My Grandmother (Lottie Stephenson) first met Frank Turney when he was working for Carruthers who had bought the Wyatt stable in Sonora.

It happened this way:  Drs. A.L. & Lark Taylor had three upstairs rooms in a hotel rented for country women who came in town to wait for the baby to be born.  When Mrs. George Trainer came in from Ft. Terrett, she had a little girl, Alice.  Lottie’s mother looked after Mrs. Trainer and Lottie looked after Alice, usually downstairs.

One day, she and Alice were looking out the window towards the stable watching Frank handle the horses. He saw them and rode up and began talking to little Alice. Of course, this led to talking with Lottie and their becoming acquainted.

Frank was good at breaking horses to pull buggies or hacks. He broke them for everyone, including a team for lawyer Cornell.  He happened to ask Lottie to ride out into the country with him, usually behind a wild and rearing team. It was convenient to have someone to open the gates; at least that was an excuse. Eventually, they “got up a case” and were married in 1900. For a short time Frank owned his own stable in Juno.

Frank’s father, at Whon Texas, offered him 50 acres to come there and raise cotton and crops. Lottie picked cotton with one baby being dragged on the sack and another toddling down the row. All the women worked like this, but she got fed up enough to tell Frank she was going back to Sonora.  Seems he too was ready too!

Permian Basin Petroleum Museum

In 1975, oil was selling for about $7.75 a barrel.  Believe or not, gasoline was about 44 cent a gallon.  Of course, we did not have enough money then to fill up the tank, but in today’s view, it was cheap!

Fall rolls around and President Gerald Ford has decided he needs to dedicate the brand new Permian Basin Petroleum Museum in Midland.  I was assigned to cover this momentous event. Back then, if it was possible, journalist like to get the lay of the land before any event occurs.  It helps to know what things to avoid, such as ankle twisters when you were not watching where you are going.  We (a gaggle of reporters) arrived at the Midland airport well in advance of President Ford.  We were hustled into a van that would join the motorcade.  Some of us would be dropped off at a hotel where we would gather in a ball room to watch and listen to the ceremony while pool reporters (previously chosen) would accompany Ford on a tour of the museum.  Honestly, not very many of us wanted to be in that pool.  Although the weather cleared up, it had been raining cats and dogs and the humidity was high.  So, we put our stories together and filed them in the comfort of that nice big air conditioned ball room with coffee and donuts available.

While waiting for the motorcade to be put together, our van parked on a side street leading away from the terminal.  At that time, there was a wide grassy median in the center of the main thoroughfare.  An enterprising television reporter from Midland set a camera up in that median and was taking trial runs on his story.  He had his girlfriend drive by several times to make sure his timing was good, and that the camera angle worked.  He intended to film his story about President Ford arriving in Midland as the motorcade past right by him.  Everything was set…he is going to have a great story.  Even some of the old pro folks in the van thought the young reporter had a bright future.

The presidential motorcade made its way on the thoroughfare, and we were to be the last vehicle in the line.  We watched as the young reporter began his story as the motorcade started passing by. Just as the presidential limousine approached the reporter, the vehicle ran through a huge puddle of water.  The water sprayed up three or four feet in the air, and you guessed it, our cub reporter and his expensive camera got drenched! Since we were the last vehicle in the motorcade, our driver stopped and asked if we could be of any assistance.  The young man, to his credit, was breaking down his equipment and said no that he would just follow us to the hotel.

We arrived at the hotel ball room well in advance of the wet reporter.  Everyone set up, plugged recording equipment in quickly and watched the television monitor as President Ford arrived at the new petroleum museum.  Everyone seemed focused on the job at hand until our cub reporter came in to the room.  The old pros that watched that young man spend all that time for a stand up report only to get soaked by Ford’s limo stood and gave a resounding ovation for him.

He told me he forgot all about getting drenched when he walked into that room and saw everyone standing and clapping for him.  We made sure he had all the audio and visuals he needed. Some of the union folks set up a nice area and ran video for his stand up report (his camera was ruined).

Many of those that helped that young man were White House correspondents that you saw on television on a daily basis.  It was a heart warming thing to see.  I do not know what happened to that reporter. I never got his name. I will always remember his extra ordinary effort that paid off for him.

 

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There are many duties that befall a youngster living in the country.  Most of them hold positions of great responsibility, but there are some that are just down right aggravating to have to accomplish. Take for example the gate.

Gates come in all sizes and weights, and operate with various degrees of difficulty.  It is the responsibility of the gate person to learn about each gate, how they work, and how tough they can be to handle.  The gate person is going to have to handle the gate in every situation, whether it be going and coming on the road to town, rounding up and working the pens or moving stock from one pasture to another.  In addition to learning each gate’s habits, the gate person is responsible for keeping the gates in good working condition.  It is tough work when the end of a gate drags the ground when you open and close.  That means you have to lift it to make it work properly, and if a gate person works a lot of gates during the day, it can become tiresome.  So, a gate person needs to make sure the gates don’t drag the ground, and one has to know how to fix that gate to keep it from dragging.

One of the great inventions of the time was the bumper gate.  In the days when bumpers on cars and trucks were made with metal, one could use the bumper to bump open the gate, drive through, and the gate would swing back into the closed position.  One could see the end of the gate person’s responsibilities coming one day.  Our place had a bunch of gates, and none of which were bumper gates!

