Soapweed
Well-known member
One of my cousins is a pretty good writer of poetry and prose, he's a painter, and he is profoundly and provacatively opinionated. (This must run in our family. :wink: ) Here is one of his recent newspaper columns, which was published in the Sheridan County Journal Star, Gordon, Nebraska, in the April 4, 2007 edition.
STORYTELLING -- A LOST ART
by Ken Moreland
It seems in the past few years we have lost a very important part of life--at least it is to me. In this era of mass media, cell phones, internet chat rooms (now there is an oxymoron if I ever heard one), storytelling has become a relic of the past.
Everyone is so busy in their daily rush that we don't even talk to people, let alone take the time to tell a story. Sitting at a computer for endless hours every day, isolated from the real world, has taken the place of face to face interaction for many people.
As I see it, the trouble with chat rooms is you can be whoever you want people to think you are. Even worse, you can be who you wish you really were. Nobody on the internet will ever know the difference. When you're with a group of people telling stories they will know immediately if you're telling the truth or blowing smoke from an undisclosed area. Now there is nothing wrong with stretching the truth, embellishing a tale, but probably everyone hearing it will know, or strongly suspect, that you are telling a wild westy. It's all part of the deal.
A bunch of cowboys sitting around after a branding has always been a source of good stories, usually told with much laughter and gusto. Unfortunately some people aren't trading branding help with their neighbors anymore, and another great opportunity to hear good stories is lost. It's probably just as well because they were usually the brandings nobody wanted to hang around and tell their stories at anyway.
Camping trips, hunting camps and cattle drives have always been a great place to hear some incredible stories, especially if there was an old cowboy or two along. I don't think you really get to know someone well, until you've trailed a bunch of cattle with them for two or three days. The leisurely pace of a walking horse seems to draw out a wealth of tales and it's not like you have anything better to do anyway.
I've been fortunate through the years to have known some great storytellers. Among them, who have all ridden over the Great Divide, were Joy Fairhead, Sr., Jack Cobb, Cecil Dahlgren, Frank Troxell (Nemo, SD), Roger McCray, Jim Gray, Swede Gunner (White River, SD), Ken Aldridge (the Isle of Islay, Scotland), and the ultimate story-teller, Howard Parker.
I can still see Howard sitting at some bar, his hat tipped back, a stiff drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, telling stories from a life of cowboying, rodeos, and hell-raising. It was like he was holding court, and I'm glad for every story I heard him tell.
Among the present day notables are Veldon Morgan, Dave Price, John Burton, Mont Harmon (Afton, WY), John Hanson (Kaycee, WY), Marty Blocker, and the "Sage of the Sandhills"--Buck Buckles.
Some people collect stories and know a lot of them. Unfortunately most of them are secondhand accounts. Few, if any, actually happened to them. While it is nice to have somebody remember these stories, it isn't quite the same as a good old first person account, "Remember that time we were in Timberlake after that rodeo and that big old girl with the pink straw hat...." you know what I mean.
I've always thought that an old person dying was like a library burning down. If a person takes the time to listen to their stories, you can learn a lot of history and be thoroughly entertained. You'll also hear about things and a way of life we'll never see again.
I had the honor of Red Steagall reading this poem on his nationally syndicated radio show last fall.
LESSONS LEARNED 'ROUND THE FIRE by Ken Moreland
Dedicated to the memory of Jack Cobb and all the old-time cowboys I've had the privilege of sharing a fire, a wagon seat and a wealth of stories.
We sat there with Jack Daniels,
Around a cedar fire.
When he started telling stories,
About this land before the wire.
He took off his old greasy hat,
Gave the fire a distant stare,
And ran his gnarly fingers,
Through his thinning snow-white hair.
As the flickering fire glistened,
Off the stubble on his face,
He seemed to slip into
Another time, another place.
When he was telling stories,
He was a million miles away,
When he rode broncs for a living,
Back in his younger day.
When these hills were wild and empty,
Everything was open range,
Before the plows and people,
Brought forth another change.
He told of driving cattle,
Down a muddy cowtown street,
The violent confrontations,
When fists and whiskey meet.
Moving horses from Wyoming,
In a pouring autumn rain,
Holding cattle east of Merriman,
While waiting for the train.
He knew more about this way of life
Than we will ever know,
And I heard just a fraction
There in the fire's glow.
He was a living link to history,
For those of us not there,
I am so very grateful,
For all the stories shared.
The fire is slowly dying,
Like those who tell the tales,
And soon we won't be able
To follow their dim trails.
Sweet smoke is rising upward,
In the clear, cold prairie sky,
And like the smoke, the stories go,
Every time an old one dies.
