0ct. 4, 2003
This date has significance in my famil for several reasons. The first is myy father's birthday in 1899; the second is the date of my discharge from the U.S.M.C.; and the third is my younger brother's (now deceased) wedding anniversary.
This morning's sunrise appears with clear skies and a muted orange faded to peach to eggshell to pale blue. The colors just blend. There are no sunrays, no strikingly magnificent colors bouncing off of clouds, just a pleasant, pastel spectrum that brightens as the sun appears over the bluffs. It's time to grain the horses and check the buffalo.
By mid-morning I had another load of stones, and on the way back across the North pasture on this, by now, warming up, bright, clear morning, I stopped for a few minutes at one of my favorite places on the ranch. It's not on the highest point or beneath a pleasantly scented cedar tree, but rather on the side of a hill (near the top) that wraps around from west to northeast, the remains of what must have been a homesteader's dugout. It is located about 200 yards from a stockdam, which likely was not contemporary to the dugout. Several things interest me about the site. There are no trees; there is no flat land, rolling yes, flat no. The view of the Cheyenne River to the south is breathtaking, but a magnificent view has a hard time feeding a family, however small. So part of my interest here is the virtual inevitability of failure for the homesteader. The hole of the dugout is there albeit now overgrown with buckbrush; a dry, as opposed to mortared, stone foundation is clearly visible as is a pile of stones that could be stones gathered for another project, though it seems unlikely that someone gathering stones would not put them immediately to the project rather than moving them again; or the stones could cover a grave. There are other possible reasons for this pile of stones, but those are my two theories.
I was first attracted to the site when I saw a piece of jagged, rusty metal protruding from the ground, and it is my habit to clean such items up because they are dangerous to animals and absolutely devastating to tires. The piece of cast iron was part of a woodburning cookstove. As I looked around, I discovered more of the iron shards; so I put them in the pickup. I also found the metal parts of a small wagon or buggy. All the wooden parts had obviously burned. The wheel rims and hubs were there as were some braces, the pivot mechanism for the front axel, and numerous bolts and nuts. But the most fascinating find was part of a plaque mounted on a fragment of the stove. In large block letters it says: Birthday. The piece preceding the B is broken and still missing. I have a feeling it says: Happy. I believe this plaque is a manufacturer's option. Perhaps other available plaques read: Good Eats or Merry Christmas or God Bless Our Home. What strikes me about this is that the stove had been smashed into hundreds of pieces. I am still finding them. Something catastrophic seems to have occurred here. It captures my attention and my imagination. I would like to know what happened. What if there were no difference in this case between reality and my imagination. That is perhaps another story.
I left the location with the load of previously gathered stones and took them to their intended destination, the washout in the driveway; but as I was placing them into the ditch, hoping they would serve the purpose for which I intended them, I had the distinct feeling of something unfinished here. The only thing remaining of the homesteader, to my knowledge, is a depression in the ground and a structure of stones, a story with no readily apparent closure, an anonymous, enigmatic, historical event, and unsettling affair. I wonder how often repeated?
This date has significance in my famil for several reasons. The first is myy father's birthday in 1899; the second is the date of my discharge from the U.S.M.C.; and the third is my younger brother's (now deceased) wedding anniversary.
This morning's sunrise appears with clear skies and a muted orange faded to peach to eggshell to pale blue. The colors just blend. There are no sunrays, no strikingly magnificent colors bouncing off of clouds, just a pleasant, pastel spectrum that brightens as the sun appears over the bluffs. It's time to grain the horses and check the buffalo.
By mid-morning I had another load of stones, and on the way back across the North pasture on this, by now, warming up, bright, clear morning, I stopped for a few minutes at one of my favorite places on the ranch. It's not on the highest point or beneath a pleasantly scented cedar tree, but rather on the side of a hill (near the top) that wraps around from west to northeast, the remains of what must have been a homesteader's dugout. It is located about 200 yards from a stockdam, which likely was not contemporary to the dugout. Several things interest me about the site. There are no trees; there is no flat land, rolling yes, flat no. The view of the Cheyenne River to the south is breathtaking, but a magnificent view has a hard time feeding a family, however small. So part of my interest here is the virtual inevitability of failure for the homesteader. The hole of the dugout is there albeit now overgrown with buckbrush; a dry, as opposed to mortared, stone foundation is clearly visible as is a pile of stones that could be stones gathered for another project, though it seems unlikely that someone gathering stones would not put them immediately to the project rather than moving them again; or the stones could cover a grave. There are other possible reasons for this pile of stones, but those are my two theories.
I was first attracted to the site when I saw a piece of jagged, rusty metal protruding from the ground, and it is my habit to clean such items up because they are dangerous to animals and absolutely devastating to tires. The piece of cast iron was part of a woodburning cookstove. As I looked around, I discovered more of the iron shards; so I put them in the pickup. I also found the metal parts of a small wagon or buggy. All the wooden parts had obviously burned. The wheel rims and hubs were there as were some braces, the pivot mechanism for the front axel, and numerous bolts and nuts. But the most fascinating find was part of a plaque mounted on a fragment of the stove. In large block letters it says: Birthday. The piece preceding the B is broken and still missing. I have a feeling it says: Happy. I believe this plaque is a manufacturer's option. Perhaps other available plaques read: Good Eats or Merry Christmas or God Bless Our Home. What strikes me about this is that the stove had been smashed into hundreds of pieces. I am still finding them. Something catastrophic seems to have occurred here. It captures my attention and my imagination. I would like to know what happened. What if there were no difference in this case between reality and my imagination. That is perhaps another story.
I left the location with the load of previously gathered stones and took them to their intended destination, the washout in the driveway; but as I was placing them into the ditch, hoping they would serve the purpose for which I intended them, I had the distinct feeling of something unfinished here. The only thing remaining of the homesteader, to my knowledge, is a depression in the ground and a structure of stones, a story with no readily apparent closure, an anonymous, enigmatic, historical event, and unsettling affair. I wonder how often repeated?
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