The Flying S

I’ve had folks ask me a number of different times about my company and blog logo and “What’s up with the little horns on the Ss?”  Those little horns are actually wings, and this is their story:

In the late 1930s, my grandparents became ranchers in Idaho.  The family had lived in several different places in the West and Midwest over two generations.  They had started out in Minnesota, homesteaded in Montana, and spent time running a livery stable in Zilla, Washington. 

My grandparents on their wedding day.

My grandfather John Engwald Sylte, who was the eldest of five sons, once traveled by train through northern Idaho during the tail end of the Dust Bowl years.  He was enticed by the surroundings where the lush green of the Selkirk Mountains met the open grassy space of the Rathdrum Prairie.   

My great grandparents and their five sons, with my grandfather in the middle.

He had been a soldier in the US Cavalry in Montana and loved horses and working with animals, in general.  He and my grandmother settled the family in Idaho and started the ranch that I later grew up on.

My grandfather (& buffalo) at Fort Meade, Montana.  

At that time, all ranches had a livestock brand.  It was a way of identifying which animals belonged to you, as well as a way to deter theft…or just make sure that your cows didn’t get mixed in with the neighbors’ if your fence went down in a storm.  They are a mark recorded by the state livestock agency.   

I would love to know exactly how my grandparents settled on our particular brand, since there were so many possible variations and combinations to choose from at the time.  Brands in many ways resemble hieroglyphics with (sometimes strange) combinations of letters, numbers and symbols that become more “readable” as you get used to them.  My grandparents had a shotgun rack in their front sitting room where they displayed all of the brands of friends and neighbors.  I remember sitting there on their smooth naugahyde davenport, staring at the marks and trying to decipher each of the symbols, with the smell of my grandmother’s chicken and dumpling soup hanging in the air.

What they came up with is called the “Flying S”.  Since the family name is Sylte, the S part is pretty obvious.  I think that adding the wings to the top of the S was a nice touch and seems appropriate, given my grandfather’s tendency to dream big and help foster a love of adventure and inventiveness in future generations. The risk-taking has mostly served us well, despite some noteworthy episodes worthy of Icarus.  For many years, the cattle on the ranch all carried the mark on their haunches, and it can still be found all around the ranch on gates, signs and other less predictable locations. 

I have now spent many years living away from the ranch.  Even though my business is not located in Idaho and has nothing at all to do with cattle or ranching, I carry the spirit and history of it all with me as I go about my life.  So there you go…they’re not horns, they’re wings.

Burns Supper

One of the things that goes along with being a bagpiper is regular exposure to Robert Burns, the national poet and near patron saint of Scotland.  In Scotland people just call him "The Bard".  You may know him as the author of Auld Lang Syne.  I have to say, I think Scotland is pretty cool just for having a national poet, and for regularly celebrating and revering someone who writes beautiful words for a living.  This esteem I feel for the Scots is only slightly tempered (for me, anyway) by the wacky gatherings held in Burns'  honor every year.  I've attended some doozies.  

Robert Burns' birthday is January 25th and each year, all over the world, Burns nights are celebrated with much tartan, scotch, and Scottish brogue...both real ones and those valiantly attempted.  The best Burns suppers are gastro-literary  events with audience participation and a liberal sharing of verse, anecdote and song.  There are a few rules governing a Burns supper that are always adhered to:  

There must be ample access to scotch. 

 There must be Scottish music.

There must, specifically, be bagpipes...lots of bagpipes.

 A roaring fire is a bonus.

There must be speaking and reading aloud the poetry of Robbie Burns. 

And there MUST be haggis: a huge sausage-like dish made of sheep innards, oatmeal & spices which is stuffed inside a sheep stomach and boiled. Mmmm, yum.   It must be escorted in by a lone piper (this is called the Parade of the Haggis), then addressed (yes, I mean talked to) by the master of ceremonies   A Burns poem is actually read to the haggis before it is ceremonially pierced with a sharp dagger and served.  It must be eaten with mashed neeps and tatties (turnips & potatoes), which are pretty good.

A rowdy and jovial night is usually had by all, thanks to the scotch and the poetry.  You need to be careful not to drink too much, though...since expelled haggis is something that a person should never have to see.

Meet Your Maker, Part II

Me, part deux…

When we first moved to Seattle, I started waiting tables at an Indian restaurant and going to school for my master’s degree in teaching. My future mister tried a couple different career paths, eventually settling into a financial field. We lived in the Fremont neighborhood “the center of the universe” and got a puppy named Molly.


I finished graduate school and quickly got an ESL teaching job. I was frequently mistaken for a middle school student in the halls at school. I’m about the same size as most of the students, and apparently I looked pretty young (I hated getting carded then…now it makes my day). I loved my job and the young immigrants that I got to work with. They were (still are, in fact) interesting, industrious and engaging. I often feel a pull back to the classroom that I may follow at some point, or maybe I’ll just travel the world to visit the places they all came from.


