An old Ball canning jar, turned blue with age, contains a collection that my grandmother stashed over the years.  I found it among her things and saved it in tact.  Being the family collector, there was no way I was going to part with it.  It has resided in an antique book case, along with many other family artifacts. Inside the jar, a sewing kit called  the “Happy Mender” contains a variety of thread and a needle.  Frank A. Barrett, Republican for Congress, added a slogan to the kit that reads “Let’s sew up the re-election of Frank A. Barrett.”  The flip side of the kit lists his qualifications:  Able; Efficient; Experienced; Served World War 1.”

Beyond the sewing kit is a wide variety of incidental items that would have been picked at random for the jar:  three shotgun shells; two thimbles, (one with an inscription “Butternut, the Coffee Delicious” and the other with “Natrona Motor Company, Housley Ford);” USO and Red Cross pins; zipper pull; dress hook;  red plastic die; safety pins in various sizes; hair pins; straight pins; pencil with red lead; brittle rubber bands; key to open tins of meat; curtain rod bracket; and an assortment of buttons of all sizes and colors.  A slender, 4-inch brass tool was included – we have no idea what it was used for.

The assortment of items my grandmother collected gave me a peek into her life. I see her going through her daily routine as a wife and mother on the homestead at Nine Mile during the 1920’s and 1930’s. I do not believe she ever fired a gun, so the addition of three shotgun shells is a puzzlement.  I cannot know whether she was really fond of the sewing kit or the political candidate who gave it to her, but she kept it for 40 years.  Our family didn’t have a lot of discussions about politics–it was usually cattle prices and commodities.  I always believed Granny was a solid Democrat because I remember her fussing and stewing in the kitchen at the Telephone Store, worrying that Adlai Stevenson would not get elected for president.  But a woman has the right to vote her heart, not the party!

I decided to take a look at the Honorable Frank Aloysius Barrett.  Of Irish descent, he served in the Wyoming Senate from 1933 until 1935.  He stood for Congress in 1942 and was elected to the House of Representatives until 1950.  I cannot determine which of his campaigns for re-election to the House would have generated a “Happy Mender” sewing kit.   In 1951 Barrett became the 21st governor of  Wyoming and resigned in 1953 after he was elected to the U. S. Senate where he served one term.

Nella, Jim and Clara Ullery circa 1938

Granny Ullery standing (right) beneath the wind mill on the homestead at Nine Mile.  She moved to Kaycee in the late 1940’s when she and my grandfather acquired the Telephone Store.  Her button jar went along, then moved back to the ranch with her in the early 1960’s when she and Grandaddy retired.  I will leave her button jar in the old book case for the next generation to poke around in.

The lonesome prairie . . . .

June, 1977 and it is time for the annual cattle drive into the Big Horn Mountains.  Trailing the herd of Hereford cattle into the high country for the summer meant the grass on the range down below would grow, cure and be forage for the winter months ahead.  The sheep wagon hauled provisions and provided sleeping quarters, along with a small camper trailer which served as the cook shack.

“Who is going to lead the hike?” . . . .

The old sheep wagon also afforded a place to nap, rest or just heckle your little brother.  Their first cattle drive, Royce and Eric are like most little boys who are experiencing something for the first time–they can’t get enough and don’t know what to do next! Two of the cowgirls, Lisa and Sue would like to be rid of them.

“Where’d all these sheep come from?” . . . .

The stock trail is open to all ranches and timing of herds moving up the trail requires a little choreography.  Cattle and sheep are easy to sort, as this herder is doing.  Cows mixed in with cows can be difficult and time consuming, relying upon brands and ear tags to sort it out. Our destination is about 65 miles from home range to the summer cow camp.  Some of the distance is covered hauling livestock in trucks to the base of the mountain and then trailing on from there with riders on horseback.  That is when the fun begins.

“The last guy who left the gates open!” . . . .

A memorial shrine to the unfortunate traveler who failed to close the gate and allowed livestock to wander away from their designated pasture.  A fitting reminder that gates are serious business!  Nobody wants to spend the summer and early autumn trying to locate lost cows and sheep once they are turned out to pasture.

Willard springs cabin . . . .

After a few days on the trail, destination is reached.  One of the finest springs on the south end of the Big Horns is adjacent to this old cabin, which became headquarters for summer camp.  The cows are tired and thirsty, the crew is dusty and hungry and it is time for a little relaxation and a cold beer.

Rosie, the camp cook and straw boss . . .

I drove the pickup which hauled the camp trailer up the mountain.  Mom rode alongside of me and helped guide me and calm my nerves, which were clearly frayed due to the steep inclines and rough, rocky road that would jar the fillings from your teeth!  Once we were parked for the day, she baked the best biscuits and fed us wonderful meals from a tiny kitchen that you could barely turn around in.  Most of us laughed at my two boys, ages 6 and 8 who were forever into mischief.  I say MOST of us.  Dad left a six-pack of beer submerged in a pool of  water rushing out of the spring, and the boys decided to haul it up and have a look.  Unfortunately the cardboard carton disintegrated and the glass bottles of beer crashed on the rocks and broke.  It’s a long hard drive down mountain for more beer! In deference to his grandsons, Dad showed considerable restraint–if it had been me or my siblings who dumped his beer he would have roared like a bear and gone for his belt.

“Look mom, I can ride!” . . . .

Royce gets his first ride on a horse, thanks to a forgiving grandpa.  It was a highlight of the trip for the boys to be able to say they had actually ridden a horse.  City boys are pretty easy to please, and these are city boys.

Eric takes a spin . . . .

Mama is not a city girl.  She grew up riding any horse that could be caught with a bucket of oats and a halter.  She still has not outgrown her love of horses.

“This water is too cold!” . . . .

The trail dust was too much for me to cope with and I made the boys get in the mountain stream for a bath along the way.  The water was melting right out of snow banks so little wonder they were turning blue from the cold.  Mom thought I was being ridiculous, making little boys wash on the trail, but they survived it and still like to brag about how cold it was!

Eric has his turn . . . .

Eric has his turn at a bath and complained that the slippery rocks were too hard to stand on.  Much easier to stay dirty!

Time for some adventure–bringing in fire wood . . . .

The following school year, Royce decided to enter a competition and write a story about his experience on the cattle drive.  To improve his chances of winning, he convinced me to type it for him.  The following is his tale.

The End . . . .