More photos from the museum

An old steam boiler
Collection of vintage machinery and implements

Chapel, c. 1909

Borner's Garden School

My daughter enjoyed the vintage textbooks she found in the cupboard.

The following details are from the notes in the museums's handout flyer:

Chapel; This building was founded by the Congregational Society and later supervised by the Episcopalians and the Reverend John Roberts to serve the town of Hudson, Wyoming. Rev. Roberts came to the Wind River Indian Reservation in 1883 and established an Episcopal Mission at Ft. Washakie. He preached at St. Matthew's as part of his ministerial circuit.

School;

The structure was built at Borner's Garden, an area near the mouth of Sinks Canyon along the Old Indian Trail. It served as a one-room schoolhouse until 1948. John Borner was one of the earliest settlers in the Lander Valley. He planted a large garden and trucked his produce into Lander to sell. His sister-in-law was the notorious Calamity Jane.

Museum of the American West

The horse-drawn hearse

Since these are colored photos, I'm wondering if they were taken as part of an enactment.

Country Store Display

My daughter coveted the vintage salt and pepper shakers inside the sheep wagon!

An entire "stuffed" horse, getting a bit baggy at the knees.

I persuaded my daughter to go with me to visit the local pioneer living museum on Saturday afternoon. These are some of the displays in the museum's main building.

I can only upload 5 photos at a time [?] so will continue with separate posts to show you others.

Getting Anywhere From Here

Local Airport
J. at the counter, flight connections cancelled

Creatures in the lobby

Mountain Lion on a ledge

The Gris

If this were an old book with a lengthy sub title, it might go something like this: "Being the latest installment in the tedious and treacherous process of conveying a motor coach from Arizona to Wyoming and the difficulties encountered and surmounted."

In spite of our experiences with the unreliabilty of used motor homes--and those who sell them--J.'s twin brother and his wife decided to finalize the purchase of two units. They have supposedly put the RV inspection crew through their paces. My sister-in-law is clever with airline tickets and motel reservations and handles the details of such trips. A bit belatedly J. decided that he might as well travel with them and retrieve the now repaired motor coach we had to abandon outside of Phoenix, AZ. The only ticket available would land him in Yuma several hours after his brother and crew would arrive.

He packed his bag and with our grandson in tow, I went along to the little airport in the next town to drive the car home. His flight was scheduled to depart at 4:12 with a layover in Denver, CO. Then, a hop to LA airport and a final connection into Yuma. [To forestall any thought that this is idiotic, let me point out that there are very few thru flights available to anywhere from Wyoming--and if there are, the likes of us can't afford them!]

Flying out of Wyoming is a nightmare of scheduling connections, so it wasn't a huge shock when J. was told that the LA to Yuma flights had been cancelled for the day. "Phoenix!" said J. hopefully. "It's Phoenix that I really need to get to!" The young clerk poked at her computer, asked for help from another clerk, apologized, finally came up with the helpful information that the local flight to Denver was OK to link with a direct flight to Phoenix. There was, however, going to be a delay in the local take off because the plane was held up in Denver "for repairs."

We groaned. The shuttle plane, commonly known as "the flying culvert" is ALWAYS down for repairs in Denver. On any incoming flight we have sat in the waiting area, far down the busy main corridors of Denver's huge terminal and listened to the intermittant voice from the loud speaker assuring us that the plane designated for the bumpy passage to the interior of Wyoming is still undergoing service and there will be yet another 20 minute wait. When the flight number is eventually called the passengers are hustled through the security door and herded down several flights of stairs before stumbling out onto the wind-swept tarmac. One by one we teeter up the fragile metal stairs and collapse into the uncomfortable plastic seats. The propeller twirls, the engine churns, sounding like a washing machine full of rocks; the small plane shudders. Leaving from the local airport is simply the process in reverse.

This afternoon, faced with an indefinite wait, we went into the little cafe and ordered a light meal. Other delayed passengers straggled in. The tone of conversation from table to table was joshing, after all, the delays were to be expected. Outside a restless wind teased a clump of field daises, fluttered the plumes of foxtail grass.

Grandson and I said our farewells to J. who doesn't like anyone to hover and went to Wal Mart for some quick errands. We arrived home at 6. We told each other that surely J. must be nearly to Denver. When he eventually phoned from Denver we learned that the plane never took off from the local airport until after 7 p.m. J. was laconic. "Oh well", he said, "I have time for supper in the Denver airport and now I won't have to wait so long here!"

I sit waiting for the phone call that will assure me that the last leg of the flight has been safely made. Our sister-in-law , using her laptop and cell phone, managed to arrange a motel reservation for J. in Phoenix with a shuttle from the airport. She thought they might arrive at the motel at about the same time he does. I think of the old adage" "If the good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise!"

