This true story, submitted by Audrey McCrae, appeared in the Pine Run Voice several years ago. We thought that you might enjoy it again.

A Happy War Memory

This incident came up in a conversation I had at dinner recently, and the people at the table loved it and suggested that it should be shared.

During what we refer to as the “Second World War,” my husband, Johnny McCrea, was serving as a ball-turret gunner on a B-17 Bomber. He was stationed in England in 1943-1944 and their missions were over Germany. After one particularly rough raid, their plane was the only one of the squadron to reach their home base, and the plane was severely damaged. One other plane managed to make it back but landed at another base. With the squadron so depleted, it was decided to send the two remaining crews to a rest home for a week. It happened it was over Christmas.

As the holiday approached, the crews there who were enjoying their time off from combat were asked by some local people whether they would be good enough to give a Christmas party to some orphans who were billeted nearby. The offer was gladly accepted – after all what’s Christmas without children? Preparations were made – perhaps meager by our standards, but England at that time had little food and no luxuries. It was discovered that they had the makings of ice cream but no way to freeze it. A captain among them went to the phone, called a nearby American airbase, asked for the officer in charge, and told him he had need of a B-17. The officer (probably using some purple language) wanted to know what on earth for. The captain explained the circumstances – there was a short pause – and the officer told him to get the stuff over there and they’d have a plane on the runway. The ice cream makings were delivered – taken up to twenty-two thousand feet – flown around for the time it took to get it firm – then landed and delivered to the party in time for dessert. Thus those children had their taste of ice cream. I figure it was the most expensive ice cream ever made! One happy ending in the midst of war.

And That’s How the Fight Started

One year I decided to buy my mother-in-law a cemetery plot as a Christmas gift. The next year I didn’t buy her a gift. When she asked me why, I replied, “Well, you still haven’t used the gift I bought you last year.” And that’s how the fight started.

I took my wife to a restaurant. The waiter, for some reason took my order first. “I’ll have the filet steak, rare, please.” He said, “Aren’t you worried about the mad cow?” “Nah, she can order for herself.” And that’s how the fight started.

My wife sat down next to me as I was flipping channels. She asked, “What’s on TV?” I said, “Lots of dust.” And that’s how the fight started.

My wife was hinting about what she wanted for our upcoming anniversary. She said, “I want something shiny that goes from 0 to 165 in about 2 seconds.” I bought her a bathroom scale. And that’s how the fight started.

— Submitted by Dan Reid

Montana Magazine’s sidebar on page 9 of the July/August 2014 issue asked, “Did you ever ride a horse to school?” with no apparent positive answers. Well, I did: three different times, three different horses, three different schools! Beginning in 1936, in the first grade and half of the second, Spark Plug was my noble steed. I went to the Boston Coulee School, a one-room structure with a lone teacher and eight pupils. The schoolhouse was 2 ½ miles from our ranch.

My mother, a widow at the time, would rise early, saddle “Sparky”, pack my lunch and away we would go; me riding, my mother leasing Sparky to the Maurer Ranch, which was halfway to the schoolhouse. I don’t remember missing one day of school during this time.

After two moves, a wedding and a mortgage, we were living on the “Pete Fake Place”, the schoolhouse had been moved – it was now only a mile and a quarter away. I was now in the fifth grade and Grace Smiley and I were the only two pupils in the school. I was capable of saddling “Crumbs” and riding him to and from school. Crumbs had one bad habit – he would not stay “ground hitched”, in other words, if you dropped the reins while opening or closing the gate, he would take off. Several times I followed him home, cursing (6th grade curses) to no avail. I was not fond of Crumbs who was an ugly horse to begin with. I rode him most of the year

Two years later, the Boston Coulee School was closed. The Meisenbach School was four miles to the east of where I lived. I rode “Bob” for two years. Bob was a great horse – big, strong and a good looking black gelding. By then I was big enough to wear my father’s chaps and a cowboy hat. I wished for a six-shooter but even in those days “carrying” a pistol was not allowed.

Six miles a day, sun, rain, sleet, snow or wind (and there was always wind), four gates, one small stream crossing (which Bob didn’t like and occasionally balked at for two years), concluded my riding a horse to school. I didn’t think it was as glamorous as it sounds.

Anyway, there was at least one Montana kid who rode a horse to school. I just wish it had been more exciting.

— William (Bill) Herbolsheimer

Have you been to the Hub Pub yet? If not, why not pay it a visit? It opens at 4:00 PM every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. Alcoholic drinks are only $2.00 and a soft drink costs only $1.00. Every Pub night there is the wonderful piano playing of Shirley Wunsch or Charlie Burchill.

Traditional Pub meals, such as fish and chips, fried shrimp, and burgers, are served every Monday. On Fridays, hot Hors d’oeuvres are available at no charge. Sure, it’s a bit noisy in the Pub, but very convivial, relaxed and a change from the usual dining room experience.

In the photo above, Nicole Ventriglia is tending bar and Annie Tiers and Jon Long are looking on while Tom Swartz is examining the evening’s menu. Annie checked out the drink pattern that night and it turns out that of 77 alcoholic beverages sold, 13 were red (16.8%) and 22 white wines (28.6% ). 42 mixed drinks (54.5%) were consumed. In addition, several non-alcoholic drinks, such as tonic water or cokes, were sold.

— Walter A. Harris