Being the youngest in our family had some advantages.  For instance, I was the designated fence boy.  That meant I could saddle my horse and ride all day for a real purpose.  However, being the youngest also brought some disadvantages such as being designated as the ‘gate man.’

The word ‘man’ was added on there to make the job seem much more adult than it actually was.  It was an awful job. Winter or summer, rain, snow, sleet, or heat, the gates had to be opened and closed.

We had seven gates to be opened and closed on the road from the main road to our house.  When my brother and I were in school, a pickup would be left inside the first gate so when we got off the bus, we had a ride to the house.  And, trying to be the best gate man I could be, that meant I got a lot of practice opening and closing the gates.

My brother and I became so good with our timing that I could get the gate open quickly enough for him to drive the truck through, shut and secure the gate, and jump into the back of the truck without the truck slowing.  We were a team! We practiced this routine all winter long, and it worked really well.

As spring came along and the weather warmed up, apparently my brother became bored with our gate routine.  He decided it would be fun to jam on the brakes just as I dove for the bed of the truck.  That left a knot or two on my head.  The next trick up his sleeve was, as you might guess, to speed up just as I dove for the bed of the truck.  Caliche roads can really mess up your clothes when you slide like you are trying to get to home plate belly first.

To end all this physical abuse I was dealing myself, I decided I wanted to ride up front in the cab of the truck, or at least on the running board.  We had really nice wide flat running boards on that truck, and I could hang onto the passenger side mirror and ride comfortably on the running board from one gate to the next.  Mind you, this only worked during good weather days.

I am pretty sure my brother would lay awake at night and devise new tricks to play when we were headed to the house after school.   His latest thing was to stop so I could close the gate and come to the side of the truck to get on the running board, and he would goose the truck engine to move the truck up a couple of feet just as I stepped on the running board.  Well, after four or five tries of getting on the running board in that fashion, I gave up.  He went on to the house.  I thought I was really on top here, because he had to open the gate, drive the truck through, get out and close the gate.  Since we had just gone through gate number two, he had five to do by himself.  I just knew he would learn to appreciate all the hard work I did when he had to do a little work himself.  While I was patting myself on the back for my ingenuity, I heard a grunting noise close to the gate I had just closed.

I looked eye to eye with the biggest javalina hog I had ever seen.  This had to be a world record hog!  This hog had those tusks that curled up on each side of its mouth, and they looked to be huge.  Those tusks can do a lot of damage. I am standing in the road about twenty yards from this big fellow, and I am really hoping he decides to go on his way.

Well, that was not to be.  I looked like a late afternoon snack for that hog and he came running. Those fellows can turn on a dime and give you nine cents change.  I found that out when I dashed to the side to avoid being trampled and hooked with those tusks.  I spotted a mesquite tree down the fence a ways from the gate, so I got there as fast as I could, and climbed to the first strong limb.

Javalina hogs are determined idiots.  That hog kept ramming that tree and looking up to see if I had been jarred loose. This went on for what seemed like hours. It was perhaps only a few minutes before I spotted my Dad’s truck coming in from town.

By the time Dad’s truck pulled up to the gate, I knew he had seen where I was because I took my shirt off and waved it in the air.  He also noted a giant javalina hog ramming the tree I was holding onto.  I guess he did not realize how important it was for me to get out of that tree because he yelled at me, “Are you all right?”  I wanted to say does it look like it?  However, I said for the moment I was o.k. He opened the gate, drove his truck through, and closed the gate. I am thinking, “Well, first things first.  Lets get the truck through the gate while your son is about to be attacked by a crazed javalina hog with foot long tusks.”  The javalina was paying attention only to me and that tree. He did not see the rifle raised and fired.  It was one of those model 94 Winchester .3030 rifles that would pretty well knock down any thing in the sites.  That hog took two of those shots before he gave up and fell over dead.

I climbed down from my perch in the mesquite and stood on shaky legs while we both admired that big old hog.  Of course, we had to throw it in the back of the truck to take up to the house so it could be dealt with later.

When we were both safely in the comfort of his truck, Dad came out with the twenty questions.  What were you doing out here with that javalina.  Don’t you know those things can kill a person?  And on and on with the questions before I could answer a single one. As we pulled up to the barn close to the house, Dad spotted the pickup my brother and I use to get from the road to the house.  And, it began to dawn on him that I might have been left behind at the second gate. After we unloaded the hog, Dad told me that was good thinking to get up in that tree to get away from the javalina, and that he was glad I was alright.  He told me that he thought he needed to have a talk with my brother, so I should go feed the horses.  Apparently, that talk took place.  There was not a word mentioned about the javalina incident for years.  My brother always wanted me to ride inside the truck with him from that day forward.  He never played another trick to get me to miss the truck, and he sort of served as a protector from that day forward

 

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TWO SHORTS AND A LONG

 As a young growing boy, I had no idea how telephones worked.  I did know that when our phone rang two short rings and a long ring, someone needed to pick up the phone.  Also, I knew that anytime during the day, you could pick the phone up and hear the neighbor ladies talking about all kinds of stuff.  They talked about stuff I was not really interested in.  You see, I was the designated fence boy on our place.

Being the designated fence boy for a person of eight or nine years old is kind of a big deal.  We had a place of size, and you had to divide your time to cover all the perimeter fences, the cross fences, and we had a couple of water gaps.  Those water gaps were a mystery to me because our place was in what seemed like the desert.  I recall only a few days when it rained such that we stayed in on the screened in porch to watch it pour.  Anyway, I checked the water gaps for any type of irregularity that would allow an animal in or out. The fences were net wire with two strands of barbed wire on top.

