Writing my essay...06/25/11...41°...Sunny

Have been writing my essay since 4am this morning, I'm on page 7...now I have to go do roundup in the cold before the wind starts up...First page of essay "Whistlin' Joe".

Whistlin’ Joe

My father, Elmer Isaac Ashton born in Woodruff, Utah on May 14,1907 to George and Idella (Eastman) Ashton.  He, the fifth child in a family of seven, four girls and three boys.  In his lifetime he was a sheepherder, cowboy, coal miner, farmer, and logger.  More importantly, a husband, father, grandfather and a friend to all. 

 He was a happy little boy and learned to whistle at a young age.  His two uncles, Rawl and Marsh Eastman, nicknamed him “Whistlin’ Joe”.  His name became Joe Ashton and he signed Elmer only on legal documents.  Rawl and Marsh looked out for him and were more father figures, as his own father was sometimes mean to him.  He spoke highly of his mother and was devastated by her death when he was twelve.  She had been injured in a buggy accident and spent the last few years of her life in a wheelchair.  Even when in the wheelchair, she continued her job clerking at a small grocery store.  Daddy told the story, of how she could add up the bill in her head, faster than an adding machine, seldom making a mistake.  

At the age of ten Daddy took a summer job herding sheep, to help support the family.  He talked little about his childhood but I can imagine him trying to be brave, when inside he was a scared little boy.  Terrified at night with only a dog for company, he lay in the bunk, listening to the howl of coyotes and prayed that all the sheep in his care, would still be alive come the next morning.  
He always had fresh lamb at the sheep camp and prepared his own meals, usually a lamb stew or lamb fried, along with potatoes and gravy and biscuits.  He not only learned how to care for animals and brave the world alone he also learned the rudiments of cooking.   When I was fourteen he patiently taught me how to make gravy.  After he had fried the lamb chops he carefully poured out some of the grease, scraped the browned bits off the bottom and edges of the fry pan.  Then he had me sprinkle flour into the grease with one hand, while stirring continually with the other.  When the flour and grease started to thicken we added milk and kept stirring, adding more milk, until soon we had a fry pan full of delicious milk gravy to cover biscuits, baking in the oven.  A few years later as a new bride I didn’t know much about cooking, but I could make milk gravy.