In the 1940s outside Glenrock, Wyoming, Julie Bruns knew she would have to work hard if she expected to make her living on a homestead. At the end of a long, hard day, her tired muscles would ache, but Julie would persevere-for she was truly a pioneer. In her posthumous memoir, Bruns shares a fascinating description of day-to-day life in the wilds of Wyoming as she changed history forever and became one of the state's few female homesteaders. Bruns tells how she overcame her initial fears and embarked on a new venture with a strong determination and an honest heart. After deciding to file a homestead, Bruns details how she selected a site along a tiny creek and began constructing a cabin out of green-cut, peeled logs. The days were filled with hard work, and the nights were frightening as owls hooted and coyotes yapped. But Bruns persisted-building much of her furniture, exploring the land around her house, and getting to know her neighbors. I Live in a Beautiful World shares the inspiring story of how Julie Bruns became a homesteader through resolve, courage, and, most importantly, the unyielding desire to make her dream come true.

I Live in a Beautiful World

By Julie Bruns

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Julie Bruns
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-2240-3

Contents

1. Homesteading 1932..............................12. Building Our Home Together.....................313. Animality......................................444. Manna in the Wilderness........................725. Food Production................................816. The Big Blizzard...............................937. Winter Travel..................................1008. Winter in Town.................................1159. Final Pages....................................119

Chapter One

Homesteading 1932

I always feel a little apologetic about not wanting to be a girl. This could be because ours was a five-girl family, and I had an only brother, two years older than I. With two girls on each side, it seemed only right that there should be two boys in the middle. In my adolescence, girls were supposed to grow gracefully into womanhood. To grow up gracefully was fine, but not for me, because I was not graceful. For this reason, I seemed to fit better with boys. I wanted to go swimming with the gang; I wanted to play marbles with the gang. I was always reminded, "Oh, no. You are a girl." I began to think that it was bad to be a girl; what was wrong with me watching a little old marble game? And suppose I did steal a shot now and then? I was probably not too bad, because finally I seemed to be playing marbles, though I never got to go swimming with the gang; oh, yes, I remember I am a girl, but I was willing to wear a bathing suit.

By the time I was ten years old, Mother and Dad probably realized that it was impossible to keep up in town with a gang the size of theirs, because we moved to the country. There, my brother accepted me; we were inseparable. We practically lived out of doors. We fished by day, and at night, we went raccoon hunting—at first with our small colored neighbors and later alone.

After much dickering, we acquired two hound dogs and a lantern, and we were in business. What we did not know was that raccoon hounds had to first grow up, and then they had to be trained to hunt; instead of our raccoon hounds chasing the raccoon, the raccoon chased our hounds. Finally, when we started to light the lantern, our hounds crawled under the house, and there was no getting them out, so we gave up the business of hunting raccoon for a living.

We never gave up fishing, though, and once in a while, we got enough fish for a nice meal for the whole family. Putting squirmy worms on a hook did not bother me, and taking wiggly fish off didn't, either. I always seemed to be hungry, and the thought of a good meal made me work harder.

We each had a pony. We rode with only a rope, and how we stuck to his back I do not remember; I am sure our legs were not long enough to anchor around his middle.

Texas then was a little wild, and so were we. The land for the four miles from our house to town was cut over and was being farmed. From the back of our house, the timber was dense and was not cut through to Louisiana. It had all manner of wild animals—panthers, wild hogs, wolves, and only the good Lord knows what all. We were supposed to stay out of the timber. At first, "Yes." Later, "No." Mother would say, not beyond such and such tree. For some reason, such and such tree kept moving farther and farther into the tall timber, and one day it happened. We rode right into a bunch of wild hogs. First we chased them, and then they chased us. When we got home, I am sure Mother guessed what we had been doing, because a few days later, a man came over to buy two ponies. We had no ponies, so we went rabbit hunting. My mother prepared rabbit better than any I have ever eaten; she put them into a spicy brew overnight and then baked them in cream. The only reason Dad let us have a gun was because he, too, enjoyed eating this delicious meat.

My father was one who liked change of scenery; we never stayed in one place more than a few years. This time, we again moved to town, now more to the western part of the state. My two older sisters got jobs, and so did my brother. And this was where the first tragedy struck our family; my brother was hurt on the job and died a few days later. My parents were deeply hurt after losing their only boy. But I shall never forgot how lost I was; now I was alone in the middle. I finally came alive the way weeds do when a stone is lifted off them. Now I accepted being a girl, and I went to work in a store. I did not know calico from satin or a sailor from a turban. I finally advanced from a counter hopper to a saleslady. For many years, I earned my living working in a large department store, selling dry goods, ladies' ready-to-wear, pots and pans, and whatnot. I liked my job, for selling goods was right up my alley. But I was about as free as a cow in a well. Day after day, I saw the same faces and the same walls in the same store. I walked through the same streets, always in a hurry and never time for play.