So listen to their stories,
When they have something to say,
It's as much about tomorrow,
As what happened yesterday.
STORYTELLING -- A LOST ART
by Ken Moreland
It seems in the past few years we have lost a very important part of life--at least it is to me. In this era of mass media, cell phones, internet chat rooms (now there is an oxymoron if I ever heard one), storytelling has become a relic of the past.
Everyone is so busy in their daily rush that we don't even talk to people, let alone take the time to tell a story. Sitting at a computer for endless hours every day, isolated from the real world, has taken the place of face to face interaction for many people.
As I see it, the trouble with chat rooms is you can be whoever you want people to think you are. Even worse, you can be who you wish you really were. Nobody on the internet will ever know the difference. When you're with a group of people telling stories they will know immediately if you're telling the truth or blowing smoke from an undisclosed area. Now there is nothing wrong with stretching the truth, embellishing a tale, but probably everyone hearing it will know, or strongly suspect, that you are telling a wild westy. It's all part of the deal.
A bunch of cowboys sitting around after a branding has always been a source of good stories, usually told with much laughter and gusto. Unfortunately some people aren't trading branding help with their neighbors anymore, and another great opportunity to hear good stories is lost. It's probably just as well because they were usually the brandings nobody wanted to hang around and tell their stories at anyway.
Camping trips, hunting camps and cattle drives have always been a great place to hear some incredible stories, especially if there was an old cowboy or two along. I don't think you really get to know someone well, until you've trailed a bunch of cattle with them for two or three days. The leisurely pace of a walking horse seems to draw out a wealth of tales and it's not like you have anything better to do anyway.
I've been fortunate through the years to have known some great storytellers. Among them, who have all ridden over the Great Divide, were Joy Fairhead, Sr., Jack Cobb, Cecil Dahlgren, Frank Troxell (Nemo, SD), Roger McCray, Jim Gray, Swede Gunner (White River, SD), Ken Aldridge (the Isle of Islay, Scotland), and the ultimate story-teller, Howard Parker.
I can still see Howard sitting at some bar, his hat tipped back, a stiff drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, telling stories from a life of cowboying, rodeos, and hell-raising. It was like he was holding court, and I'm glad for every story I heard him tell.
Among the present day notables are Veldon Morgan, Dave Price, John Burton, Mont Harmon (Afton, WY), John Hanson (Kaycee, WY), Marty Blocker, and the "Sage of the Sandhills"--Buck Buckles.
Some people collect stories and know a lot of them. Unfortunately most of them are secondhand accounts. Few, if any, actually happened to them. While it is nice to have somebody remember these stories, it isn't quite the same as a good old first person account, "Remember that time we were in Timberlake after that rodeo and that big old girl with the pink straw hat...." you know what I mean.
I've always thought that an old person dying was like a library burning down. If a person takes the time to listen to their stories, you can learn a lot of history and be thoroughly entertained. You'll also hear about things and a way of life we'll never see again.
I had the honor of Red Steagall reading this poem on his nationally syndicated radio show last fall.
LESSONS LEARNED 'ROUND THE FIRE by Ken Moreland
Dedicated to the memory of Jack Cobb and all the old-time cowboys I've had the privilege of sharing a fire, a wagon seat and a wealth of stories.
We sat there with Jack Daniels,
Around a cedar fire.
When he started telling stories,
About this land before the wire.
He took off his old greasy hat,
Gave the fire a distant stare,
And ran his gnarly fingers,
Through his thinning snow-white hair.
As the flickering fire glistened,
Off the stubble on his face,
He seemed to slip into
Another time, another place.
When he was telling stories,
He was a million miles away,
When he rode broncs for a living,
Back in his younger day.
When these hills were wild and empty,
Everything was open range,
Before the plows and people,
Brought forth another change.
He told of driving cattle,
Down a muddy cowtown street,
The violent confrontations,
When fists and whiskey meet.
Moving horses from Wyoming,
In a pouring autumn rain,
Holding cattle east of Merriman,
While waiting for the train.
He knew more about this way of life
Than we will ever know,
And I heard just a fraction
There in the fire's glow.
He was a living link to history,
For those of us not there,
I am so very grateful,
For all the stories shared.
The fire is slowly dying,
Like those who tell the tales,
And soon we won't be able
To follow their dim trails.
Sweet smoke is rising upward,
In the clear, cold prairie sky,
And like the smoke, the stories go,
Every time an old one dies.
So listen to their stories,
When they have something to say,
It's as much about tomorrow,
As what happened yesterday.
