Castle Rock

Right before you fall off the northern edge of Montana into that place called Canada, is where my immediate family stopped. My summers in that middle of nowhere spot are layered with some of my fondest memories. I've heard various stories and not a few speculations as to why that was the spot to restart life. The war to establish who owned who had been over half a decade before my great grandad wagon trained and herded north. The homestead act was probably the impetus. If anything great gramps was not only a hard worker but entrepreneurial. He and his Schooler bride helped family in Saskatchewan raise wheat, but also establish a large horse ranch just south of Castle rock. I've only know the spot as buzzards glory, or Benruds bench. As a young lad three years shy of being able to obtain a driver's license, being let loose to drive a tractor larger than my first studio apartment, dragging a toolbar,all worth more than my first house was a mythical adventure. Every other, hot, dusty, July weekend, my grandad would drive off to play cards, eat chinese food and judge Canadian horse shows, leave three wild boys alone to fix fence, swim the pond, plink ground squirrels, to bank a nickel for every tail, making sure to get a few, in and out of every cooley no seat belts, bench seat bouncing open prairie rides in "RED", my personal favorite family hero, cousin J.D, spinning the suicide knob hitting every gopher hole trying to keep up with a baker's dozen or so mostly wild spotted ponies.

Every night, at ten, television ended after Johnny, with black and white colored bars, an indian headress filling the tube, the monotonous T.V. tone would send me upstairs to sit on the broken down front steps.

Grandad turned my nights into a planetarium adventure, he'd point out constellations, and tell the starry, Greek and native sky stories. Dogs in a pack following Orion as he tried to catch at least one of the seven sisters, eternally battling their gaurdian the great bull Taurus. Gesture at ChanSheeYoh "the grouse" who covered and protected all things under her wings, Shungila "the Fox" who gave wisdom. He would point at the horizon and tell me, to be wary, humble, respectful of Hinhan Tanka. The great horned owl came out later in the night, the silent hunter, the queen of all night persons. Sometimes he would grab me, pull me close to hilight his purpose, maybe his favorite. He would stress her by saying without any noise Ms.Owl, captured young boys and girls who didnt behave.

He would tell me how the small and great bears meandered the sky following the great snake, point to the Tee Pee's of cassiopea, where the great god and his son lived and watched over all creatures great and small, they had formed.

I'm sure dear reader that your memories of your grandad, favorite or not, may be filled with stories passed down, your families soldier, sailor, pirate, pilot chasing war planes through foreign skies. Men full of stories and lies are dear to you. I'd like to believe if I were to relate to you the person of my grandad, you would begin to believe I inherited his gift of stretching the truth. If you had the opportunity to have known him you might describe him differently. For me my grandad was the all rolled into one, larger than life, family scoundrel, writer, teacher, cigar puffing, card gambling, possible spring time horse thief, pay to ride, bronc busting rodeo rider.

I'm glad I knew him, I wish you had too