Of course, I had to ride my horse to check all these fences. There is no way to walk them, and even though my brother was secretly teaching me how to drive our pickup, I was not allowed to drive at that age.

So, early every morning during the summer, I would saddle my horse, gather all my gear and head out to the pasture.  As part of my summer education, I had to write a note about which pasture I was checking just in case someone could find me should an emergency arise elsewhere.

The gear I packed was rather simple. I needed a round or two of barbed wire, a round or two of regular straight wire, two pair of pliers, a hammer, some fence staples, a pair of wire cutters, and a good pair of gloves.    I had the best wire cutters on the place.  I found an old rusted pair that would not open and I worked those over during a weekend, and they turned out to be the best.  I found out later in life that it was against the law in Texas to carry a pair of wire cutters out in certain situations.  I am pretty sure I had good cause to carry them since I was the designed fence boy.

I also carried a .22 caliber rifle.  I had a really neat saddle holster for that gun.  I also kept the gun oiled and in good working order.  It could shoot long or short bullets, however, we preferred the .22 long.  There were plenty of occasions to use the gun.  It seemed that rattlers really liked to hang around the grass in the fences, and being the designated fence boy, I felt it was my responsibility to eradicate those creatures.

There was one particular section of perimeter fence that was really hard to check.  The terrain was very rough and there were several small hills that dotted the western edge of our place, so I really did not check that fence very often.

Looking back through the notes I had left on our map, it became obvious I was ignoring that long stretch of fence for some reason, so, nothing to do but cure that problem and ride the fence. That was one strange fence. In addition to the net wire and two barbed wires. It had another barbed wire running on top of the post. Now, by riding the fence, I don’t mean that one would straddle the fence. No sir, that would be a problem in more ways than you can imagine.  Riding the fence meant saddling up, and strolling along the fence looking for anything that needed fixing.  These fences needed a lot of fixing it seemed from the eyes of an eight or nine year old designated fence boy.  I have no idea how these fences got along during the winter when I went to school, but during the summer they got the best checkups ever.

Starting at the northwest corner of our place, I commenced a very thorough check of the west perimeter fence.  A couple of hours into this check, I found the top strand of barbed wire broken.  I am thinking maybe a deer jumped the fence here, and clipped the top wire with a foot.  The wire was a little suspect, and there was some hair on some of the barbs.  I clipped out a short section that was part of the break, and put in a much better strand.  As I was making the very last tie together, I had one strand in my left hand, and one strand in my right hand. All of a sudden, I felt a jolt that knocked me off my feet.

I landed on my rear end right next to where my horse was grazing in the grass.  Thankfully, he did not run, but he was just as alarmed as I was at what had happened.  We both looked at that fence in wonder.  It should not be said that I couldn’t finish a job, so I gathered myself, grabbed the ends of the wire again and hooked them up to make the repair without another problem.

Not feeling all that great, I took a break with the fence riding and went back to the house for a little rest.  It was approaching lunch and the heat of the day, and everyone else had come in to eat and wait out the heat.  Usually by about five o’clock the heat let up a little, and we could go back at it again, however, I stayed in that day.  Dad noticed and asked if I had a problem.  When I relayed the story about what had happened on the west fence, he looked really concerned.  He picked up the telephone and called the feed store in town and placed an order, and asked the feed store to call him right back.  Two shorts and a long later, Dad answered the phone.

Dad told me that our phones had been out for several weeks.  The neighbors had been checking unsuccessfully to see if they could find a problem.  Apparently, the phones were fixed. He asked me if I saw little white ceramic doodads on top of the fence post holding the top strand of the barbed wire fence.

I told him I did see them and wondered what purpose they served.  He told me those little white doodads were insulators for our phone line, and the top strand of our barbed wire fence carried the phone line for us and all our neighbors.  Apparently, I had stumbled on the phone line problem everyone had been trying to find for the past several weeks.

Well, pops, thanks for letting me know about that phone line, because it packs a wallop!  I told him it knocked me to the ground when I grabbed both ends.  Best guess is that someone just happened to be cranking on their phone when I grabbed both ends of wire and made the connection.

I finished riding that perimeter fence the next day without a single problem, and when I made it back to the house there was a chocolate cake waiting for me.  The neighbor ladies’ gossip line was back up thanks to me.  I got a shock that knocked me to my rump, an education on how crank telephones worked, and a chocolate cake out of the deal.

 

 

 

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Their Day in Court

So, I am sitting  in a federal courtroom to cover a big trial, and I am very early being the only one in the courtroom. The judge comes in and calls me to the bench. He told me he needed to preside over a dispute of some sort and he wanted to make sure it would not be in the news. I told him I would leave if need be, and he said no, he needed a witness to be on hand. I said fine and I put away my pen and pad.

The bailiff escorted in an elderly man (in his 80s) and an elderly woman (also in her 80s-she needed a cane to walk). These two were obviously man and wife, as they were both seated at the same table.  The judge called the court to order, and asked the two why everyone had assembled in his courtroom today. The man told the judge that he needed a court order to move back into his house. The woman said in a very stern voice, “Judge, he cannot come back in the house because he curses. I don’t allow cursing in my house. The man quietly replied:” Judge, it’s my house. I built it. Anyway, she keeps hitting me with that damn cane.” The woman stood up and said: “see judge, there he goes with that cursing again, and right here in your courtroom. I will see to it that he gets the cane when we get out of here.”