But I was busy. We had one, then two, then three little chunky-cheeked babies. I gardened, made soap, sewed slip covers, made baby food and changed diapers. I decorated one house, then another. We finally landed in a part of Seattle that we just love: Ballard. It reminds me in some ways of the small town where I grew up, but is still very much a part of the city. I also like that it has the only Nordic Heritage Museum in the United States. My son’s soccer team chant a few years ago was “Lutefisk, lutefisk, lefse, lefse! We’re the Ballard Vikings! Ya, Ya Betcha!” Priceless.

My older kids have started school and we now spend lots of time in 4-H, music lessons, hockey and soccer. I am one of the founding members of Elliott Bay Pipe Band and do my best not to embarrass my banditos. It helps that I have 28 years of piping experience to fall back on. I try to grow lots of berries and vegetables, sew things, and learn something new whenever I can. I try to be faithful and mindful of the earth and the trees and the creatures around us, like my parents always have been. I try to be careful about what we consume and what we throw away. I try to do, more than I talk. I also try to stretch a penny as far as it will go (Granny Gretha) and wash out our Ziplock bags many times before they get thrown away (Grandma Evie). Stewardship takes many forms.

So that’s me, for now. I have big plans for the future. I have not gone back to teaching or learned how to knit yet, because I am budgeting my time in the event that I become the overlord of a vast soapmaking empire. We’ll see what happens.

Roberto

I visited the Ranch where I grew up over New Year's and ran into some schoolmates that I haven't seen for over 25 years. This set off a flurry of looking through old photos and reminiscing about the past. I guess it's appropriate at the turn of a new decade to spend some time remembering...

Several of the photos that I found are of my uncle Roberto. He was from Argentina and was the first husband of one of my aunts. He was a very handsome, suave, well-traveled and dapper fellow. All three of my aunts were in show business when they were younger, which is where they met Roberto and his brother Dante. The Half Brothers had a juggling/skating/unicycle act that they traveled the North and South American circuit with, performing regularly in places like Las Vegas and Reno and on television shows like the Ed Sullivan Show.

There's a great story about how Roberto and Dante happened to be performing in Cuba in 1959 when Castro seized power. As a result of the revolution, no one could come or go from the country for some time and they were basically stranded in a hotel in Havana. One day an Argentinian man in military fatigues came to their room and said that he was a fan of their act and wanted to try and help them get the necessary papers to be able to leave the country. He did not identify himself, but did follow through on his promise and a few days later they were able to depart from Cuba. Once back in the US, Roberto saw a photo in the newspaper of the man who had helped them: Che Guevara.

I remember Roberto and my aunt visiting the Ranch a few times when I was very young, always bringing gifts that left a strong impression on me like a jewelry box with a dancing ballerina or a jar of pennies. When they divorced after a few years and he was no longer a performer, Roberto couldn't bring himself to separate from our family and so remained nearby. He and my father started a feedlot operation together. He helped to build the original version of the huge gate that sits at the entrance to the Ranch. He also opened an Argentinian steakhouse restaurant in town and remained close friends with my father. Somewhere along the way (my memory is cloudy because I was so young) his financial situation turned sour and he would stay with us for extended periods. He became less dapper and he drank too much.

Roberto had really wanted a family. I'm not sure why he never remarried, but I remember my father telling me how much he had wanted children and knew he would never have them, so my brother and I were like his children. He loved us. He taught my brother how to ride a unicycle and juggle. He taught me how to cook Argentinian style. He would drive us to school in his two-seater Porche and bring us treats.

This is the part of the story that hurts me to to tell: we were awful to him. Our parents had divorced by this time and my Mom had moved off of the Ranch. Our lives felt less stable than we would have liked and his presence in the house was a glaring reminder of that. We were also just kids at that sort of obnoxious stage of life and we egged each other on. He was a very heavy sleeper and would often fall asleep in front of the TV and remain there all night. That annoyed me to no end. I remember once, my brother and I snickered uncontrollably as we flicked popcorn kernels at his balding head while he lay snoring on the couch. I'm sure I wasn't very friendly or respectful toward him.

He eventually moved out and into a series of depressing apartments in town. He spent much of his remaining days hanging out at the Shady Rest Bar, but still did things like work as a volunteer fireman and help on the Ranch when he could. He died very suddenly at the young age of 52 when I was in high school, when my teenage life was so all-consuming that I barely paid him any attention. I think he may have one niece alive, but left no other family. What are left of his photos and possessions stayed with us. His ashes are scattered by the spring near our house on the Ranch.

As I left adolescence and became an adult I would think about him often and regret the way that I had treated him. I don't remember him ever being anything but kind and caring to me and almost all of my memories of him are very positive ones. I wish that he had lived long enough for me to be able to apologize, and for him to know how much I did love and value him...and that he may not have had any children of his own, but I'm proud to be an honorary one and will try to keep his memory alive.