One day, I decided that I had to have a change, so I quit my job and came to Wyoming, where I again took a store job. Sure, the work was the same as I had been doing for so many years, but the people were different, the country was different, and there were so many mountains all around that I was sure in them was much hidden beauty—perhaps for only the wild animals to enjoy. I wanted to explore those God-made mountains; I was sure that in them I could enjoy the feeling of freedom. I could think, relax, and rest. Nature's beauty was everywhere. The more I went out into them, the more I was convinced that there I wanted to build my home.

When I had worked in the same store for eight years, I had a little cash in the bank and what looked like a chance to file a homestead up in those high and rugged mountains that I had learned to love.

Withdrawn lands were reopened to World War I veterans, with leftover lands going to civilians. The location was thirty miles south of Glenrock, Wyoming, and much of the way there was only a cow trail for a road. I knew that I would have to work hard if I expected to make my living on a homestead—much harder than I had ever worked physically in all of my life, and that at the end of a long and hard day, my tired and aching muscles would let me know that it was time to quit. But I would be working for myself, building a home on land that belonged to me. I would be free and out in nature, which I so dearly loved. To me, there is something much more beautiful than just man-made beauty.

And, as I am no exception, I had a dream that someday there would be two of us building a home together, and I had a good idea who would fulfill my dreams. My mind was made up.

I would file a homestead. There was land to be had after all of the veterans were satisfied. Making proof would take more money than I had; therefore, I would have to keep my store job for a while longer. Being a civilian, I would have to put in six months of my time on my homestead out of each year for three successive years. And I would have to have proper improvements before I could make final proof. I would have to have a house built before I could go out to live on my homestead. There were many things I would have to take into consideration—I, a lone woman, starting a new life that I knew nothing about.

Having lived all of my adult life in town, could I adjust myself to this new life? I would be alone. The nights would be dark. I would have no close neighbors. And there would be the mournful song of many a coyote telling me that a storm was approaching. And there would be other animals that I would not see, but they would soon know that I had moved in on their territory. Would they try to harm me? Would I be afraid? My answer was definitely, "No." I would not be afraid.

Starting out on a new venture with a strong determination and an honest heart, how could there possibly be anything to be afraid of? The animals would probably be as afraid of me as I would be of them. We would have to learn to live together. I believe that God protects those who seek his protection. Why would I not be protected one place the same as another? Why could I not make a go of it?

There was a section of land if I wanted it, so I filed a homestead. I made arrangements at the store for the summer off. In the fall, I would be back on the job, and all winter, I would work like a beaver making all of the extra pennies that I could by doing extra work. I arranged to have a house constructed out of green-cut, peeled logs. The bedroom-living room was to be sixteen-by-twenty feet, and the kitchen and breakfast nook was to be ten-by-sixteen feet.

For my cabin site, I selected a valley along a creek, sprinkled with lovely spruce trees from seventy-five to a hundred feet tall, mixed with pine and aspen. About an eighth of a mile downcreek from the cabin location were a series of large beaver dams, and on each side of the creek, there was a mountain ridge. By spring, my cabin would be ready, and I would go up to put in my first six months on my homestead.

I had a Model T coupe with a special mountain axle. That would be my burro. At every opportunity, I had been making and buying things for my new home. Winter was gone, and spring came in a hurry. When time came for me to start up to the mountains, my Model T was simply bulging with supplies.

I set up housekeeping in a hurry. I ate off of boxes. I sat on boxes, and my cupboards were boxes. I had all summer in which to fix up my home. I was having a lot of fun. I did not know for sure why. I suppose it was because I was away from everybody and on my own. I had an independent feeling. Now I did not have to keep in mind that a customer is always right. I did not have to say yes when I meant no. But when I worked, I did my job as my employer wanted it done.

Days simply flew by, but evenings were long and lonely. As soon as darkness came, my new world changed. The nights were frightening—owls hooting, coyotes yapping. But just when I did not think that I could sleep, I slept best, only to be awakened from a deep sleep at the first sign of dawn by the sweet song of a robin coming from a nearby tree. And as soon as daylight came, there were dozen of new songs, and I had to jump out of bed and rush to the window to see my many feathered friends. I would kneel half hanging out of the window, listening to the many beautiful songs all coming from different directions at the same time. The robin was still in the tree, swelling his orange chest, pouring out music so sweet that I wanted to kneel there and listen, even if his song lasted forever. Now again my world was beautiful.

I dressed hurriedly and started walking briskly to the beaver dam to make sure that I missed nothing. My path was bordered on both sides with lovely spruce and pine, their branches spreading over my head, alive with color—red, yellow, orange, blue, black-and-white, gray, and rose.

The sweet music was heavenly. I walked slowly under the canopy like a bride walking to the altar to receive her lifetime mate. The air was filled with sweet music, song, and love. I wanted to walk on and on, forever and ever.

