough appetizers.

Of course I may not anyway since we're flying by the seat of our pants. I don't know if we'll need enough for 50, or 200! Besides the invitations, we're doing an open invitation in our new neighborhood.

I could probably count the parties I've planned, on three fingers. It ranks right below cooking for a crew on the anxiety scale. But, I'm also excited since this is the first time in our married life we've lived in an actual neighborhood, in our very own house.

I've never been scared of flying, so guess it's not time to choke up now!

Gate? What Gate?



Kristy with her first buck. Her brother was her guide.

 Hunting Season. I hate it. I hate it worse every year. Now, before I get myself shot, let me say that I have nothing against most hunters, and the ethical sport of hunting. Some of my favorite people are avid hunters. (I didn't say “drive-by shooters”.)

It might have something to do with the fact that no matter where we lived on the ranch, with the exception of five years across the creek, we've always been right in the thick of the heavy traffic that begins two weeks before hunting season, and reaches bumper to bumper status by opening day.



Clayton and another successful hunter. Nice!



At Sage Creek, the traffic went right through our yard. Some stopped, some didn't. Since that time of year also happens to be one of the busiest on the ranch, I was frequently by myself, out in the middle of nowhere, with 3 babies. I kept my loaded .22 under the bed. At least until one day, when I was on the phone, and heard my three-year old, who's been a gun nut since he was a few months old, saying “bang, bang” in the background. Yes, he had discovered my hiding place. Fortunately I always left the chamber empty, and the safety on. Ray built me a gun rack that night. Both our son and his wife are avid hunters now-- bow and rifle.



Having to drive by these big boys didn't help matters...



I've just seen too much of the bad stuff. The blatant disrespect for others, for game itself, and for private property. I've been pleasantly oblivious to hunting this year since we're no longer on a main access route. I heard a couple of gunshots the other day, which reminded me how nice it is not to hear them blasting away all day long. It's amazing how often I would hear 6 to 10 shots at a time—like, maybe they should think about going to a shooting range and learning to aim, or maybe sighting in their gun. Or maybe they need to get within range...

One fall we were bringing some calves down the road, and we had to hold traffic up at a gate. A very pleasant out-of-state hunter in a pickup with a canopy was in the lead. He was very excited about his success, and was more than happy to show off his two “mule deer” he had just bagged. When he opened up his canopy, there were two very nice...elk calves.



A couple more of Clayton's hunters and an elk.



Those kind never bothered me as much as the blatant vandalism that goes on. One year in cowcamp, hunters began shooting before daybreak in an area that was closed to hunting-- our horse pasture. They killed a horse that they thought was an elk then drove off when they realized their mistake. A guy sitting up on a hill above them told us about it. That same year they stole a spare tire off one of our trucks that we'd left along the road where we unloaded horses to gather cattle off a mountain.

When we were building our house, our contractor watched from the roof as someone drove up to the locked gate that was meant to keep people out of the yard, barnyard, and construction area. Finding the gate locked, the “hunter” got back in his truck, turned around, backed up to it, hooked a chain onto it, and ripped the gate, brace posts and all, out of the ground. They melted plastic into the lock on the gate going into cowcamp. The cowboys had to dismantle the gate to get home at the end of the day.

The past few days, Ray's been helping gather and trail cattle off the opposite side of the mountain from our old stomping grounds. He told me that the gate that separates the two sides of the mountain between this ranch and the old place-- is gone. Not torn down, not cut up, not left open-- simply stolen.

It's like the hunters that were constantly driving by three or four big “No Trespassing” and “Private Road” signs always said when confronted: “Signs? What signs? We didn't see any signs...” What a relief not to have to deal with that anymore!

Housecall.  Ray had an ingrown toenail during weaning  and

couldn't get to town during the day.  Preacher brought Doc

by after their hunt.

To be fair, I've seen plenty of good, honest, respectful hunters over the years as well. The kind you are glad to call your friends, and the kind you are more than happy to have come and enjoy getting out for a good hunt. The kind that make you wish you could pick and choose who gets to hunt.

They stop and let you know where they've seen cattle that were missed during a gather. They let you know if they've come across damage done by vandal “hunters”, and to let you know that they closed a gate that had been left open, in case cattle had gone through in the meantime. They stop when they see you trying to turn a herd of cattle off the road, through a gate, and patiently wait.

They have a kind word as they pass, instead of a dirty bird and a trail of beer cans. They ask if they can do something to help. There were even a couple of guys from Missoula who would come back in July armed with weed spray and a sprayer, to help get rid of knapweed during the County's annual Weed Day.

They don't consider their hunting license a license to stomp all over other's rights. They consider it a privilege.

For every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills.  I know all the fowls of the mountains: and the wild beasts of the field are mine.
 Ps 50:10-11

(Note:  Most of these photos came from Clayton's wife, Kristine, or the hunters.)

Thank You Ma'am



Beckie and Gary were at Sage Creek after
us. Beckie made great rolls!



When I married Ray, he was foreman at Sage Creek. It was part of the main ranch, but on the other side of the mountain, so we were basically on our own. There was 80,000 acres, and Ray usually had one or two hired men, and me. I was also the cook.

I'd grown up helping Mom cook for the family, as well as for haying crews, so I wasn't totally new to the concept of feeding a crew of hungry men, although my experience had been at a much lower elevation. There's a reason why cake mixes have “high altitude instructions”. But I usually cooked every thing from scratch, so I didn't even think about that, at least to start with.