The judge asked the man where he was staying and the fellow said he was staying in the chicken coop with the chickens, but he really wanted back in the house. The judge thought for some time and finally said there were some options. He could grant a divorce, but where would the wife live? He could let the husband move back in, and place a restraining order on the wife, but he was pretty sure she would wind up in jail eventually. He ordered the two to have a conference and come up with a solution to the problem.

Husband and wife talked it over for quite a while, and finally told the judge the husband would move back in and would curb the cussing. If something should slip out, the wife was to give three warnings before using the cane. Husband said if after three times he still let it slip, then he deserved the cane. Judged declared the case closed with a sharp rap of the gavel.

After they left the courtroom, the judge called me to the bench again. He asked me my opinion on the situation, and I told him that I thought things came out great. He said everyone seemed happy with the solution, and he certainly was, because he really hated to see his parents argue so much!

(this story did not find its way to the news)

The case I was to cover was reset to another day.

Celebration in front of the Bank Saloon in Sonora, Texas

Saloons, dance hall girls, lively piano music and shootings in the streets will conjure up the image of an old west town.

For a small little village starting out in the 1800s, that sort of lawlessness might have an impact on the growth of the town.  Many community founders back then really did not want the town to have a reputation that lent itself to raucous behavior and instead, wanted the town to have a reputation of having law abiding citizens and all things good.  So, when you peruse pages of the papers of the time, you will see mostly positive and optimistic articles to let the outside world know things are just fine and dandy.  After all, that image will make the town attract more residents and business.  What was actually attracting folks to Sonora was opportunity. The country was new, and unfenced. Young cowboys saw an opportunity to set up shop and make a life.

Even though the founding families really wanted the reputation of being in a law abiding town, Sonora, Texas had its fair share of lawlessness and shootouts.  One of the first happened as workers laid the foundation for the courthouse.  The only water well was on what is now the courthouse grounds.  Everyone had a certain time to water their animals. It has been agreed that the watering time favored a man named Miers.  However, a man named Adams brought his sheep to the watering troughs and of course, an argument ensued.  Adams walked to his nearby home, retrieved a pistol, and returned to the well.  He shot and killed Mr. Miers.

Such began the history of shootings in Sonora.

Ed Looney and Al Haley had become the best of friends.  Looney had the beginnings of a fine ranching operation. Haley likewise ranched near Sonora and had intentions of building a home in the fledgling little town. Both men did a lot of trading in the day, and a minor dispute developed between the two, and Looney may have used some strong and threatening language. At least that is what some of the courthouse records might show.

Of course, cowboys get a hold of such things, and before you know it, it is being said that Looney was spouting off that one of them would not leave town alive.  Sure enough, that got back to Haley and an argument developed in the hotel restaurant.  After supper, both men filed out to the Maude S Saloon.  Sometime later, shots rang out in the night. Folks rushed to the Maude S to see Haley coming out of the saloon walking toward them. He blew the smoke off the barrel of his gun and placed in the scabbard under his coat.  He told the folks he hated what he had done; that he had shot the wrong man.  Years later, after all the legal wrangling that could be done, Haley was acquitted of killing his best friend.

Two gamblers at the Ranch Saloon shot it out. Walter Sap and Frank Johns came busting out the doors of the Ranch Saloon and commenced shooting. There was not a winner as they killed each other.

Even though there was law and order in the little town, we must fast forward to 1901.  Most people knew Will “News” Carver.  He worked as a cowboy on a lot of the ranches in the area, and folks in Sonora could recognize him on site.  Carver had joined up with Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and was one of the Wild Bunch.  He is pictured in the famous photograph that is said to have led to the end of the Wild Bunch gang.  It seems Carver would continue taking what he wanted and spending it the way he saw fit. When he needed to lay low, there was plenty of country to hold up in around Sonora and he knew that country well.  He would come into Sonora during the dark to get things that he needed. Stories really differ at how all this came about, but be that as it may, Will Carver and one of his sidekicks were gunned down in a bakery on the main street of Sonora by the Sheriff and several deputies.  The sidekick lived to tell the Sheriff that Carver was innocent of the crime he was being hunted for. Carver died in the courthouse where he had been carried after the shooting stopped.

There are witness accounts for these three stories!  Now, how a town can hold all that information so close to the vest is beyond imagination. But, the town did.  To this day there are some that would really rather not discuss it and would put it away-not in a history book.

Events like these do tend to carve a town’s character.  Sonora grew up and out of the shootout era, and became one of the richest centers for ranching, and then oil was discovered west of there.  That portrays another chapter in the life of Sonora Texas.

**The first three shootings were told to me and others by my Grandmother Lottie Stephenson Turney, or Mrs. Frank Turney.

In the shooting at the well, she related that as a ten year old, she was responsible for getting the water for the day. She had a little wagon that she carried buckets in to the water troughs. Miers helped her load the water in the wagon, and told her and the other kids there to not play in the water as they usually did, because he wanted it to clear up before he brought in his stock.  She heard the argument between Miers and Adams and hid beneath the porch of a nearby house and saw the shooting.

The year Ed Looney was shot and killed must have been in 1896 because my Grandmother said she was a waitress at the Decker Hotel and was 16 years old when it happened. She was serving when the argument between the two broke out.  After the shots were heard at the Maude S Saloon, she, Mr. Decker and several others rushed to the Maude S to see what happened.

