When my Dad was a boy it was a different day and time. The expectations of a boy in the 1930s would seem crazy nowadays, but, was probably the norm then. Times were hard, everyone had to do their part to make a living. Dad said that he knew his Mother worried about them, but his Dad sure didn’t seem to give such jobs a second thought, and Dad was expected to look out for his little brother. Dad told a story of when he and his younger brother Keith were boys, maybe 12 and 9 years old. Their Dad had sold some stock way off down country and had sent his two boys to drive them down to the buyer’s ranch. It was many miles and took most of the day. They had left before daylight, I’m sure, and didn’t pack a lunch. The put together bunch of cattle they drove didn’t want to leave the familiar country, so put up quite a fight trying to go back. It was open range away from the home place, so there were no fences or lanes to follow, just windmills and an occasional sandhill ridge for landmarks. The boys were worked to a frazzle, as were their horses. Horses, I might add, who probably were trader horses that their Dad had on hand and not necessarily kid horses. Being the oldest, Dad always drew the most spoiled, nasty ones too, which added to the challenges of the day. Windmills were utilized on the trip south, by the stock and the boys, so thirst wasn’t a big problem, but those two boys sure got hungry. The cornmeal mush they’d had for breakfast had plumb worn off. Their Dad had told them to get the stock to their destination then ride back as far as a friend’s place and spend the night, then ride on home the next morning. The two boys had hoped that the buyer of the cattle would feed them before they rode out, but it didn’t happen, much to their disappointment. He just counted the cattle and shut the gate. The friend had been informed of his overnight guests, so was watching for them. When they rode in to the man’s ranch long after dark, he told them to put their horses up in a certain pen, as they were already fed there, and come on in and he’d have some supper ready for them. They were sure looking forward to something to eat after 15 or more hours with nothing but water. Dad said that when they walked into the house, the old gentleman had baked some biscuits and was frying eggs in a big skillet. He couldn’t remember anything ever smelling better than those eggs and biscuits. He and Keith washed up and set up at the table. He said that they both ate about a dozen or more fried eggs, with the old man frying them as needed, and most of a pan of biscuits with butter. They washed it all down with milk, cold from the spring house. They ate until their buttons were straining, then had to choke down the last bites of the eggs. Dad said that those eggs were the best things he’d ever tasted to start with, but when finally full and cleaning up their plates, they didn’t taste nearly as good. I’d have to agree. Nothing better than an egg when you’re hungry, but not so hot when you’re full. But, he spoke fondly of the meal and the old friend who fixed it. They had more eggs and biscuits for breakfast before riding the rest of the way home. Just another interlude in the life of a trader’s sons.
Jan was raised on a ranch in far western South Dakota. She grew up horseback working all descriptions of cattle, plus sheep and horses. After leaving home she pursued a post-graduate study of cowboying and dayworking in Nebraska, New Mexico, Montana, Wyoming and South Dakota....
