Tom

Water Gaps

Tom

Last Time

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

            Sleeping under a tin roof has always been the preferred alternative.

            At exactly 10:35 last night is a best example. A little shower fell and the open door out of the bedroom onto the porch under the tin roof let it all in. It reminded me of long ago near the mouth of Bell Canyon on the porch at Cliff.

            That is where I slept at least when the weather allowed.

            Never was sleep so consistently deep. The night air wafting across and the sounds of outside right there, it was the best. On those occasional nights when rains came it was even better. Laying there in warmth generated by sweet smell of sun dried sheets, blankets made by grandmothers and pillows stuffed with down and feathers from old hens that became the makings of some distant past Sunday dinner of chicken and dumplings, those storms were the original surround sound experiences. They were preceded by a far off light show which, after the counted pause, was announced by the inevitable roll of thunder.

            The “old potato wagon” was our learned analogy.

            Soon, a few drops would probe the storm’s leading edge, and, then, the curtain would open, and the spectacle would begin. The tin roof would amplify everything. The crash and crescendo of the initial movement would never fail to delight. Then it would settle into a steady rhythm of welcome relief. The absolute best smells of New Mexico would fill the senses as the covers were pulled up and a retreat deeper into the protection of that old bed were sought.

            If luck would have it, a recapitulation of the entire thing might follow, but, by then, you would find yourself in the comfort of the surroundings sinking deeper and deeper into the sleep that you fought hard to avoid. The sound of the rain on that tin roof invariable won out.

It was just too deliciously hypnotic.

            Water gaps

            It was Walt who talked about neighboring Tom McCauley after a night of summer rains.

            If the rain was hard enough to worry about water gaps being out, you needed to get a move on and be out checking. Too many times had taught him that, if he didn’t get there first, all he would see were horse tracks and a repaired water gap where old Tom had been.

            The work ethic of that generation of Westerners cannot be adequately described.

            There was no telling what time Tom had left to get to some of those remote ranch boundaries, but there he would be policing his administrative boundaries and keeping his business on his side of the fence. It wasn’t as if his attention was solely left on that side of the fence, though. He watched, too, and good neighbors, especially young ones, were rewarded for their diligence.

            There are stories about calls to neighbors late at night suggesting they stop by the butcher shop in Lordsburg or Riverside to pick up a processed pig. There was never a particular reason expressed, but the genesis was something done somewhere that caught Tom’s appreciation or prompted his quiet ways of encouragement.

            Words were never as adequate as actions.

            Tom

            Tom McCauley was part of a brief snippet of time and real-life drama that saw an influx of pioneers into the Gila River country of New Mexico that became Grant County. It was a time and place where children born on kitchen tables in local residences, lived their lives, created families and their life’s work, and died within miles of their beginnings.

            They were good people and the body of work left in their wake was incomprehensible.

            Several times, I have related one of my most distinct memories of Tom. My dad and I were in Clark Canyon one deer season and encountered him, or, rather, we heard him and then observed him from a distance as he worked cattle. He was by himself or at least he was the only rider in that big drainage at that time.

            We heard his voice and then the rocks rolling. I have heard accounts of people trying to describe listening to old Navajo men out by themselves singing. The attempts have consistently tried to capture the almost haunting sounds of a freedom without influences or distractions of interference. That was the sound of Tom that day.

            Moving cattle from distances with just his presence horseback and his voice, he was practicing his craft. It was a magnificent presentation of skill, economy of motion, and endurance. All he did was work and that demonstration was an expose of how he got so much done.

            When you were around Tom, work was all encompassing. Skeeter Byrd talked about being up at 3:00 to milk the cows, feed the horses, and then hoe in the garden until breakfast was ready.

After that, it was time to go to work.

            Last Time

            The last time I saw Tom I was visiting my grandfather in the hospital. I think the occasion was the gall bladder surgery.

            I was walking down the hall leaving when I heard a familiar big voice. Pausing to listen, the subject of the discussion was my grandfather. Tom was telling his own visitor about his friend and one of their myriads of experiences together. Waiting to hear the conclusion before my entrance, my smile was inevitable.

            “Well, speaking of the devil, lookee who we’ve got here!”

            Waving off any mention of his own medical issues, his questioning was outward, away from himself.

            “How’s your granddad, how’s Albert?”

            My only regret was that I didn’t tell him what I should have … that he and men like my grandfather were among the greatest that ever walked this country.

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Tom was in the hospital from having his pocket knife driven into his leg after a pickup rolled against him and penning him against a gate post.”