Homestead Playhouse

Hidden in the shadows of modern farm buildings, rests a gray rotting log cabin, whispering its memories of the homestead days on the Montana prairie, northeast of Malta.

My sister and I made many a journey, through the crescent wheat grass, winding through the caraganas and between the plump grain bins, to the little cabin where we could turn the time clock back sixty years before our time.

The cabin was kept shut by a weak, one-hinged door and what seemed to be an oversized wooden frame screen door, tied tightly to a coat hook with a golden rope; unraveling from years of use.

Beyond the screen door, emptiness lit up by sunlight bursting through a four-pane broken window and cracks between logs where putty had once been.

Along the north wall hung a shelf made from an orange crate; much newer than the other objects in the cabin, making it look out of place.

Covering much of the floor space sat a rusted metal frame couch covered with mom’s old moth-eaten bedspread. Besides all of its bad points, it made a comfortable resting place.

In a far corner behind a number of cobwebs was a small triangular shelf upon which a rusted metal clock that read 3 o’clock twenty-four hours a day.

A dirty, glass pepper shaker, several antique pots and a heavily corroded fork, ornamented a thin shelf hanging beside an old potbellied stove, showing signs of nature’s “cause and effects.”

Beneath many inches of dust was a wooden floor covered with patches of printed linoleum, making it very hard to sweep.

Mud pie making was the highlight of our few hours stay in the cabin. The ingredients consisted of fine sand from a nearby sand pile; water from a well several yards away; and grain, which was stored in an old red granary occupied by mud swallows and mice of all sizes.

Feeding chickens, hand washing the bedspread along with the small flowered curtain that blew endlessly in the window, and sweeping the rough patchwork floor were a few other chores that were completed before returning to the home front.

Just before leaving, all the pets were chased out, our goodbyes were said to the small quiet cabin, and the screen door tied shut until we returned again.

Helen DePuydt and her husband, Louis, are descendants of Montana Homesteaders. Prairie stories have been recorded over many years, several have been published.