I suspect that our family and friends in New England wonder why we don't make it "back home" more often. I could tell the stories, all variations on this one. You can "get there from here"..but it ain't easy!

Smoke from the Mountains

Column of smoke rising from a brush fire

The smoke is spreading



A rose that the deer missed!





Lemon bars for our shop lunch

We quilt shop girls agreed to have lunch together this noon, salads and cold drinks to be delivered. I decided to make lemon bars as a dessert treat. Busy with baking I didn't get outside to peg sheets and towels on the clothesline until after 10. I was immediately struck with the scent of burning sagebrush and discovered the plume of smoke rising in the foothills.

The heat of summer has been tardy this year, but it has arrived this week bringing with it a searing dryness. Most evenings lightning zips across the sky and thunder growls in the distance, but little rain falls. What little moisture comes quickly evaporates in shimmering heat. Western forest fires are a yearly disaster, whether caused by lightning strikes in dead timber or by human carelessness.

During the summer of 2000 my husband and son were building a large log home at a billionaire's hobby ranch near Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I was hired to overhaul and tend the flower gardens around the main lodge. Once a week I loaded groceries and two dogs into whatever truck was available and drove over South Pass or Togwottee Pass to spend several days gardening and tidying up messes of neglected housekeeping the men had created. It was a summer of intense heat and many fires. Fires in Wyoming, in Idaho, in California. A dirty yellowish smudge hung over the mountains by day; every evening the sun set in a smear of soiled clouds. The fire's breath blew in when we opened windows for the cooling night breezes; towels and clothing hung outside collected the charred odor; working outdoors our eyes stung, throats rasped. "That's from the big one in Idaho," we said.

Fire moved into the folds of the mountains behind the ranch, the orange glow visible on the night horizon. One day the men began to seriously consider the possibility of the fire cresting the ridges a few miles away and sweeping down the valley where the ranch spread its hundreds of acres. They worked on through a sultry afternoon, alert to the direction of the wind and the shifting smoke. Feathery ash and bits of charred pine floated into the work site. Down the hill half a mile away, I continued clipping carragana and trimming back potentilla that had gone sprawling into the paths during several years of neglect.

I became gradually aware of a strangely heavy silence. No birds were calling, the "chislers" were in their burrows, their cheeky chatter stilled. I stood, clippers dangling from my hand, inhaling wood smoke, turned to see a doe a few yards away, caught like a statue in the uneasy hush of an unnatural dusk.

The wind shifted, the fire raced through miles of high mountain forest before it was contained, burnt out. Wild animals perished in its rush and roar, firefighters worked until overcome by smoke and exhaustion.

I know of two fires, maybe three, in our area today. The one I spotted this morning may be the one at Willow Creek. [My sense of direction, never great, hasn't found its bearings here.] Another was up in the Sinks Canyon.

We invited an older lady we all love to have lunch with us at the shop. She came in a bit late, shaken and distraught. She and her husband, both retired, have a home in Sinks Canyon. The fire there, she told us, was considered the work of an arsonist. She could see the leaping flames from their home, as fire equipment was rushed in. "What would we take?" she asked. "If we have to leave, what could I quickly pack to take with us?" As we finished our lunch the fire sirens blared again. My co-workers, living here so many years, can distinguish the city fire and rescue vehicles from those of the rural fire department. The local radio station interrupts programing to give the location of each fire and ask that motorists avoid that area. We all cringe as the trucks charge along the main street, horns and sirens shatteringly imperative, blowing traffic aside. Later in the afternoon the bulletin came over the air: the fire in Sinks Canyon was under control but not out. If the wind doesn't come up.........!

We hugged our friend as she left, assured her that if she needed help we would do what we could. I have interrupted this writing several times to stand on my front porch in the dark, scanning the wavering line where the foothills blend into the night sky. We are so close to the mountains, so enfolded by the foothills that the mountain peaks are not visible. Already, in the intensity of summer heat, twilight falls earlier, the air cools. I don't smell the pungent aura of burning sage. The air seems clean. Perhaps a shower dropped soothing moisture somewhere above us.

We dare not be lulled. It is the season of burning, when grimy smoke rolls down from the mountains and the restless winds turn the flames where they will.

Sunset Drama

These were shot from the front porch last night just before dark. The contrast between sky and land wasn't quite as defined as it appears and there was a yellow-green tint to the clouds. It was raining somewhere in the mountains and the setting sun was behind a sheet of moisture.
This evening I had to follow J. to a job site a few miles out of town. He had managed to get one too many vehicles there in the course of the day. I wished I had taken the camera as I had to wait while he loaded tools and such. Distant thunder was rattling and raindrops hit the windshield. Dark blooming clouds with a molten sunset edging rolled above the mountains.
I've tried a few shots with the new camera--haven't installed the soft ware yet. Also can't remember where to punch the "zoom" button. I'm only on the first bend of the learning curve!

