Old People Stories
Vern grew up on a small farm in Nebraska, one of seven children. He is the only surviving child. He told me about each one of his siblings, how one married and had all girls, and one had all boys, with amazement in his voice. He told me about life on the farm. He told me about the Oregon Trail, how it cut through their farm, and how you can even see the ruts left in the dirt. Once he and his sister had to go out and double feed the cows when a particularly bad blizzard was settling in. He was about 10 and his sister was 12. The cows were about 5 miles away. After they rolled the hay off the back of the old truck, they headed back to the house and realized the road was drifted over and they couldn’t see it. In addition, they couldn’t see through the windshield with the snow and ice sticking to it. So, Vern got out on the running board, while his sister drove, and he gave her directions. They ended up driving across the pasture, into the teeth of the storm, to a cross fence, then driving the fence line a mile until they hit a road that was protected in the river bottom. Vern got down and pulled the staples from the barbed wire post so they could drive through the fence and on to the road and make their way home. He said his feet were frostbitten so bad, the bottom layer of skin came off a week later. He said it hurt pretty bad, and he lost all the skin off the bottom of his feet.
One day, Vern rode their mule, Bob, to the County Fair. He asked to enter the race, and was told, “Sure, we have room, kid.” So, Vern rode Bob to the track. It was a money race, and money was hard to come by back then. He got some looks riding Bob, the mule. He and Bob were in the gaggle of Quarter Horses when they hit the start line. The Pace Horse veered off the course and the horses took off. Vern was riding bareback with no bridle, and when the horses took off, Bob took off too and Vern went off the back and hit the ground. He got up, dusted himself off and watched as riderless-Bob won the race by three lengths. The people in the stands were cheering and laughing in equal parts. They’d never seen a mule run like that. Vern was hoping he’d made some money, but they said no. Only First Place got money, and they had a rule about riderless mules, or horses for that matter.
In Wisconsin, one beautiful Fall day, we made it back to the old church that was now a Bed and Breakfast. I noticed across the road was an old log cabin. It was squat and low with thick logs, no windows, and a large plank door with a locked chain holding it closed. There were old apple trees scattered about and grown-up pastures and either side of a nice creek. I asked the proprietor about it at dinner. He said, “There’s a story about that old place. It hasn’t been lived in for over 80 years. We don’t own that place, but wish we did. The family won’t sell it, but they won’t live there, either. The last time anyone lived there was back in the 1920’s.” The old man that lived there was the town hermit. His wife died, and, after that, he only showed his face to take apples to town to sell, or maybe a cow or two, and, then to buy whatever he needed to live for the next month or two. One winter, it was especially cold. In Wisconsin, not far from the Lake, that’s saying something. A blizzard blew in and stayed longer than most. Snow totals were epic, so much so that people were forced to stay inside, and horseback rides or even sleigh rides to town were dangerous. This wasn’t unusual and those Wisconsin people took it in stride. This time, however, just getting to the dairy barns to feed and milk the cows was risking frostbite. Eventually, the storm slackened, and the temperature climbed slowly during the day to the balmy mid-teens. The townsfolk began to peek out the doors, dig themselves out, and make their way to the store, or bar, and the farmers began to cut their way along trails to get to town. After a few weeks, someone noticed the old man hadn’t made an appearance. Once again, not that unusual. Finally, the mailman was able to get down the old, dirt road and make his rounds. He had mail for the church. He stopped by the old hermit’s cabin, across the road, and banged on the door. Inside, he found the old man frozen stiff, in the bed, with the fireplace bare and not a stick of firewood left. The ground was so frozen, they couldn’t bury him on his land until Spring. I forgot to ask what they did with the body until then.
Montana was an open-range state back when Gerald’s grandfather homesteaded his 40 acres. Granddad and his wife built a house and barn and had they had a few cows and were making it all work. They had a nice little creek that ran by the house, and they had a big garden. The cows and deer and coons, and everything else that lived around there, loved that garden. So, he and his wife fenced it off, along with a portion of the creek. After all, it was his land. One fine, Montana summer day, Granddad was tending garden when four cowboys from the nearest cattle ranch rode up on him. They informed him the fence needed to come down, because their cows couldn’t access the water. My impression, given by the grandson of the Granddad, was one of typical Montana farmer bullheadedness with a dash of grit thrown in. Words were spoken, replies were given. Before long, Granddad was lassoed and dragged out of the garden, the fence was torn down, and the garden was trampled. Granddad survived the beating, but the garden didn’t, and that was food they needed to survive. They managed to get to town, 10 miles away, to report it to the Sheriff, but it made no difference. The cowboys were named, but amazingly, they never left the ranch that day according to the foreman. It was a hard winter that year, but Gerald and his family were living proof they not only made it but thrived.
I was quail hunting with a rancher, on his land, in New Mexico. The ranch was in the Llano Estacado, a vast, waterless grassland in western Texas and eastern New Mexico. It was flat as a board, and before it was settled in the late 1890’s, riders would get turned around in the trackless plain and die of thirst. Two events finally allowed the area to be settled. One, the Comanches were finally settled in the 1880’s, largely due to the Army being equipped with repeating rifles and pistols. Secondly, the Chicago Aeromotor windmill became widely available, allowing access to the water locked below the caleche (rock) layer. Now, cows had water and the best grass in the world. The rancher’s family arrived about then and homesteaded the land and were very successful. We talked about cattle and branding and all the interesting stuff I had questions about. He told me about how his grandfather and father would, every year, join with other ranchers and have a real cattle drive to the rail head in Lubbock. I asked about fences. He said riders went ahead and the fences came down. He said his father was ecstatic when the railroad came to town.
40 miles west of the ranch is the Mescalero Ridge, a long escarpment that runs north-south. It bounds the Llano Estacado on the westside. The drop-offs are severe, and the Comanche would use the ridge to escape from the Army pursuers, using trails down and up only they knew. In the 1920’s, a young couple stood on the ridge and looked over miles of sand dunes in the direction of Roswell. They had a brand-new car and figured they could drive across the dunes to Roswell and be there by lunchtime. They were found weeks later, nearly mummified in the hot, dry air.
Other stories about log flumes in the Wyoming Big Horn Mountains, one-room-school-houses in the Dakotas, hand-dug irrigation canals in Idaho, Indian petroglyphs in the Texas panhandle, Pony Express stations in New Mexico, and vast ranches stretching from Arizona deep into Mexico are only a few of the tales related to me by the interesting people I meet while chasing my Brits across the country. I look forward, every year, to meeting them and hearing more stories about the hardy and tough individuals that settled the West.
