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About Applegater. (Jacksonville, OR) 2008-current | View Entire Issue (July 1, 2013)
6 Summer 2013 Applegater BACK IN TIME Growing up on a squirrel ranch by evelyn byrne williams with janeen sathre I knew quite a few “squirrel ranchers” when growing up in the Applegate. My family was one of them, so I am quite qualified to clarify our status from the other kinds of ranchers and farmers here. Of course, the squirrel ranch name started because the disliked digger squirrels were already on the premises. There was no disgrace in living on such a place, but there was no income to be made from the squirrel. One could have some chickens, raise a garden and grow some hay for a milk cow, as we did, but rich you would never be on the squirrel ranch. Photo above: John Byrne milking a cow, a chore that daughter Evelyn chose not to In 1930, my dad started learn at an early age. Photo right: Evelyn Byrne fishing on the Applegate River, working for the forest service at one of her favorite “chores,” with Pat the dog. Star Ranger Station, just during the summer months or fire season. For on his way home from cutting hay all day. the hen until the little about ten years, he was either at a guard He had his derrick horse following in the chickens hatched. In the mornings, station or up on Tallowbox lookout, so back and wanted me to ride her across the mother was left to run our ranch with the river ahead of him. I told him I had never mother had clabbered help of us children. I loved our squirrel ridden a horse and he said it was about milk to pour over the ranch, but hated the work. Everyone had time I did. He put me up on her bare back store-bought “chicken to do his or her part. My brother, Morris, and handed me the reins. I grabbed her mash” that had been ten years older than me, and my sister, mane and we started across. The moss- put in the feed boxes. Those chickens Gladys, eight years older, had learned to covered river rocks were my undoing when were as happy as kids at an ice-cream milk the cow. I decided I didn’t want to she slipped and slid in midstream. Off I social. They hurriedly gulped it all down learn to milk, and I didn’t! At a very young plunged into the water, madder than a before spending the rest of the day outside, age, I made up my mind that I wanted to wet hen. Grandpa was laughing at me as nibbling green grass, hunting bugs, and live in the country, but not do farming or my horse went on across. I ran home and eating the crushed oyster shells needed for told mother what grandpa had done and their digestive systems. However, outside ranch work. One of my favorite activities was she only seemed to be relieved that I had there were hawks to fear—they could quickly swoop down and effortlessly grab fishing. Since we lived so close to the river, not drowned. I did like chickens. When dad built a chicken, especially a small one, and sail we had many fish dinners. Morris taught me all the fishing techniques and we would our chicken house and mother brought off with it for a meal. I never wanted to witness when it was have contests to see who caught the first, some baby chicks home, I was so excited. largest, or the most. Rainbow trout was I helped with the feeding and watched time for a chicken to become a chicken them grow up and start laying eggs. I dinner or when all were past their prime. our favorite. Our dog, a shepherd we called Pat, never complained about helping with the I usually made an excuse to go visit my also liked to fish. When he heard me monthly cleaning of the roosts and floors. grandma across the river. Later I would see getting my fishing pole from our back Black Leaf 40 (nicotine) was brushed on some canning jars filled with those many porch, he would go crazy with excitement. the pole roosts to kill chicken lice, and fresh chicken parts. I must admit, after some I had taught him to stay close beside me straw or hay was put on the floors. It was time, to liking the many meals of chicken when fishing, and when I caught one I interesting to see how the chickens reacted noodles, dumplings, and soups from those would throw the line so the fish would land to the cleanliness. They actually talked all dear chickens. This story ends with the “old chicken- quite a ways behind us. He would run and about it while scratching the straw or hay house” episode. I had come home from jump on the fish, paws firmly keeping it and preening. I liked gathering the eggs each school with some leftover powdered poster there for me to remove the hook. He and evening from the nests at the far end of paints that you could mix with water. I I had many happy times together. Horses and cows were not for me. the building. Sometimes, a hen wanted to could hardly wait to get home to show One time when I was about seven, my become a mother and was found refusing my treasures to mother. But she wasn’t grandpa, whose farm was on both sides of to move from her nest of several eggs. I there, so I decided to go ahead and surprise the Applegate River, was going to cross the was happy if I was given permission by my her by painting the back of our chicken river with his mower and team of horses mother to stay there while I watched over house with a mural in all those wonderful Advertisers ~ Contact: Jackson County—Sally Buttshaw 541-646-8418 sallybuttshaw@ymail.com Josephine County—Shawn Zimmerman 541-414-7301 thezsfamily@gmail.com primary colors with some black and white mixed in. I climbed a ladder to start my masterpiece. I don’t remember what I painted, but know it was very bright and colorful. It was finished by the time I heard mother coming in our car and I could hardly wait for her happy reaction. I think she almost had a heart attack when she saw my mural from Palmer Creek Road before driving down our driveway. As she got out of the car, there was a frown on her face and I knew she was upset. She came to me and said my artwork could not stay there, so I had to get a bucket of soapy water and a broom to scrub it all off. She did lose her frown and, putting her arm around me, said it was a beautiful painting but it was not for the chicken house that could be seen by everyone driving on our road. I still don’t understand why it was so bad, but I am happy to say my artwork was never forgotten—a faint and spotty coloring remained on the old chicken house for many years. Seems I have strayed from the squirrels, but I truly enjoyed the chickens on our squirrel ranch. Evelyn Byrne Williams with Janeen Sathre 541-899-1443