I do not know many of the details of the shooting between Walter Sap and Frank Johns other than what my Grandmother reported, as she was standing across the street when it happened.

The shooting of Will Carver is well documented.  As far as comments from my Grandmother are concerned, she was married to Frank Turney in 1900. She had varying accounts about her whereabouts when it happened, and really did not discuss it much.  I will say, she told me a much different account of what happened. She claimed everyone was so scared of Will Carver and his sidekick that they went into the building guns ablazing and the two had no chance.  I have not been able to confirm that anywhere but in conversations with my Grandmother.

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I know many of you are just wondering about this.  Cowboys did not choose to sit on the top rail at the corral for very long periods of time.  Good reasoning for it too! That top rail was mostly a two by twelve piece of lumber.  It was nailed securely enough, but if you have been riding a saddle horse all day, that piece of wood is just not very dad gum comfortable.  If you have anything in your back pockets…it is likely to wind up on the ground because you kind of have to squirm a little just to stay up there for any length of time.  It is also rather embarrassing to go into the bunkhouse and have the worst joke teller in the entire world pull a splinter out of your rear end because you squirmed too much. Especially if you have been watching some bronco busting first thing in the morning and you have to sit the saddle all day.  The only kick back is, sooner or later, you are going to have to pull a splinter out of that joker’s rear end. I have been atop that rail enjoying the view and wouldn’t you know some idiot just has to come up behind me and give me a goosing. Guess who wound up inside the corral where all that bronco busting is taking place. Yep, it’s me!

It is just best if you can lean in and look between the top rail and the next rail down.  Putting your foot on the bottom rail is fairly relaxing. 

I just know everyone has been wanting this information.  So, the next time you are watching bronco busting at the corral, the old timers will tell you it is more comfortable to stay off that top rail.

(I think the feller sittin to the left in the picture just might have gotten a splinter!)

Poncho after a nice bath, brushing, grooming and tacking up

Poncho

There comes a time in life when you just have to do certain things.  Our family came across one of those times.  We managed to lease a little acreage to spend some time on when we were not working.  As a young family, we worked a lot it seemed, so it was a natural that we needed a place.  A place where we could listen to the wind blow through the mesquite trees, and a place that was quiet enough you might catch a bird song or two. We had found that perfect place.  Not big at all and not totally ours, as it was leased. But, it was a place we could get away and enjoy things we are supposed to enjoy.

That place just needed a horse.  With a young son added to the family, we needed a horse.  It was just something we had to add to the place.  Not just any horse, mind you, but one that would become a member of our family.  We had to have the right horse for the job.  Our extended family joined the search for that horse with our parents counseling patience; the right horse will come along.  It seemed this search would go on forever.  We found a colt that looked right, but when we tried the trailer, there was no way that horse would ever step foot in there.  Trying to get a high spirited colt into somewhere that high spirited colt does not want to go can be a disaster.  Before the colt or anyone got hurt, we decided to back off and let that colt spend some more time in the owner’s pasture.  The colt owner wasn’t too happy that we decided against the colt, but it was best for all around.

And then, along came Poncho.  I know, Poncho translated to English means lazy.  I learned this much later.  My brother called me with the news that a man he knew had a horse and we should take a ride over to see if we might like to buy him.  My dad went with us to see that horse.  Pulling up to the horse pen, a horse whipped his head over the fence and commenced to stare us down.  That horse was sizing us up.  The horse was a real nice looker and he knew it too.  I did not think that was the horse we were coming to look at because we had a price range, and that horse was way beyond our price range.  We talked to the horse trader for quiet a while to get the low down on the horse we came to see.  The horse we are going to look at had been on his ranch for a while, and this fellow was selling everything.

I don’t know if you have ever dealt with horse traders before, but they can tell you stories that will have the hanky out to wipe away tears in a hurry.  This trader was one of those kinds of fellows.  He really hated to sell this horse.  The horse came from a ranch in Mexico, his name is Poncho and this trader supposedly had him for several years, and it was just really busting him up to have to part with the horse.  My dad, who knew a few things about horse traders and horses, wanted to take a look at the horse.  Blow me down; the horse that stared us down on the way in was the horse named Poncho.

You really need to be careful when you enter the pen that contains a horse you know nothing about.  Depending on the temperament of the horse, you could be exiting the pen quicker than when you came in.  That wasn’t the case with Poncho.  He walked right up to us as if to introduce himself.  He nuzzled all of us and took a step back.  Dad talked Poncho into letting him look at his teeth.   For my way of thinking, they were certainly all there.  We looked, we felt, we picked up this foot, then that foot, we trotted Poncho around the pen we did a fine job of looking at that horse.  Dad said yep, this is the one if we can get him in the trailer.  Poncho walked right in to that trailer like it belonged to him and no one else.  We had a horse!

Poncho seemed to like our little spread.  He really needed a big pen and a barn to get out of the weather, so we built one.  My brother and I were digging post holes one day and I looked over to see what my brother was doing, since I had finished the last hole.  He was bent over cleaning out a hole with Poncho leaning his head over my brother’s shoulder to make sure all the dirt was cleared out of that hole.  After all, this was Poncho’s home. After the construction, we called dad over to take a look.  Dad liked it, and he asked if anyone had taken Poncho for a ride.  Well no, we have been busy building.  Dad saddled Poncho, and took off down a little roadway.  Instantly, Poncho moved into one of the most beautiful gaits that a horse could have.  It was a thing of beauty to cause your jaw to drop, to see that an old horse could move like that. Later, when Dad came back and unsaddled, he told me Poncho was one of the best horses ever.  He was not sixteen years old like the trader told us; he was more like six years old.  Dad said that horse had been in Mexico, and grazed on land where there were a lot of rocks.  You could see that in the horse’s teeth.

