Often, when I sit down to write, I have to search for a topic. Itís common for me to write three or more articles and then decide which one I want to run that week. For the record, this is version four. I figure if Iím going to write something I at least ought to be interested in it. I write a lot about politics because I was involved in it for a long time, but todayís politics is not a joyous subject. In fact, itís downright depressing as far as Iím concerned. So, on occasions like this I try to write about something that is, at the very least, not depressing. Thatís not a very high standard, I know, but itís the one I work with.
I have written a couple of times about what I call ďsmall historyĒ. Thatís the history that never makes it into the history books because it doesnít impact a lot of peopleís lives, as does ďbig historyĒ. Big history is the saga of nations and world leaders. It is the saga of war. Small history is the story of one person in one war. It is the story of one personís struggles and successesóand failuresóin the course of a life.
Small history is embodied in an abandoned tool found while walking in the wood; the remnants of a dug-out dwelling in the prairie. There is a stretch of road not far from where I live that is lined with abandon homesteads. Many of them have a scrubby tree growing nearby, sometimes thereís no tree, sometimes just a tree. It is dry country, and I think how important that tree must have been to whoever lived there.
On two occasions I came upon the remains of dwellings in the woods on my ranch. The timber is thick and it is easy to get lostóor at least turned aroundóso while I have been able to find one of them again, the other, which was just a log foundation, is once again lost. I know nothing about whose homes they might have been. I do know about the Fox place, a log cabin with a dog trot that had already lost most of its roof when I bought the ranch. I have let it, as a friend of mine so kindly said, decay with dignity. There were a barn and some outbuildings which I have seen on an old aerial photo, but no sign of them now. Perhaps a summer kitchen under a group of cottonwoods. At least I found the door to a Great Majestic cookstove there.
The Shade house burned down twenty years before I got here. The Melnricks, who lived here after Shade left said it was a beautifully made squared cedar log house. Whatever buildings the Melnricks built were also gone when I got here. There was, however, a fallen down chicken shed which made good kindling.
We donít often get to settle on a place where no one has lived before, so the heritage of my predecessors is also my heritage, and itís important to me to keep at least a small part of their memory alive. Twenty years ago Paul Shade, the son of the man who built the cedar log house came out to the ranch looking for it. I was disappointed he couldnít see it but knowing him added to my personal collection of small history. He was raised here on the place from the time he was eleven, in 1924, and in his 80s moved back to Trout Creek from Seattle to live out his life.
Every once in a while I will find a small objectóan old medicine bottle, a coal scuttle, a marble or two. They meant something to somebody once, so they mean something to me, and I put them someplace where I can look at them from time to time, and wonder.
óJim Elliot, Trout Creek