Memories and Wind
The Lady and the Cowboy
Lordsburg
By Stephen L. Wilmeth
There isn’t much left but memories,
and … the wind.
One memory was the time the prominent
state judge’s son chained the police cruiser to the light standard while the
officer sat inside drinking coffee. The boys went back down Railroad Avenue, lined up, and lit a fire
under those old Chevies to race past the café.
In the hearing that followed, there
was mention of the simple premise of making sure there was no shirking of the
duty by the law in this home town. There was no humor left in the judge himself
or the municipal court judge who slammed the gavel and threatened Springer on
any next escapade of similar delinquency.
That guilty young man went on to
become one of the grand teachers. He could deal with the toughest of kids.
Then, there was the day the young
rancher was coming home with a load of somebody else’s runaway cows he’d
purchased at the auction at Willcox. He was stocking his outfit and was sourcing
brangus matrons anywhere he could find them. He figured that one old Diamond A
gem would be good for a calf or two as he built his herd. A little high
headedness would only assure he wouldn’t have to use heel dogs on the rocky and
brushy north facing cliffs of which he was the proud new owner.
Getting the cows loaded likely
provided a glimpse of things to come, but they succeeded in keeping that one cow
from jumping out of the alley by lining cowboys and lookers alike along the
fences. Sonny had assured him she was a sure enough keeper and she’d settle
down as soon as he got on the road.
Yes, sir … everything was going to
be just dandy.
He aimed ol’ Ford toward Lordsburg
and headed for home. He rolled the window down and rested his arm on the door
as he drove one handed. He’d worn his brand new straw hat, and tipped it back
just a bit as he nodded and offered dignified acknowledgement to anybody who
gave his rig a second look.
He was a man of means. He was
coming of age.
When he rolled off the freeway onto
Railroad Avenue
he thought he was in need of a cup of coffee and a slice of pie so he double
clutched ol’ Ford and brought the rig to a halt. He stepped out lightly, and
immediately was wary. That Diamond A sweetheart was watching him with her best
“I am going to kill you” look, and, in the next hair’s breathe, she jumped
straight up like she had been shot from a cannon.
Our rancher described the
enveloping calamity from that point.
“I swear she jumped eight feet
straight up,” he described getting pale all over again. “Her angle of ascent
landed her on her side on the top rail of the street side of the (open topped)
trailer.”
“Watching me without blinking, she
proceeded to try to kick herself from that position out of the trailer onto the
street,” he continued.
“For one brief terrified moment, I looked
up and down the street and all I could think about was how I was going to get
her gathered with no cross fences between Florida
and California!”
“All I could do was get up there
with her and beat her back into the trailer,” the rancher concluded. “I wore
that new hat out on her, and, pushing on her, she finally fell back into the
trailer.”
Asked if he went ahead and got his
coffee he said “Absolutely not!”
He ran to the Ford, got her cranked,
and, in compound, started down the street popping the clutch to keep that sweet
thing off balance and out of shape to jump again. He drove all the way home to
the Mangus with hands glued to the steering wheel, his hat pulled down, and
doing everything possible to keep that cow from jumping again. When he got
home, he drove out into the middle of the pasture before he unloaded. He swung
the gate open and climbed the trailer to get out of her way. She jumped out
with the rest, whirled, pawed the ground and blew snot at him, and … trotted
away.
As for his new hat … it wasn’t.
The Lady and the Cowboy
In 1941, another young cowboy came
trotting up to a young lady’s house on the far northern horizon from downtown
Lordsburg and its Railroad Avenue.
Encountering a young cowboy wasn’t unusual. All that country was alive with
similar, young men. It was cow country and its chivalry had not changed. In
many ways, it was the best of times.
As usual, she had a pie baked. She
offered him a slice and he accepted. As he ate, they had talked …hesitatingly.
He pulled his cinch and went back
to work, but that evening he loped back by. He sure did like her pie and he
wanted to check it to make sure it was good as he remembered. From that day, he
would regularly find reason to check to make sure she was perfecting the craft
of baking pies.
Charlie would marry Ruth.
They settled on the home place
right on the bank of the Gila River and it
would be home to them and their family for over 50 years before Charlie died in
1999. There was a pause in 1944 when Charlie went off to war in the Pacific. With
his departure, Ruth jumped in and filled her husband’s role as cowboy with her
father-in-law. That family patriarch would say she became the best cowboy with
whom he ever worked.
The family was hugely relieved when
Charlie came home.
The words of Ruth’s eulogy described
how they built their home at the end of the road one room at a time. One addition
even became a museum. It contains artifacts, pictures, old firearms, hand
crafted tack, bits and spurs, and pieces of ranch life.
To those who don’t understand, that
life might seem a dreary, lonely existence. To those who do understand, it was
immensely rich. To work willingly together every day of married life against a
backdrop of big wide open, is a precious and rare thing.
Alzheimer’s took Ruth, but she
longed to be with Charlie since the day they buried him at Mountain View Cemetery
in Lordsburg fifteen years ago.
The Service
The town is a skeleton of what it
once was. Created at the convergence and intersection of trails, it became,
variously, a stage stop, a railroad town, a shipping center, and a community of
local commerce. Mines, cattle, the railroad, and the business of keeping the
social fabric sewn together kept it afloat. Slow atrophy came with the steady
diminishment of each component. Only the wind now remains in robust lockstep
with its history.
The Baptist Church
sits on the corner at Animas and 3rd. The attendance record on the hymnal placard for
the previous Sunday was pegged at 14, but the sanctuary would be filled to capacity
when the first words were offered over that beautiful pine box. Starched white
shirts prevailed and hats were hung in the narthex until there were no hooks
left.
The resident pastor stood and
welcomed the gathering with an appropriate hint of humor and the first prayer.
As that concluded, all eyes shifted left as the last of the gathering faithful
came through the fellowship portal in a lathered arrival. The young ranch
family had finished their chores and drove the 40 miles to arrive nearly intact.
Bringing up the rear, the first little sister was still barefooted, but she was
carrying her shoes and responding to greetings left and right with her big blue
eyes.
The local banker read the eulogy.
He remembered meeting Ruth at the Post Office in Redrock when they were both
young. He described how she was a wonderful example for all and such a true
lady. When she came to town, she made sure she always looked the part as well.
The first of three tunes was played
on the lone fiddle, and the wind blew outside.
The family’s pastor from Duncan provided the
message. He had been asked to be brief and he was. His words offered a balance
of gospel and encouragement. The horror of Alzheimer’s had been shed and the promised
joy was to ‘cometh’ that morning.
Competing with the wind for volume,
crafted and parting words were again offered at the graveside. A fourth tune
was played on the fiddle and Ruth was laid beside Charlie.
Fighting through that last barrier,
the family would begin healing in earnest. The circle was, indeed … completed.
Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Uncle Hap (McCauley)
always fretted over funerals coming in sets of three. Like it or not, another may
find its way into the schedule.”
1 comment:
With tears in my eyes, I want to thank Stephen for writing such a wonderful tribute to my parents. It is not often that I have had the privilege to meet someone of your great character. I shall never forget the eloquence of your thoughts and the beauty of your words.
With Love Velma Anderson Tidwell
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