I once had another life in another place. What I mean is we lived in a different place, spending some 23 years in a one-horse town, raising a family and running a couple of businesses.
Almost 50 years ago, it was a different time when there was in this small town, old folks who had arrived many years prior by covered wagon. Many also had worked on ranches primarily using horses. I might add, it was still not totally uncommon to go into a bar in Kiowa, Colorado seeing some patrons wearing spurs--it wasn’t a specialty bar in no stinking city.
It was a different time but some things were the same, I suspect. One was that I also wrote a column for the local newspaper taking on some of the same old issues, well, not issues, but daily activities. The column was called The Backyard Journal, and like here, it featured those everyday events that had a touch of education, charm, and local color.
In a recent nostalgic turn, I was going through some of the now-ancient pieces, so it seems fitting to bring out one of ditties of that time.
Elizabeth, Colorado was a relic of the past, dirt streets 120 feet wide, constructed to allow large herds of cattle to be driven down them, say from 1880-1932. It was a cow town that had been sitting idle for forty years. In 1970 and later, new-comers arrived including a colorful assortment of hippies and Denver commuters. It was all cool, a touch on the rustic side, but a comfortable mix with a strong flavor of the old west.
My piece in the Elbert County news was titled Getting bridle for “Racing Chickens” leads to saving Cow Pony.
I think I went down to the tack shop to get a bridle for one of my racing chickens. I’m not sure being how its been a few days. Got a good memory and all, its just a bit short.
A person doesn’t really need a good reason to go down there, just going there is reason enough. Its probably the best place in town to solve problems and exchange the daily goings-on----not to mention the fact that it’s just easy down there, easy to sit around and stare at the walls or to get in on a few stories.
Last week it was Ed. He showed up and we talked about Ronnie Evans chasing his buffalos up in the sand hills by Valentine. Seems he found one of them in Kansas. We took a few shots at politicians and went over how Tom’s buckskin was almost identical to the one in “Dances with Wolves.”
Week before though, we hardly got going before Dorothy came running in, all in a dither about how one of her ponies had managed to get itself upside down in the water tank. She needed help, now! Well, Tom, he’d seen a horse or two having been a wrangler in these parts. Me, the racing chickens were as far as my experience went. Oh, I’ve had a few nasty roosters and was sorta in on raising two tasty, but obscenely overweight hogs…but an inverted horse in a water tank?
Dorothy told me, in buffalo hunter language, to get my behind over there and help before old Jeremiah hurt himself trying to give the horse mouth-to-mouth. I didn’t argue. Dorothy knows horses like Bo knows football because she and the Cliff had been running a string of misfit ponies for years. Even though she was diminutive in stature and rough around the edges, if she said I was needed…I was needed.
I could already see that Tom was thinking. He got serious and said something to the effect that if a horse gets upside down, it only has a certain amount of time left.
We headed across the street, watching for Dorothy’s attack geese and who knows what else in her ramshackle holdings by the river.
There were a few, now liberated colts running around in the yard, taking the opportunity to get into the fresh hay that was normally out of reach. They were clearly indifferent to the plight of their fallen comrade.
And, fallen he was - on his back in this metal tank, feet in the air and neck wrenched around. Not a pretty sight. No water in the tank, thank God, but there was 1,200 pounds of horse flesh flailing there trying to “swim“.
Jeremiah was running hither and yon.
Tom looked it over and started making a decision.
I just saw those hooves a punching in the air and realized that they could hit worse than Ali.
Tom managed to get a rope around the four feet-- I think there were four-- and pushed and pulled the legs down to the side so that they were not sticking up in the air like four Scud missiles. Jeremiah kept its neck forward.
What we had was a giant sardine packed in a round tin waiting to be shipped. Dorothy tossed out encouragement in every form imaginable, and some not mentionable. No question how much she cared for her horses.
We had our sardine, but couldn’t get it to stand as it was too packed in to move.
I think it was Dorothy who suggested we just dump him out of the tank. 1,200 pounds?…not to mention that a fence blocked the tank. The fence came down in a flourish of hammers.
The three of us (I was finally doing something) tried to get under the tank and lift. We pushed and grunted, and I complained about my back.
I don’t know if Dorothy kicked us or what, but somehow the entire contraption lifted and the tank kind of fell apart on the bottom end. It all went up and the horse went out in a cloud of Dorothy’s dust and profanity.
That was one happy cowpony…but do you think that for one moment it hung around to give us a kiss, like Champion or Trigger would have done.
I mumbled something about Dorothy needing to train her herd in a little courtesy.
We headed back to the tack shop, which of course had been left wide open, where Tom could put another mark on his tally string.
And, I was just looking for a little loose talk and a chicken bridle!
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