The Old Rock - Of Traynors and rural Scots

A Minority of One

The Old Rock

Of Traynors and rural Scots

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

            The revolution that our nation is embarked upon is getting violent isn’t it?

            This day started with the disclosure by a local Dona Ana politician that he disliked the current Chancellor at New Mexico State University not by the color of his skin but by his party affiliation. With that prelude, he went on to admit the official had done a remarkable job in the face of budget chaos.

Well, which is it? Shall we elevate with condescension his party status or extend the credit for a job well done as the standard for judgment? The Chancellor would be skewered if he made that comment about the politician, but the politico’s brand of politics, the politics of identity, is simply not held to the same standards of justice and fair play as the conservative opposition.

            Our Constitution and the Bible are both color blind. Neither knows or tolerates classes among citizens. All citizens are equal before the law. Political parties have always operated in varying degrees of contradiction to that. Both are guilty.

            The politics of identity, though, seems to be void from life lines to either standard. Division through identity pride is becoming the doctrine that has every intention of deepening and widening the separation of communities.

            The liberal mob is storming the walls and the only minority that should matter, the minority of one, is either standing in a growing hail storm, or he is … gone.

            A Minority of One

            The fear that the small states had in precarious coequal authority of states’ rights has been brought home in spades to us. We understand how the skepticism among the less populated colonies was a major cause for concern. We have faced the assaults that are manipulated by greater numbers especially when those numbers have no true, vested interest in the real outcome.

            It isn’t just among states, though. It is the chasm between urban centers and rural counterparts. It is seen in the bussed in progressive voices over the smaller numbers of locals at rallies. It is the bully against the weaker member. It is the mob against the individual. It is the collective rejection of the saving principles of upholding individual rights.

            We aren’t alone.

            Scotland has become so urbanized and secularized that rural voices are simply cast aside. Unlike their British neighbors that sill have substantial rural voices, the Scottish countryside can’t defend itself. The numbers and the influence are simply no longer in place. The best example is the proliferation of hugely inefficient wind power generation and infrastructure that has been built as if there were no dissenting objectors. Too many rural communities are being inundated with renewable power infrastructure to the point there isn’t transmission facilities to carry it to users when generation peaks. Rural voices have been trounced and dismissed. It is a central reminder that all citizens are not coequals before the law.

            If we think we are different, we must think again.

            The Old Rock

            A reminder of the similar disappearance in rural New Mexico was brought to light this week when we learned of the death of Floyd Traynor. Floyd was found dead alongside his dog in the home where he lived. His passing is certainly a current human tragedy. It will be mourned by remaining family and friends, but a greater point looms. That is the parallel attrition of our rural community and what the old timers referred to as “The Old Rock”. It is the reference to the first generation of settlers who arrived to face the consequences of having nothing more than their wits and their resolve to prevail. The Traynor family must be included in that close knit group of families and individuals that made what became Grant County so unique in character and history.

            My memory of the Traynors was not centered on Floyd, but his grandfather, Curley.  It is a mix of snapshots as well as words that were said about the family. The most distinct physical memory was of Curley standing with his foot propped against the wall of the Cliff Mercantile with his black felt hat tilted back revealing a forehead protected from the sun. He was tough as nails without an ounce of fat. That was a standard feature displayed among all the old cowmen whose hands and face were the only parts of their being exposed to the sun. It was their mark of identity.

            Curley’s reputation was one of high honor.

            The family operation was in the far northwest corner of the county, west of Mule Creek, and spanning the Arizona line. It was an extension of that great Mule Creek grama grass country but in a transition of increasingly deep canyons and rough mountains. It was a “horseback country” and Curley and his son, Mike, fit it as if it was actually easy. In recent years, I heard stories about people recalling visits to the ranch and describing activities they observed.

            “They’d be up and horseback by 3:00 and ride three hours before they started work!” was one account.

            That wasn’t unique! Many did those things. A good part of many days was spent in the dark because transportation was the horses they rode, and Curley was known for his skill at making good horses. Many accounts of him were about how good he was with young horses. It was one of his badges of honor.

            I didn’t know Mike. He was invisible from my perspective out there making that ranch work. What I was told was that he was a contemporary of my Uncle Howard. That suggestion to me was that they were friends. They were children of the Depression and that alone sealed their relationship with the hard times their parents faced during the earlier arrivals.

            Floyd’s death will be a punctuation mark. His poetry and his memory are important. He represents the disappearance of another little piece of that Old Rock. He was the offspring of generations of men and women who were truly minorities of one. They fit the mold of unclassified people because they tended to their own business, they didn’t pontificate in judgment, and they worked every day just to survive.

            May we honor those memories and may God bless them.

           

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Floyd believed that laws should be deemed unconstitutional only by unanimous decisions by the Supreme Court. That may have been his greatest contribution.” 

 

Floyd was in and out of my life for over 50 years. We were friends in College, had some bangup good times and I always enjoyed dancing to his music. We went our separate ways, lived our own lives and would run into each other on occasion. About 10 years ago I found myself in a southern NM rehab hospital undergoing physical therapy, and was told one afternoon I had a visitor. I'll be damned if it wasn't Floyd. He was back in the country and decided to check up on me. Our friendship was rekindled. He also became the main instigator of getting me to organize the NMSU Cowboy Reunion that was attended by many. Floyd departed from here two more times. And finally, he departed for the third time and said he was moving back home. He came by the house to tell me goodbye and it wound up being goodbye for keeps. I sure hope his last days were happy ones.