Post by Jerry Thornton on Sept 7, 2007 20:20:04 GMT -5
October 1950, my husband and I sat close to our campfire and looked into the face of one of my favorite people, Jack Houskeeper. He, my mother's youngest brother, was my uncle, and a dear friend as well as a relative. We were in the second year of our marriage and he offered to show us some real bucks that deer season. The fall deer hunting trip was a family affair in those days. It was the only tpye of vacation our ranch families knew. This was the one time of year we would turn the calves in with the milk cows and take a couple days off from demands of ranch life.
Our camp was at the base of the high red sandstone cliff in the mouth of Daddy's Canyon. The cliff rises over a hundred feet behind the gathering corrals still in use on the left side of the canyon mouth. Uncle Jack told us about working for Oliver, and old bachelor rancher that I knew well.
Uncle Jack's face, still young, smooth and ruddy, now held lines of sorrow. He spoke of an incident in his childhood. His childhood was sad after he lost his mother in a buggy accident whe he was five years old. He lived with several relatives while he was growing up, and sometimes 'farmed out' to help other ranchers. His pay, I'm sure, was to benefit the rancher, rather than himself. At the time of this story, he was 'helping' Oliver Rasmussen, on his ranch.
He began, "One day Oliver and I rode up Daddy's trail and climbed out on the west side into the horse pasture".
I knew about the horse pasture. Between levels of ledges, grass grows abundantly, but there is no water. However, in the spring, snow hanging in shadows is available to the horses for water.
"Oliver had a mare, well bred, and was anxious for the foul. He made the statement that if 'the colt was a filly, he was going to toss her off the cliff.' I made a strong plea that if the colt was a filly, could I have it?" He grumbled then agreed that I could have it. My nine-year-old heart nearly burst with happiness at the idea of having a pony of my own.
"That morning the mare looked like she looked like she was to burst. We shooed her to a large patch of snow, knowing that this day or surely the next, she would have her baby.
"I couldn't help hoping the colt would be a filly. Sure enough when we rode up to the pasture the next morning, the colt had come. Oliver checked her to find she was a mare. He was so disgusted that he picked her up and dragged her a few yards to the cliff and shoved her over. I ran along side trying to get him to change his mind, to no avail."
Uncle Jack's brilliant blue eyes were moist because of the memory. I sat in shock and looked at the ledge. At that moment, it held no beauty for me, only harshness that so often I saw in life in the canyon.
"Why?" I choked.
He just shrugged his shoulders and stirred potatoes in the frying pan on the open flame.
(Author's note. I knew Oliver as an easygoing sort. In trying to understand his action I have a few suggestions. He had one small field to raise hay for his small herd of cattle during the winter and didn't need an extra mouth to feed. He may have hoped to get a stud or a strong gelding he could sell, or work. Only he knows.)
Our camp was at the base of the high red sandstone cliff in the mouth of Daddy's Canyon. The cliff rises over a hundred feet behind the gathering corrals still in use on the left side of the canyon mouth. Uncle Jack told us about working for Oliver, and old bachelor rancher that I knew well.
Uncle Jack's face, still young, smooth and ruddy, now held lines of sorrow. He spoke of an incident in his childhood. His childhood was sad after he lost his mother in a buggy accident whe he was five years old. He lived with several relatives while he was growing up, and sometimes 'farmed out' to help other ranchers. His pay, I'm sure, was to benefit the rancher, rather than himself. At the time of this story, he was 'helping' Oliver Rasmussen, on his ranch.
He began, "One day Oliver and I rode up Daddy's trail and climbed out on the west side into the horse pasture".
I knew about the horse pasture. Between levels of ledges, grass grows abundantly, but there is no water. However, in the spring, snow hanging in shadows is available to the horses for water.
"Oliver had a mare, well bred, and was anxious for the foul. He made the statement that if 'the colt was a filly, he was going to toss her off the cliff.' I made a strong plea that if the colt was a filly, could I have it?" He grumbled then agreed that I could have it. My nine-year-old heart nearly burst with happiness at the idea of having a pony of my own.
"That morning the mare looked like she looked like she was to burst. We shooed her to a large patch of snow, knowing that this day or surely the next, she would have her baby.
"I couldn't help hoping the colt would be a filly. Sure enough when we rode up to the pasture the next morning, the colt had come. Oliver checked her to find she was a mare. He was so disgusted that he picked her up and dragged her a few yards to the cliff and shoved her over. I ran along side trying to get him to change his mind, to no avail."
Uncle Jack's brilliant blue eyes were moist because of the memory. I sat in shock and looked at the ledge. At that moment, it held no beauty for me, only harshness that so often I saw in life in the canyon.
"Why?" I choked.
He just shrugged his shoulders and stirred potatoes in the frying pan on the open flame.
(Author's note. I knew Oliver as an easygoing sort. In trying to understand his action I have a few suggestions. He had one small field to raise hay for his small herd of cattle during the winter and didn't need an extra mouth to feed. He may have hoped to get a stud or a strong gelding he could sell, or work. Only he knows.)