Also, he said that horse had been misnamed.  Poncho is Spanish for lazy, and this horse is anything but lazy.  Dad said he needed a new name.  Even so, Poncho seemed good for us.  The horse seemed to answer to that name.

Our little family had a lot of fun with Poncho.  That horse really liked to roam that mesquite filled little pasture.  I saddled Poncho up one day to ride in that pasture and I swear that horse knew every single tree with a low hanging branch.  Poncho would walk under one of those and either just stop, or walk on and turn around to see me flat on my rear end because that branch knocked me off.  That horse’s idea of entertainment was to keep me flat on the ground as much as possible.

Time continued on and our little family got so busy and the town grew out to where our spread was located, and we had to make some decisions about Poncho.  We found a really nice stable with a huge arena for exercise.  This was a perfect place for Poncho. The stable owner told me there was a young lady that fed the horses, and would exercise them if it was all right with the owner.  I said that was just great with us.

I stopped at the stable to check on Poncho a number of times.  That horse was really in his element there.  He seemed like he fattened up real nice.  His coat was a nice, shiny red, and I swear somebody had polished Poncho’s hooves. His mane and tail had been cared for perfectly.  He was really something.  I did notice however, there was a sign over Poncho’s stall that had Frank written on it.  I asked the stable owner about it and he said my Dad had stopped by and had a discussion with the young lady caring for that horse, and they decide Frank was that horse’s real name.  So Frank it was.  He also told me that we were approaching a serious problem.  The young lady was falling in love with Frank, and Frank was falling in love with the young lady.  He invited me out to exercise time the next day to see what he meant.

Exercise time rolled around, and I was sitting on the top rail of the arena with the stable owner while a horse worked out.  I asked him when our horse would be out, and he said partner you are looking at him.  That cannot be our family’s horse.

Poncho, or Frank, was prancing around that arena with his head held as high as a horse could hold it.  Neck was in a beautiful arch.  The rider had a tight rein.  Forelegs were wrapped.  We never wrapped Poncho’s forelegs!  The rider was sporting an English riding habit.  White pants, the boots, the jacket and a helmet with a little fuzzy ball on top and was atop one of those English saddles that just glowed with polish. That horse had been ridden western style for ever. It was hard to imagine English on a western saddle horse.  After watching the rider take Frank through all of the riding gaits a horse could have, I thought that this looked like a jumping horse for the Olympics. Poncho-Frank-is certainly a show stopper and he knew it.

The young lady’s mother happened by with a wedge of hay in her hands, and asked the stable owner how much longer she will be on that horse.  He told her she just got started, and introduced me as the owner of the horse.  She said that we have a problem.  She has been doing all her daughter’s work while her daughter spent all her time at the stables with that horse.  The young lady has been saving her money to buy a horse, and she is pretty sure that horse she is riding now will be that horse. She hoped one day I would be willing to sell.

After a bit of riding the young lady rode to where we were sitting on the rail.  The stable owner introduced us but I cannot remember her name.  I remember the freckles sprinkled across her nose.  I remember the blonde hair in a braid down her back, and I remember that huge grin when she started talking about Frank.  This young lady was about thirteen years old and was on a mission to love a horse.  She told me everything I needed to know about Frank.  There was clearly a bond between the two.  While she was talking, Frank never moved.  He had that stare down look in his eye that he had when we first saw him in the trader’s pen.

It took her a while of talking before she really got down to business. I think she might have been a little concerned about the answer if she asked the question.  Yes, there was an elephant in the room.  Finally, she told me she had been saving her money to buy a horse.  She had spent some of it to buy the saddle, because it seemed to fit Frank, and Frank seemed to really like it.  Those English saddles are not cheap. She had spent some of her savings on the riding outfit because it kind of went with the saddle.  She said she didn’t know how she looked in it because she never looked in the mirror while she was wearing it.  But, she said it seemed to brighten Frank’s day.

She was worried that she had overspent, and might have to save a bunch more for a horse…especially a horse like Frank.  She said these horses are worth a lot of money, maybe even thousands.  She had done some research.

I had to ask.  Since you have spent your savings on the saddle and on the outfit about how much do you have left over for a horse?  She said that is just it, she had only fifty five dollars left over, and it is going to take a long time to save up enough to buy a horse like Frank.  Well, young lady, you know you have to buy feed and hay on top of that, don’t you.  She said she knew it, and she planned on working at the stable for the rest of her life. The stable owner was listening in, and told her that she would have a job for the rest of her life if she wanted it.

There was more than enough time to think this over.  I told the young lady that she had a little too much money for Frank, because I was thinking of selling him for fifty dollars. Well, we had a little crying jag on our hands now.  She became the proud owner of Frank, she called her mom over to get the money and get it fast before he changes his mind.  Mom got her fifty dollars and they young lady handed it to me with a hug.  Mind you she was still mounted on Frank, and I was sitting on the top rail of the fence.  She finished quickly with the hug and told Frank to go, and go they did.  While she was riding, I handed the fifty dollars to the stable owner and told him to give her the western saddle we had in the tack room to use for the feed bill.

