Elsie Lois Litchfield was born in 1892. She graduated from what we would now call high school in Chadron, Nebraska at 16, one of the very few young women of that era that finished school at that level. One of my treasures is a copy of the portrait photo that was taken of her then.
She was married later that year, to Bert Young, a dashing cowboy that started his riding career at 11 years of age, riding with trail herds driven from Missouri up into Kansas and Nebraska. They moved to Montana in 1915, where they homesteaded on 640 acres, with my grandmother and the two girls staying on the homestead while my grandfather worked for an established ranch some 40 miles away.
In 1927 they moved to the "home ranch" at the forks of Rosebud Creek, where General Crook and his cavalry spent several days trying unsuccessfully to win through the Cheyenne warriors to join General Custer on the Little Big Horn.
They lived there at the ranch until 1952, when they retired and moved to Sheridan, Wyoming, some 60 miles from the ranch. My mother, their youngest daughter, and my father and I continued to live at the ranch, with the ranch in a partnership until my grandfather's death when he was in his late 80s.
Most of my memories of her are of her in the kitchen at the home ranch, cooking on the big, black "Home Comfort" range, helping to make cookies, or waiting for the cinnamon roll to cool enough to eat. Evenings were often spent sitting in her rocker, but her hands were never still, crocheting or quilting, teaching me how to embroider pillowcases and hand towels.
I wish now I had listened more carefully to her stories, for I now suspect I saw just the surface and accepted that as "grandmother". But she spent weeks alone with two small girls at the homestead, with the nearest neighbors two miles or more away. A town trip was a 2-day trip in a wagon with a team, possible only in good weather, spring and fall and very few things were "store bought".
She was the only one of my family who was comfortable with me riding when I was pregnant with my first child, saying that she rode out to get the milk cow in until she couldn't fit in the saddle any longer and it certainly hadn't caused any problems. She was also one of the "hay hands" on the ranch, the one who drove the team to the buckrake, sweeping up hay windrows to take to the overshot stacker, not an easy job of driving with the team separated instead of side by side.
This later photo of my grandmother was taken on a visit to the ranch when she was in her late 70s and spending most summers at the ranch with my parents, though she continued to spend the winter months in Sheridan. During the last few months of her life, in her late 80s, no longer able to live alone, she lived with me at my home in Big Horn, Wyoming.
Looking back, I regret so much not asking more about her life and listening more carefully to those stories she told. It saddens me that so much has been lost now forever.
She was married later that year, to Bert Young, a dashing cowboy that started his riding career at 11 years of age, riding with trail herds driven from Missouri up into Kansas and Nebraska. They moved to Montana in 1915, where they homesteaded on 640 acres, with my grandmother and the two girls staying on the homestead while my grandfather worked for an established ranch some 40 miles away.In 1927 they moved to the "home ranch" at the forks of Rosebud Creek, where General Crook and his cavalry spent several days trying unsuccessfully to win through the Cheyenne warriors to join General Custer on the Little Big Horn.
They lived there at the ranch until 1952, when they retired and moved to Sheridan, Wyoming, some 60 miles from the ranch. My mother, their youngest daughter, and my father and I continued to live at the ranch, with the ranch in a partnership until my grandfather's death when he was in his late 80s.
Most of my memories of her are of her in the kitchen at the home ranch, cooking on the big, black "Home Comfort" range, helping to make cookies, or waiting for the cinnamon roll to cool enough to eat. Evenings were often spent sitting in her rocker, but her hands were never still, crocheting or quilting, teaching me how to embroider pillowcases and hand towels.
I wish now I had listened more carefully to her stories, for I now suspect I saw just the surface and accepted that as "grandmother". But she spent weeks alone with two small girls at the homestead, with the nearest neighbors two miles or more away. A town trip was a 2-day trip in a wagon with a team, possible only in good weather, spring and fall and very few things were "store bought".
She was the only one of my family who was comfortable with me riding when I was pregnant with my first child, saying that she rode out to get the milk cow in until she couldn't fit in the saddle any longer and it certainly hadn't caused any problems. She was also one of the "hay hands" on the ranch, the one who drove the team to the buckrake, sweeping up hay windrows to take to the overshot stacker, not an easy job of driving with the team separated instead of side by side.
This later photo of my grandmother was taken on a visit to the ranch when she was in her late 70s and spending most summers at the ranch with my parents, though she continued to spend the winter months in Sheridan. During the last few months of her life, in her late 80s, no longer able to live alone, she lived with me at my home in Big Horn, Wyoming.
Looking back, I regret so much not asking more about her life and listening more carefully to those stories she told. It saddens me that so much has been lost now forever.
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