Daddy’s Walking Sticks

The young wife trimmed a couple inches from the end of the whole ham before baking it in the large roasting pan. Every time. Years of this habit passed.

 One day a friend asked, “Why do you do this?”

The young wife thought for a moment, contemplating her answer. ”Well,” she replied. “My mother always trimmed the end of the ham.”

So, the following day, she called her mother and asked why she did this.

”My roasting pan was too short for the whole ham,” the mother replied!

We do it intentionally or unintentionally, we follow our mother and father’s practices in many areas of life.  Oftentimes, it’s not as the young woman or man, but it happens later – after they’re gone. We find ourselves doing things, saying things they did or said. We find ourselves going up to the attic or a storage place, and pulling out objects and things they used – placing those things in our own homes, on our own shelves, in our cupboards or garages, and deciding how we might use them. Having the objects or keepsakes near seems to bring our mother or father near. It can be the simplest item. A doily or a handkerchief. An apron or a dish. A saw or a hammer. Leather gloves or even a walking stick. I’ve found myself closely attached to many items that once belonged to my parents. The walking sticks, which belonged to my Daddy are two of those items, and Ron and I have carried those with us for the last 6 weeks on a journey across the west / southwest!

Daddy had two walking sticks – one in their winter Florida home and one in their longtime Michigan home. I inherited both.

 Last winter, anticipating our long southwestern trip, I brought the stick from Florida to add to the one in Michigan, so both Ron and I could have walking sticks for this present venture. And we carried them. Over and over. 

The walking sticks especially helped us trek the high hills and trails along parts of the Oregon/California Trail as we headed west on this trip. We used them on the trails and hills of Alcove Spring in Marysville, Kansas; the Wild Bill Hickok-famed Rock Creek Station and along Windlass Hill to Ash Hollow in Nebraska; on through the dusty dry sand of Scotts Bluff, overlooking Mitchell Pass; and around Independence Rock in Wyoming. Step by step. We hiked with them.

The purpose of course, of carrying and using these sturdy but lightweight walking sticks is to maintain good balance across the trails and to add support to both uphill and downhill treks. I was also pleased to know that Ron had it to use against predators, if needed, considering the occasional reminder that danger may lurk in the prairie grasses along the trails!

I was determined to see ruts – wagon wheel ruts – as well as to see swales, the remains of wagon trails, yet more common a site than the actual ruts. And yes, we saw many signs of the emigrants’ travel of some 180 years ago! It was amazing! My desires were granted me. 

I was especially interested in the well-known Guernsey Ruts in Wyoming. We drove down a gravel road to reach this site:

They were most unusual –

“At this site, where the trail was forced away from the river and crossed a ridge of soft sandstone, the track is worn to a depth of five feet, creating some of the most spectacular ruts remaining along the entire length of the Oregon-California Trail. The geography of the area dictated that practically every wagon that went west crossed the ridge in exactly the same place, with impressive results. ” (NPS)

Wow! Every wagon heading west had crossed this site. Ron walked a bit away from this spot while I looked it over. I wanted some good pics, so I decided to step down the hill to get a photo looking up . . .

This site was just a short walk from our truck in the parking area. Well, don’t you know – it was the ONE time we hadn’t taken our walking sticks with us. The ONE TIME!

There was a “step-like” in the rut – it went downward, and as I stepped onto it, I went down, too. Flat down, using my arms and leg as support!

Ron came back to the spot, looking down at me.

Oh my word! I thought. Am I okay?

Scrapes and bruises.  A black and blue on my rear end that would last for weeks. But  no broken bones. Thank the Lord.

After picking myself up from the sandstone, I found my phone which had dropped a few feet away. It was unbroken! I took the photo I wanted:

I think back to how this walking stick had protected my Mama from that nasty dog years ago. Now I had another story to tell about the necessity of carrying my daddy’s walking stick.  I can imagine telling it to my kids and grandchildren years into the future. And I can imagine any one of them, one day, carrying one of the walking sticks and telling the stories of the past. And you can be assured, I never left it behind in our hiking throughout the rest of the trip!