I will always remember that picture of a young woman proudly riding a beautifully groomed horse.  Forelegs wrapped, head held high, beautiful arched neck, mane and tail in perfect shape.  That picture to me is worth a lot more than fifty bucks.

 

 

 

 

 

 A boy, a horse, and a dog cannot be left alone in the country without some great responsibilities to fulfill.

Parents across the world have discovered this, and as a result, give the boy, the horse, and the dog plenty of work to keep them occupied for the duration.

Such was the case during the summer when my parents went to work in town.  We had a lot of angora goats that needed minute by minute care and they were ready made for a young person to fill a day.  Those goats needed working one weekend.  That meant drenching for stomach parasites, doctoring any injuries or wounds, and making sure the males were neutered.

Before rounding up any animal on a spread, one must make sure the pens the animals are headed to will be able to sustain rowdy behavior.  Let us face it. These goats have been in a free range mode for quite some time, and now they are being suddenly asked to be in their best behavior.  Well, it does not happen that way.  All the fences had to be mended, gates had to function properly, and the pens must be in good working order.  It had taken several days to get those pens ready to hold all of those goats.

Angora goats have a different mindset when it comes to some things.  They are especially good at cleaning up brush and useless growth, and can give a place a polished look.  However, that means goats go places they perhaps should not go.  For instance, an angora goat produces mohair and when it becomes of any length, it will tangle in everything.  Those goats have no awareness of that issue and will get totally tangled to the point they cannot walk.  Once a slight tangle occurs, a goat will continue to worry with it until it is a major factor.  If left alone, the goat will eventually die.

In rides a boy, a horse, and a dog to the rescue.  Finding the goats that are in distress is a major responsibility.  There are very few places in this world without briers. Briers are vines that have sharp barbs and grow with the full notion of capturing all of the angora goats in the neighborhood.  For that reason, one must carry a pair of hand shears as part of the kit on the saddle.  Most of the time a goat is really appreciative if one can extricate them from the briers.  That is the case especially if they have been trapped there for some time.  Every once in a while a stubborn goat will fight the very hand trying to lend aid.  When that happens there is usually some kicking and head butting in play making the job a tad more difficult.

After all the goats are relieved of tangled distress, there comes the count.  One must be able to determine the number of animals in a particular pasture if one is responsible for getting them all to the pens.  This can be somewhat of a difficult chore for a young person.  Goats do not understand the importance of the count.  As a consequence, they like to roam a bit while grazing.  You can imagine the difficulty if you are trying to count the things!  However, they must be counted so it continues to be a learning experience.

Dogs are especially helpful when working cows, sheep, and goats.  Border collies are known for their intelligence, and also for their patience in working alongside humans who have no idea what needs to be done.  Those dogs can be trained almost to the point of depositing the check in the bank after the goats have been rounded up and sold. Someday that will probably happen, too.

We had a border collie named Missy.  This was the finest dog, ever, to my way of thinking.  We were side by side in everything happening on our place from daylight to dark.  Missy had a tendency to find all of the little soft clover burrs she could hustle in a day.  Those things would get wrapped up in her coat to the point they would rub a sore on her skin if they were not removed.  That was a job I had every evening after a hard day of work.

I am not sure Missy had any idea that I had saved her from certain pain and anguish, but we were a pair.

It had come to round up time.  The working pens were ready, all of the goats had been pulled from the briers, a rough count had been conducted, and goats had been bunched up into a loose herd.  This loose herd had to move to those pens.  Missy did a great job of moving those goats in a slow and deliberate manner.  This worked really well when my horse and I tired to the point of stopping for a drink at the stock tank.  That water looking inviting enough for a swim so that happened, too!  My horse Coalie did not swim, but I did take a cooling dip in the tank while Missy kept the goats in a nice little canyon next to the tank.

After the swim, Coalie had decided we had worked enough for the day and was really cantankerous about being saddled again.  There was a lot of loud discussion with that horse, but the saddle finally went on and Coalie became the best horse ever once again.  I could not leave Coalie alone in the pasture with cows or sheep.  He would take it upon himself to conduct a round up on his own.  I do not know if this was practice for the real thing, or if Coalie just wanted to round them up.  He would run the cows and goats to the point of exhaustion, so he lived in a different pasture.  That round up skill really came in handy when the real thing had to be accomplished.

This round up was the real thing for me, Coalie and Missy.  We were working about a thousand head of angora goats.  Those goats have a spirit all their own.  There is no way to tell what goes through their minds to cause them to act the way they act.  We found goats climbing up limbs in trees to get oak leaves that could have easily been obtained standing with all four feet on the ground.  These animals are characters.  Some of them have attitude, some are docile, and some are really carefree.  We had a mixture in this bunch of goats.

There has been no scientific study on the effect wind has on the mind of a goat.  However, the wind can really affect the thinking of a goat.  It seems they become almost obstinate about anything when the wind is in their face. It really makes life difficult. It can be especially rough on round up day, and especially for a boy, a horse and a dog.  I think Missy understood this best because she seemed to have more patience with the goats on windy days.  That patience did not transfer to me or Coalie that day, though.

She managed to get those goats all the way to the lane that led to the working pens and of course, Coalie and I helped a lot by making sure the stragglers kept up with the main herd.

When we reached the opening to the lane that led to the working pens, something happened to the goat’s idea of cooperation.  They just stopped before going down that lane. I do not know if the goats in front had some sort of memory of bad times in those pens or what was going through their mind.  Of course, the wind kicked up a notch just as we got to that lane.  Again, their mind goes elsewhere in the wind.