As I approached the beaver dams, more beauty met my eyes. A beautiful morning was reflected in the aquamarine lake. A blue marsh hawk slowly circled overhead, his image swimming in the water. A little sandpiper, at water's edge, curtsied to its mate. A pair of mallards, heads gleaming, emerald, violet, metallic, swam gracefully across the lake. The sun, gold and deep pink, peaked over the mountain, throwing long shadows to my feet. And as the sun became more brilliant by the minute, the shadows backed away from me as though now it was their time to be afraid.

But by noon, we were friends, the shadows and I. We had both moved under the same trees to rest on the soft pine needles, I with my hands under my head for a soft pillow, and the shadows making pretty patterns on the pine needles all around me. I watched the colors in the branches as they passed before my eyes. A black bird in his black and red satin. Tiny flycatcher, soft gray, with little yellow underbodies. A black-and-white woodpecker shimming along a tree trunk, his scarlet beanie flashing like a danger signal at an intersection. Little nuthatches, tan and blue-grey, acrobatically looked for their supply of food, all hopping from branch to branch, all longing for love and mating. Their summer nesting place was again a place of passion and enchantment.

When evening came, I went to the dams to watch the beavers at work. If I sat quietly, I was unnoticed, but should I move about, there was immediately a terrific whomp on the water's surface. All activity stopped, and only the beaver giving the danger signal remained visible, swimming in the lake. He was snorting mad. In giving the signal, he slapped the water with his tail in a terrific whomp.

Every day, I saw birds that were new to me. They kept coming steadily. No doubt, some had come hundreds and perhaps thousands of miles to build their homes in my valley, traveling successfully, by day and by night, in stormy weather or on sunny days, with only the sun and stars to guide them, yet always arriving at their summer home on approximately the same date as they had for centuries.

At night, I could hear the mating song of the grouse; their drumming came from an aspen grove only a few feet from my cabin. They seemed to feel protection coming from the cabin, and I was trying to give them the protection that they might be hoping for. One day, I saw a hawk swoop down on them, but before I could get out with my gun, he was gone and had only frightened the grouse, but had I not been on hand, he would have had a grouse dinner, no doubt.

In the daytime, I frequently saw the male grouse puffed out, his bright red comb standing out over his eyes like a posy on an Easter bonnet, the blackand-white feathers on his neck and chest like a lovely lei, while he, unafraid, performed a courtship dance for his lady. The lovely bluebird, so meek, gently chirped now and then, trying to talk a woodpecker out of her house, while her mate, in his blue coat soft as velvet, sat in a nearby tree and occasionally fluttered over to see who occupied the little house over which there seemed to be quite a discrepancy. And purplish-green hummingbirds zoomed around, flashing their brilliance like glistening jewels.

Seldom did I see people. However, one day, while I was in the house hammering away building cupboards out of scraps of lumber leftover from the cabin, I heard a voice outside saying, "Doc! Are there any grouse around here fit to eat?" And a man I had never seen stuck his head into my back door at the same time I stuck my head out of the cupboard that I was building, and for a moment, we just looked at each other.

What he expected to see was not there, and what was there I certainly did not expect to see. Finally, I said, "Yes, there are grouse around here, but if they are good eating, I would not know; besides, being protected by law, I am protecting them with my artillery."

Seeing that I was not Doc, he gently withdrew, and I never saw him again in my vicinity.

It was hard for me to stay in the house with all of the wonders of nature on the outside. I could stay indoors only so long, and again I was out exploring.

In the willows along the creek, gleaming like ornaments on a Christmas tree, were Western tanagers and many warblers in their olive-green and yellow plush softness. A tiny wren, bursting into song, seemed to be trying to outdo many of his larger friends, while a pine squirrel, up in a tree thumping his feet on a branch, chattered as if craving attention. A chipmunk, his tiny plume-like tail arched over his back, sat at my feet and ate a dandelion bud. When clouds dashed overhead, a robin singing his rain song told me to get in dry wood that day, for tomorrow would be wet. A pair of sapsuckers pecked as if driving a nail in a hurry to complete their new home.

When I learned to know the animals that lived around me, I enjoyed walking in the woods. Seeing my approach, the little pine squirrel dashed up into a tree, again in its chatter telling the creatures of the woods to run for cover, for danger might be approaching.

I soon learned the meaning of the many noises as I heard them, knowing that as soon as the chatter started, I would see no more animals. In order to see deer at play, I had to go up on a high point and quietly sit for hours, waiting for them to come out to frolic in the valley below me. When the does came into the valley with their fawns, they ran as if playing tag, and they stood face-to-face as if they were dancing. But if they heard that familiar chatter, they disappeared immediately into the timber. It is amazing how well animals understand one another.

(Continues...)

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