Part One of a Trilogy
The dominoes circled on the black slate table like so many milling Angus cows. They clacked and rattled beneath the dry hard hands of the old men that knew everything. The room was stark and undecorated with a high ceiling, concrete floor, numerous tables, a beer cooler, and pool tables in the front. It was one of the churches of my youth. Here I listened, watched, and gained morsels of gold about horses, cattle, crops, the weather, and how to be a man. Here I heard the gospels and philosophies of the WWII generation and the last men to savor free air before the industrial revolution.
Also, a filter was acquired to dis cern the lessons of the disciples from the grunting proclamations of the beer hogs. A wise child kept his mouth shut and absorbed knowledge and perspectives otherwise lost. Less studious children were not invited and counted as absent from this upper- level education. Mostly, they were ushered to the play yard or left to peer from under their mama’s aprons – sentenced to mediocrity. They would later suffer the Blue Sky (BS) salesman prevalent in modern settings.
The stripes on the highway blurred and the conversations in the Ford cockpit were emphatic. Every word jerked and snatched with the veracity of the rodeo saddle broncs. The bronc-riders turned Vietnam Vets turned bronc-riders enjoyed the relief that rank-bucking stock was their biggest concern. They were eager to teach a willing student/me and drive their minds away from the atrocities they’d witnessed and occurred. The daily schooling included statements such as, “Watch this one, he goes two and then sucks back. Or, get a strong mark out, keep lifting and setting your feet or he’ll head-plant you on the third jump. After that, he gets nice but doesn’t just shine your boots or he’ll peter out after six.” They drilled me until I attained muscle memory faster than instinctive reflexes. On the dark nights when the sky offered no celestial reprieve, and the stories dissipated to throbbing silence, and the road was a tunnel to personal nightmares muted utterances such as, “Sometimes, God had to sort the innocent, “ slipped and floated away in dim prayer.
Chip and Rocky shouted their immortal exultations to the clear blue Montana heavens. They could drink whiskey by the quart, beer by the gallon, and shoe 40 head of bronc horses and mules in three days. They lived in the farthest mountain wilderness and welcomed the dire earthly challenges polite society deemed unthinkable. They exuded the mountain man mystic portrayed in A.B. Guthrie’s, “The Way West” book series and spoke the dialect of the explorers in “The Big Sky”. They feared nothing and embraced the hardships and nuances of sub-zero camps, frozen ropes, grizzly visits, and neighboring the Blackfeet Nation. While Texas urchins skipped school during Lent to run barefoot and catch catfish, the mountain-raised ruffians sad dled up, loaded their packs and hunted elk and mule deer shedhorns on wintering grounds and on up into the high country. As per their ancestors, wandering off into the great unknown was second nature, and a man was durn-near responsible for himself by the time he was 14. I hung on every word Chip and Rocky preached. They whooped and laughed when work was the hardest and danger the most imminent. But, they showcased the art of horsemanship and mule packing that deterred mistakes and injuries. They shared the intricacies of equine training, tracking game, understanding wind currents in basins facing varying directions, setting and maintaining a comfortable camp, entertaining flatland guests, and brushing off inconveniences with minimal notice. Their season began in June and by Thanksgiving, their hair and beards were long and shaggy. However, they did not reflect hippies espousing social handouts. On the contrary, the comparison was ludicrous. Their piercing gaze through frosty ice-laden brows and mustaches bespoke proverbial “Independent Men with the Hair-On”. Their simple straightforward policies for life and happiness gifted them as being “Wise Men from the Mountains”. I soaked up every remark, inference, and phrase. Then they died – too young, but never to endure the indignities of growing old.
A good student must do more than listen, watch, and submit to tutelage! They must read the teachings of past scribes. They should know and understand history and basic law to decipher fact from folklore from fiction. Reading mandates requires deep files of memory that coordinate ideas from yesteryear with today’s situations. Such ignited epiphanies provide needed moral direction.
A friend and literary expert loaned me Cormac McCarthy’s book, “Cities of the Plains”. McCarthy is a West Texan. He introduces and builds his characters by showing the reader how they think. It also awards insight into the author’s ideas about generational perspectives. In a conversation, one of the characters notes that society began to decline with the first folks that lived entirely with indoor plumbing! A thunderbolt hit me! He was talking about my generation! Grandma Brune weighed in a little more than 90 lbs. and killed every varmint, snake, pest, or anything she deemed a nuisance with no fuss, no muss, and