No Pioneers?

Levi and Laura
G-G-Grandmother Ann

Cousin Luther/ G-Grandfather Eddie and his sons

A few years before my Mother went into a nursing home, she handed over some old family photos. She had labeled ones she knew, but I am left with unsolved mysteries, faded sepia faces to which I can put no names. On the back of the photo with the oval inset is written, "Luther Andrews, your cousin in the midwest." Mother had also copied in her neat teacher's hand the sparse family notes which survived from her late brother's delving in family history. My g-g-grandmother's maiden name was Andrews.

I posted the family surnames on a genealogy forum for the relevant county in upstate New York and had a detailed reply regarding those of that lineage. The respected researcher provided such clues as he could document, along with some intelligent guesswork. Still, I couldn't create a sound link to "Cousin Luther." At some point I traced Luther to Iowa, but put the puzzle aside to work on other family lines.

I have been blessed over the years of family research by the generous sharing of information compiled by others interested in the area where my mother's people settled prior to 1800. High on that list of helpful individuals is "Cousin Bruce" who has compiled a vast amount of data. A few weeks ago, he happened to mention in an e-mail exchange that Iowa seemed to be a popular destination for those inhabitants of Warren County who were taken by the urge to go west. I remembered Cousin Luther and resolved to revisit his story.

In 1860 Levi and Laura Andrews and their two sons lived in that upstate NY village with Laura's parents. A family tree published on Ancestry puts the families' move west sometime in 1864. Levi was a man in his late 40,s; his father-in-law was over 70. Luther would have been in his late teens. It appears that this journey to the "west" involved a number of extended family who all settled in the area of Linn County, Iowa. It is possible to locate them in the 1870 census and find Cousin Luther with wife and children. His father, Levi is listed as age 62 in 1880. Although Luther's grandmother had died, his grandfather was still a part of the household at 93. The above mentioned "tree" at Ancestry.com states that Levi's father-in-law was dead within the year. I have learned to be wary of undocumented family lineage, but this offering, nicely done and documented with family stories gives Levi's death in 1899 and Laura's in 1920. The above photo from the collection of my cousin Barb, shows Laura and Levi in their old age. Cousin Barb has the scrapbook started by our g-g-grandmother Ann and continued by Barb's grandmother. It would seem the two families stayed in touch for many years.

Removal from a hill farm in a small NY village to Iowa doesn't seem like much of a journey compared to the hardships of the Oregon Trail. In imagination I see them boarding a train, laden with sachels and bags. Would they have culled the household goods, packing the best in wooden crates to be shipped in the baggage car? What about the farm animals, the cattle, the chickens, a pig? I speculated that the family farm may have been sold, the animals might have been bought by neighbors, or maybe they stayed with the farm. My husband suggests that the livestock may have been loaded onto the train and hauled west. I wonder, had Levi gone ahead to purchase a new farm with the intent of his family joining him? Perhaps Cousin Luther, nearly a man, journeyed out with his father, while Laura packed up the last of their belongings and travled later with her parents, her younger son, her brother. I spread the pieces of their story in my mind, trying to join them in the way that I lay out the colorful patches of a quilt block. I look again and again at the photos and note the oval faces, the deep set eyes shared by Ann and Luther, whom I have come to beleive are the first cousins. I see those features echoed in the face of Ann's son, the great grandfather who died a decade before my birth.

I could take the bare bones of known facts; I could fashion them into a story as interesting and lively as many I have read. I will continue to wonder about those who went "west" and those who stayed.

The link below will take you to the website which Cousin Bruce has created to honor the families of our Adirondack town. The family names and the place are particular, but if you enjoy tales of older times, you may want to read Mrs. Hoyt's memoir. Choose Early Incidents of Hague.

http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~hagueny/

Doesn't Anyone Feed the Cats?

Who was here first?

Lt to Rt: Teasel, Raisin, Chester, Charlie, Jemima

Quite a few years ago we moved the cats' kibble feeder from the floor to the kitchen counter. This was during the lifetime of the late Henry Higgins our Border Collie when we discovered that he preferred the cat food to whatever was served in his own bowl. Higgins has passed on, but there is still a cat feeder on the counter, as well as another on the table in the entry and one behind the "island". I serve two kinds of "crunchies" just to keep everyone happy. Spoiled cats, indeed.

Sunday morning I opened a new bag of Iams and was immediately mobbed. Raisin, our elderly queen of hairballs, had first chance while the younger generation had to wait in line.