We worked out a system where we would bunch and push to try to get those goats into the lane.  Bunch and push, bunch and push over and over.  It just did not work.  I managed to sneak into the barn from the back and get a sack of feed.  This feed was the favorite feed of the goats.  They would just about kill anything that got in between them and that feed.  They really liked it.   I poured some of that feed out in the pasture, and left a trail of it well into the lane.  It did not work.  Those goats ate all the feed right up to the entrance to the lane and stopped.  As a matter of fact, some of them just decided the lay on the ground in front of the entrance.  This did not seem to be going well, and the day was drawing late.  Parents would be home soon and would want to know why the goats were not penned.  It was time for a serious conference.

Missy, Coalie and I backed away from the bunch for a bit to decide a new approach.  While Coalie and I studied the situation, Missy took off like a shot and started barking and nipping.  Barking and nipping seemed to be the right approach because the goats immediately recognized the need to start moving.   It was sure working better than our bunch and push approach.  Coalie and I decided to help by moving in a little closer to the herd.  That set Missy to turn around and let us know to stay put.  I must say that is the first time I was ever cussed out by a border collie.  Coalie and I understood our orders and let Missy work the herd.  In just a few short minutes goats were in the lane headed toward the pens acting like it was their intention to head that way all along.

Once the last goat went in the lane, Missy turned around to face Coalie and I. I truly believe she was teaching us a lesson.  That lesson was if you had left me alone, we would have been at the house hours ago.  This was a lesson well learned.  Those dogs know so much more than we do.  Missy gave me the cold shoulder for a couple of days after that round up.

It wasn’t long though before we were best friends again.

 

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There are plenty of different types of domino games around now-a-days.

I grew up with a bunch that liked to play just regular old dominoes.  You could get a wooden set at the store for just a little change, but those things wore out kind of quick around a bunch of domino hands.

As a youngster, I hung around with the cowboys that liked to play a few hands after dark.  After a hard day’s work, it wouldn’t be long before everybody was ready to hit the hay after a few hands, but boy could one learn how to play dominoes.  And it was fun to watch them laugh and cut up!

Four players at a small square table in the middle of the room made for an evening of quips, curses, and a tad of hollering when things worked out.  The surface of that table was like a chalk board.  Easy to shuffle those “rocks,” and each player had a piece of chalk to keep their score. The score was a column of marks that ran up to two hundred fifty.  Rarely did anyone get called out for adding too many points to their score, but occasionally one could see a neighbor use their little finger to take off five or ten points from their opponent to their left.

I have grown to really enjoy a game of plain old dominoes.  Dad and I used to team up and take on all comers.  That was when I learned how important it was for my Dad to be on the winning team.  Kicks under the table warned the teammate of the double six.  A knock on the table when an opponent played a particular domino that would score points for the team. It goes one and on.  We were always the champions, and to this day, yet to be beat.  (he has passed away so I guess the team is one of legends now) I do not play teams anymore. I think my Dad spoiled me with the winning.

There was a particular pool hall in town that also was home to some domino players.  I was no longer around the cowboys, so I hung out in that pool hall.  I played pool of course, but it was an end to a means.  I was waiting to be invited to the domino tables.  It happened one summer. All these players were seasoned veteran domino kings in their own right.  I know they thought they could roll this little whipper snapper that has been licking his chops to get to play.  And roll me they did for a couple of games.

Mind you, there was no money involved in these games, at least at the table where I played.  I began to find a groove and started picking up points fairly fast when I noticed my neighbor to my right walked his little finger over to my scoring line and wiped about ten points.  I went ahead and put them back on the table, and went on to win the game.

Those fellows just stared at me after the game was over.  They couldn’t believe a young fellow had just won a game from them.  After a while, I had earned a permanent seat at that table, and the senior veterans just shifted around so I had a chance to play everybody.

This happened late in the summer.  Of course, school happened for me, and I heard through the grapevine those players were glad to see me get back to school so they could resume their regular routine.  Little did they know, I had a knack for skipping school.  And, I did just about every other afternoon, you could find me at the domino table at the pool hall.

We had a big tournament coming up, and there was money in the purse to win.  I wanted that money, and thought I had a shot at winning the tournament.  During the very first round, I looked up and saw the principle of the high school walk through the door.  This fellow was one of my favorite people.  He had been around the block a few times himself, and understood a lot of things that educators have difficulty with today.  Anyway, he stood by my chair as I finished winning the game.  He congratulated me, and asked to speak to me privately.  He told me that he had heard about the domino tournament, and he knew I had been playing frequently.  And he knew I was winning.  He had received a call from the domino parlor telling him that one of his students was at the domino table instead of in the class room.  He said since he had received the call, he came down to fetch me back to class.  My seat was quickly filled by another player.

On the way back to class, the principle told me he was proud that I was such a good domino player the old veterans were worried I was going to win the pot.  When we got to his office (he had to write an absence slip so I could get back in class), he handed me a twenty dollar bill.  That was the exact amount of the pot in the tournament.  He told me the old vets had previously mentioned the tournament and me, and gave him the money they knew I would win.

I never felt comfortable enough going back into that pool hall. Now, I play regular dominoes with my family and we always wind up laughing and cutting up. And I think that training I got from those cowboys has come full circle.  They even beat me every once in a while, too.  That is the way it is supposed to be.