The Bunkhouse Home

Everything I Know Came from the Bunkhouse

Here’s to Agnes and Loy,
whose lives spanned the era of joy
from Old Barney to Leonard Nimoy.

These stories were written about a time that was, a family that was, and a valley that still is.
The winters are still harsh and, though the roads are greatly improved since the time in these stories,
they have never been paved. There is no sense in washing your car if you live out in Benewah. After a trip
out of the valley behind a logging truck it will just be covered with dirt again. The eight-grade school was closed
years ago and, unlike when I was attending school, a bus joggles out from St. Maries to pick up the students every day. Benewah students expect more “snow days” than the kids living in Town. The women’s club is going strong and residents formed a Benewah Valley Association that purchased the old school to be used as a community building. They sponsor many interesting activities each year to raise money for maintenance and improvements on their beloved building.
I wrote the first story for my granddaughter and found I liked writing, especially about that time and those remarkable pioneers. If I don’t tell their story I feel it will be as lost as if it had never been.

Lois Hodgson

Excerpt from the book:

      The morning from hell was not yet over and the rancor in the yard only intensified. Now Punk and Miles truly had reason to want their little brother, "sold into slavery and taken away." They went into the bunkhouse and locked the offending party out. He had no intention of taking this lying down and began to beat on the bunkhouse door with his fists and when that didn't work tried whacking it with a stick.
      I was back at the dishpan trying to figure a way to handle this burgeoning problem when the sharp crack of a gunshot pierced the air, followed by a high-pitched scream. Then silence! I glimpsed out the window, as I rushed from the house, to see a solitary figure standing at the entrance to the bunkhouse door, and was relieved to see that he was still standing. Punk stood just inside the door, white as a ghost with a pistol hanging limply from his fingertips.
      "I wasn’t going to shoot him," he said in a quivery little voice. "I just wanted to scare him so he would leave us alone."
      He let me take the pistol from his hand and we found the bullet hole about an inch or so below the top of the threshold. What a price we almost paid for the peace that ensued for the rest of that day. My little brothers melted quietly into the woods and played harmoniously together. Young as they were the shock of what might have happened had affected them deeply and at least one of them was fearful about what I was going to tell Mamma when she returned home. I thought, the less Mamma knew about what went on that morning the better and I didn’t tell her anything. On my way back to the kitchen I took a detour by way of the outhouse and vehemently flung that dreadful pistol into the dark depths of waste below, never to be pointed at anyone again.

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