The life story of Mary Ronan, for whom the well-known local lake is named, is an absolutely fascinating document on Montana history, one of the best I’ve ever read.

In writing about it here, I’ve felt guilty that I had of the scarce copies. To ease that conscience, I publicly declared it would be left to the Flathead Valley Community College library when I kick the bucket.

Mary was a little motherless girl in the days of Montana Vigilante actions and saw road agents get hung. She became the child bride of the famous Peter Ronan and lived out her life on the Flathead Indian Reservation, where he was the first agent in charge.

In her later years, she declined to write her biography, so a daughter Margaret wrote one with Mary’s oral cooperation. The manuscript was put in a box and somehow forgotten in University of Montana archives, Margaret’s alma mater. It was found years later by one of my old professors, Dr. Merriam, who had a small edition published.

Anyone who likes excitement, unbelievable accounts about our state’s history and a touching romance can now get a copy. It is republished by the Montana Historical Society under the title, “Girl From the Gulch.” It’s available from the Historical Society store, P.O. Box 201201, Helena MT 59620 or by calling 1-800-243-9900. Now I don’t feel guilty anymore.

Dealing with another matter, I was involved in a unique “distraction incident” last week. While driving Kalispell’s east side, I slowed near a busy intersection and noticed a young mother pushing her baby in a stroller on the approaching sidewalk to my right.

She was talking on a cell phone and for some reason let loose of the stroller and turned her back to it, possibly trying to hear better. Bad move! The stroller just kept rolling smoothly down the incline toward the street. Not enough time for me to jump out so, risking the possibility of scaring the little tot, I honked my horn.

Mother ran and grabbed the stroller just short of the curb. The look of anguish and fright in that young woman’s eyes was enough to convince me “she will never do that again.”

A touching event involving mother love took place at the Ostrom’s house last week. From the dining room table, Iris noticed three young robins just out of the nest trying their wings and learning to hunt.

The runt seemed to have trouble but managed to fly up two feet from the lawn to our patio deck. Spent time there, but finding no worms flew two feet high to a chair and after several minutes rose to the railing. There it sat, and sat, while its siblings in the yard found scraps of food and practiced landing and take-offs.

Iris was vocalizing deep concern, making it hard for me to read a new book. Just when I thought she was worried enough to call the Humane Society, 911 or Gov. Schweitzer, Iris emotionally reported, “Oh, thank heavens! The mother brought it a worm.”

Delivery of goodies to the railing lasted hours, and I started wondering if we would skip supper. Then a short thunderstorm came up, and Iris reported the “poor little bird” hopped toward a tree next to the patio, then flew a few feet into the shrubs by our living room picture window. This allowed Iris to move observation from the dining room to our davenport while worrying if the mother could find this new perch place. She soon did.

Iris prepared a fast supper and resumed the watch while I looked at a ball game then went to bed. Next morning, “baby bird” was gone from our bushes. I assured Iris the mother and father robins would take care of it until it was ready to go out on its own.

I can only hope our other birds give their fledglings flight training at a different place than our patio.

G. George Ostrom is a national award-winning Hungry Horse News columnist. He lives in Kalispell.