Feeding Ray and the hired men was pretty routine, but during branding and weaning, the entire crew from headquarters would come, and I would stress out planning meals. On branding days I only had the crew for lunch. In October though, they would all bring their bedrolls and stay in the bunkhouse for three days, and eat three meals a day in our living room.

That took a little more planning, because it was 50 miles to town. There was a little store and Post Office 10 miles up the gravel road, but I only used them for emergencies. Ray always said that “Old Bud”, was the only guy he knew that could take a grapefruit and turn it into a kiwi. After I found weevils in the bottom of the bag of noodles I'd bought, and got tired of sour milk, I started being more careful.

The big old house we lived in had originally been set up for feeding crews, so it wasn't too hard to extend the table out all the way in order to seat all 14 men. There was old brown linoleum that I would get all shined up-- at least the first year. I learned real quick that the time to shine it up was after the crew left. Cowboys were very polite. But a lot of them wore lace up boots, and most of them didn't take them off.

Once I got into the swing of things, cooking was actually kind of fun. Except I was the first one up in the morning, and the last one to bed at night. I always lost my appetite when I cooked, so I didn't usually check the food I was putting out. I'd put the food on the table, then go back in the kitchen and start cleaning up while they ate.

I had pans set up so when they were finished, they'd bring their plates to the kitchen, scrape them off, put the plates in one pan, and silverware in another. As they filed through they were always very polite and complimentary. “Thank you ma'am. That was excellent!”, or something similar. That always made it worthwhile for me.

Until one day when I made my refrigerator rolls. I'd made them many times, but this was the first time I'd made them at Sage Creek, which sits at about 6500'. As the crew was driving in, I pulled the pans of golden brown rolls from the oven. They looked great, and smelled even better. I popped them in baskets, and set them on the table.

After they'd gone back to work, I went in to clean off the table. I was hoping there were some rolls left so I could try one. My heart dropped when I saw the table. The baskets were still full. I took one of the rolls and broke it open. The centers were raw dough.

I was so embarrassed. Not one of them had said a word beside the usual, “Thank you ma'am, that was very good.” Ray didn't even tell me. It wasn't until he was cowboss, and I watched cowcamp cooks come and go, that I figured out that the crew I'd fed was sincerely appreciative, and not just being polite. Cowboys had a certain code about cooks, and when they had a good one, they took care of him.

“...the workman is worthy of his meat.” MT 10:10



There haven't been cowcamp cooks since 1990. The crew is responsible
for packing their own lunch. Once in awhile they get to
stop at Yesterday's Cafe on their way home.





Cattle gathered up for fall work. The elk calf had lost his mama, and lived with
the cows all summer. He had to be run off when we brought the cattle in.
Antelope also like the protection they get from cows-- especially during hunting season.

 

High, Wide, and Lonesome. Early morning gather, 2010.



Harvest Time

If it weren't for the huge temperature swings, and the land going dormant, I think fall would be my favorite time of year. As a kid, we'd come home from school and drive the old Chevy dump truck for Dad while he was combining. We'd chew handfuls of raw wheat until it turned into gum. We'd race our ponies bareback across the freshly harvested hay and grain fields on the way out to bring in our little dairy herd for milking. We'd rake up piles of leaves from the old Silver Willows around the yard, dig the spuds out of the garden and store them in a bin in the basement, along with the shelves and shelves of canned fruits and vegetables and bins of apples meant to get our family of 8 kids through another year.

We'd load up in Dad's big old orange “logging” truck, and go to Grandpa's to find a nice buckskin tamarack Dad and the boys would cut down and split before we all starting pitching the chunks onto the back of the truck. Mom would send a coffee can full of her beef vegetable soup to heat over a campfire for lunch.

One time the brother most known for trouble-making, was pitching wood on the opposite side from Dad, and accidentally pitched one a little too hard. It came down on Dad's head, knocking him down, and almost out. When little brother rounded the end of the truck to see what had happened, he saw Dad staggering up from the ground, trying to get rid of the stars-- and started laughing. Big mistake. Dad failed to see the humor...(It was the same brother who, when he was in line for a paddling at our little country school, got some boys to hold the door shut on the teacher long enough for him to escape out a window. The teacher, and his dog, chased him down the highway for about a half-mile. Little brother was a hero!)

For the past 37 years, harvest has been primarily of a different nature. It's weaning time on most ranches in this part of the country, when the calves are separated from their mothers. It's noisy, it's dusty, and often it's bone-chilling cold. It's payday that, like any other enterprise, correlates directly with the type of management the business has received, not only in the past year, but the years spent designing genetics and developing grazing systems that have long-term effects.

And this year...well, being retired puts a whole new spin on things. We went to a health fair this week, and Ray was utterly shocked to find his blood pressure had dropped 40 points in four months, from the highest it had ever been, to the lowest it's ever been. Made his day. We're trying to finish up painting, staining, frost-free water tanks, and the like, but Ray's still getting a little antsy. There's cows across the road.

We do miss being out in the hills, and all the horseback activity. Although I confess, I've been getting more and more fair-weather the last several years, and I really don't miss having frozen toes and fingers, not-to-mention 20 pounds of clothes to peel off just to get rid of my coffee! We've got some opportunity to do some local daywork, and that will be just enough to keep things fun for now.

“...but God meant it unto good...” Gen. 50:20

Ray, Clayton on Alpo, and Marion