“The Good Ol’ Days”

Remembering Times Gone By

Written by Cyd Hoefle

Sometimes it takes a tragedy to realign our priorities, count our blessings, and focus on what matters.  And sometimes, it takes an afternoon recollecting our upbringings to really understand our character. 

We were recently called back to the community of our youth for the funeral of a well-loved man whose ranch bordered the one where I was raised. Olen grew up with my siblings and me, attended the same schools, belonged to the same 4-H Club, and graduated with my brother. 

After we were all grown and moved away, he became like another son to our parents, swinging in from time to time to check on them and share a cup of coffee. He’d show up for brandings, step up when the roads needed plowed, or help when Dad had a building project which could use another set of hands. He was a great neighbor.

Olen’s mid-April funeral was held on a hillside overlooking his ranch with the Beartooth Mountains as the backdrop. The day couldn’t have been more perfect – 70 degrees, sunshine, clear blue skies, and not a breath of wind. 

Gathered were members of large families, with kids our ages who had played a role in Olen’s or his family’s lives.  It was warming to see so many come together, especially in support of his wife and children and their families.  

The last time the community had seen all my siblings and I together, in public, had been over a dozen years ago at our mother’s funeral. Many in attendance no longer live in the area, but traveled back for the funeral, and for some, it had been well over forty years since we’d seen each other. Hugs and greetings were accompanied by sharing memories of growing up in rural Montana’s “good ol’ days…”

I remember dreading when my grandparents started in on talk of their youth. Then, my parents took to the habit. Now, it was our turn to unwind the clock. 

It’s been over half a century since we were kids and teenagers romping through the hills of Sweet Grass County. As we looked back on those days, a longing grew in my heart for the times in my life that were simpler, safer, and more enchanting than they are today. It was both refreshing and entertaining to trek back for a couple hours to “remember when…” and the stories flowed like a clear mountain stream. 

We reminisced on a time when cell phones, GPS, Google, the internet, social media and 24-hour news were nonexistent.  It was an era when your word was enough, and you stood behind it; you respected your elders and were taught common courtesy. If you were in trouble in school, it was likely your parents sided with your teachers, and you’d receive discipline from both. You had chores before school, and you had better not miss the bus because of them. 

Parents watched out for one another’s children and had the unspoken privilege of letting us know if we were doing something out of line - and we knew our folks would hear about it, too. It was a healthy system of accountability and protection.

We shared “party lines,” with up to twelve families using the same telephone line. When using the phone, you knew not to share anything private as the neighbors could be on too, and the news would spread faster than the local newspaper could get it printed.

We didn’t care how our friends’ parents voted, but we knew they did. Patriotism was shared by all as American flags were proudly hung, and veterans were rightly honored. 

Our family entertainment as youngsters was often shared with another family with five kids whose ages stair-stepped the five of us. On hot summer days our folks would pile us in the back of a couple of pickups with a full picnic basket and a case of pop and we’d spend the day fishing on a local creek. Once we caught enough brookies to feed both families, our dads would work on a campfire and our moms would marathon cook fish in a cast iron pan until we were sated. Then, we’d cool off in the creek, or have an impromptu baseball game, with sagebrush for bases. There was always laughter, teasing and even singing as each family tried to outdo the other. It was a time of lifelong friendship building and sibling bonding. 

As we aged, 4-H and FFA projects consumed much of our summers. The county fair was the culmination of our hard work and the last hoorah before school. Held at the end of summer, we anticipated gathering once again with ranch families from the community for healthy competition in the show ring. Outside the showring, we were just kids, being trusted further by our parents with every passing year yet always testing boundaries as expected by youth.

During hunting season, many ranch kids’ pickups were distinguished in the high school parking lot by a gun in the rack across the back window, not willing to miss a chance on possibly filling their tag on the way home from school. We didn’t have onX but we knew where we had permission to hunt or where we might get away with it. 

As we gathered in memory of our “brother” Olen, we laughed at some of our antics and wondered how we survived drag racing down two-lane highways and shooting our pistols on the back roads. Sure, a few experimented with alcohol, but the older kids, always looking out for the younger ones, usually put a stop to it before anyone got carried away. Our parents ensured we knew how to take care of ourselves and each other. 

We pushed the limits. We got in trouble. We helped each other out. Thankfully, we didn’t have cell phones to record our antics to share with the world. As the stories were retold, the embellishment heightened, the laughter grew, and for a moment we felt like we were carefree teenagers again. It felt good to dust off the memories and look back at a life that forever shaped our hearts and character. 

Oh, “the good ol’ days.”  Each generation believes theirs was the best – the best music, the best entertainment, the coolest clothes, and hairstyles, and the hardest first jobs.

Thankfully, as it is designed, life moves forward. We grow, mature, and face the future with foundational character traits built in our youth, passing our stories to our own kids and regaling them with “when I was your age…”  

Maybe our generation was the best, or maybe not, but as we spent an afternoon looking back, we decided that for sure, it was a hell of a good one.

It hurt to say goodbye to Olen. He died far too soon. But the memories we have of him and the lifestyle we shared filled us with gratitude for the families we were born into, the community we were part of, and for who we became as adults.

RIP, Olen. Until we meet again.