The Crawford Ranchby Nicole EwenFamily photos garnish the paneled walls, and pale blue carpet covers the floor. There is an entertainment center on the west wall stuffed with movies, a video cassette player and a bulky television. The faded pink couch facing the electronic mosaic falls between two marble lamps on dark wooden end tables. Years ago this portion of the house was a front porch, years before that a piece of land. On the left, a computer sits on a desk next to a massive oak table. The shades of color seem darker here, and the carpet feels longer. The ceiling and floors sag in the middle, and some parts of the floor feel as if you could fall through into the mud beneath the house. The bathroom, a tiny box-like closet east of the oak table, possesses an opening in the ceiling to the attic where only dust and occasional mice run. The bedrooms have white walls with the same thick, blue carpet. In one bedroom, the walls, marred by nail holes and crayon markings, surround a small, unmade bed encompassed by toys and dirty clothes. The adjacent bedroom holds a large water-bed blanketed in blue, and it seems far more organized than the previous. The kitchen, in a state of remodeling, has bare floors and mounds of dirty dishes in the sink. Outside the window, five enormous, gnarled trees sway naked in the wind, and the snow covers the yellowed, brittle grass in patches like a quilt in the yard. The harsh afternoon sun is gradually melting the brilliant white snow, and fading the peeling paint. Although new carpet, paint and furniture may fool onlookers into thinking the house is younger than it is, I can still make out the wrinkles underneath the mask and feel the history; this eighty-two year old house is where ranch hands lived on the Crawford Ranch. I can imagine a time sixty-four years ago when the Montana sky would cover the ground with gold, and the two small shacks would slowly wake up. Spring dew covers the ground, and the calves can be heard calling for their mothers. The ranch hands walk slowly, talking as they go, towards the house of Glen and Verda Crawford for breakfast. The conversation is light and cheery while Verda serves up the food, and the men eat hungrily, knowing that it will be a long six hours before their next meal. After the feast, they set out to the pasture where the spring calves wait unknowingly until it is their turn to be branded. While the branding iron sits over hot coals, collecting heat, a few of the cowboys stride over to catch an innocent calf. After the first calf is caught, it is laid on the ground and held down firmly. One cowboy picks up the red-hot iron and brings it closer and closer to the calf's hide. The calf's eyes rolls in its head as it anticipates the next movement of the cowboy with the iron. The iron is planted solidly onto the rump of the calf that moves spasmodically because of the searing pain. Smoke rises off the fur of the defenseless animal as it frantically attempts to escape the pain. Finally they let it up and it runs off into the field to hide behind its mother. The ritual is repeated over and over until every last calf is marked as the property of Glen Crawford. The day wears on as the ranch hands finish up various chores around the ranch. The dinner bell starts to ring as the sun begins to set behind Square Butte. The men finish their work and run to the sound of the bell with their stomachs growling. The wonderful dinner is eaten quickly and thankfully by the worn out men. They spend the rest of their evening talking about tomorrow's work, and then head back to their houses with their muscles sore and tired. Soon the entire ranch becomes quiet as everyone heads off to bed. It has been difficult for me to believe that my mother's house used to be called home by the ranch hands that worked on the Crawford Ranch. I used to call it home too, but, like the ranch hands, I left to see new things in life that the small town of Vaughn, Montana could not provide. According to Joyce Wohlgemuth poverty and sadness hit the town hard during the Depression, and many families found it hard to continue, as well as many businesses. I feel sure the days must have seemed long and unending during this time. Many may not have made it if it were not for the father of Joyce Wohlgemuth who gave plenty of credit at his store. Many businesses died during this time, but the Crawford Ranch managed to continue until the sixties. My trip to my old home led me to see the changes time has caused through the years not only in my lifetime, but also that of others.
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