(published WOVEN ON THE WIND Houghton Mifflin 2001)
"No matter what you ever do, I'll always love you." I don't know if my mother ever actually said these words, but I knew that was how much she loved me.
I knew it most when I was 22, expecting a baby and unmarried. What I had done would be such a disappointment to my parents. My mother said "Come home." I went home and sat on the end of her bed. Mother asked me, "What do you want to do?" I didn't know what to do. My mother's feelings were expressed in a single statement, "I couldn't bear to think of my grandchild being raised by strangers. We'll work something out." And we did.
My daughter and I lived with my parents on their ranch for almost seven years. My mother never once judged me. She gave me unconditional love. She was never embarrassed that I was a single mother. My mother showed her greatest love, compassion and wisdom by saying, "Come home". She gave me the most precious gift, my daughter.
And Jenny! My mother paved the way for a bright and beautiful little girl to grow up happy and secure. She helped me to raise a baby to become a loving, sensitive young woman. Now I can say to her, "No matter what you ever do, I'll always love you."
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
PICKIN' CHICKENS
(published - Crazy Woman Creek - Houghton Mifflin 2004)
Silence.
Up before dawn,
They begin to arrive.
The beautician, the teacher,
The housewife, the ranchwife,
At the old bunkhouse.
Water boiling on the two burner stove.
A system developed through the years.
The chopper, the plucker, the gutter, the cutter.
They giggle, they talk, share secrets, make memories.
End of the day, clean the mess,
Clorox the table, the washtubs.
Ready for tomorrow, and tomorrow.
Five days, two hundred ten-piece meals.
Finished at last.
Exhausted, they drop around the table,
Kinship forged in the old bunkhouse.
Job complete, loath to go.
Giddy and silly, a glass of tea.
Raise the glasses, chink together.
“Women who pick together, stick together.”
Laughter.
Silence.
Up before dawn,
They begin to arrive.
The beautician, the teacher,
The housewife, the ranchwife,
At the old bunkhouse.
Water boiling on the two burner stove.
A system developed through the years.
The chopper, the plucker, the gutter, the cutter.
They giggle, they talk, share secrets, make memories.
End of the day, clean the mess,
Clorox the table, the washtubs.
Ready for tomorrow, and tomorrow.
Five days, two hundred ten-piece meals.
Finished at last.
Exhausted, they drop around the table,
Kinship forged in the old bunkhouse.
Job complete, loath to go.
Giddy and silly, a glass of tea.
Raise the glasses, chink together.
“Women who pick together, stick together.”
Laughter.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
JIM -- the ranch hand and me
(written for class, Memoir Writing Workshop, 12-15-2002)
Jim stands at the door with his hat in his hand. He's in town to visit my aging parents. He is thin, too thin for his 5'10" height. Without his hat, his nearly bald head is pale, in great contrast to his tanned, weathered face. Dressed in dark blue jeans, new boots, and a crisp white shirt, he seems awkward, ill at ease, but happy to see us; happy to see that Mom and Dad are doing fine.
Jim is a cowboy. Jim spent his teenage and young adulthood, nearly 20 years, on my parent's ranch. When the ranch had to be sold, Jim moved with wife and kids, first to Colorado, then back to Nebraska, then Jim moved on without his family, to the mountains of Oregon, he's been there for 10 years.
To look at Jim today in my parent's living room, he is not an especially good-looking man. He is what he is -- a middle-aged, thin, balding, nearsighted man. Jim is not comfortable indoors, his element is the outdoors. Outside in the country, wearing soft, worn blue jeans, a faded western shirt, and his old cowboy hat covering his two-toned bald head; his thin, sharp, angular face is ruggedly handsome. Out-of doors he exudes a confidence, a sureness of himself that is not present inside the house.
When I first knew Jim, he was, in my opinion, very un-cool. Jim came to work, for the summer, on my dad's ranch, when he was 12 -- I was 10. He was the oldest of 5 boys. Jim's dad was a part time farmer and a friend of my dad.
Jim did not want to farm and so he came to put up hay and chase cows on our ranch. He was, at age 12, a sturdy, round faced kid, with square black glasses. He was either shy or didn't like to talk; he barely spoke. He went to country school, which was not cool. I, on the other hand, talked nearly all the time; I was on the edge of being one of the popular girls at my Catholic school. But I was not self-confident enough to befriend an un-cool, round faced, bespectacled, country boy. He might think I liked him and that would not be cool. So we spent those first couple of summers keeping our distance, working together when we had to, playing together in the evening, only in a group with my sister and brother and the current full-time hired man's kids.
Our ranch had about an acre of cottonwood and elm trees; nestled in these trees was our two story, four bedroom house, about 50 yards to the north was the hired man's 3 bedroom house. To the east was the big hip roofed barn, with a milk room/bunkhouse on the west side. Jim lived in the bunkhouse attached to the barn.
Jim arrived at the ranch every May as soon as school was out. He stayed all summer, going to his folks on Saturday nights and returning to the ranch on Monday morning. He became a part of our lives.
Jim and I sparred back and forth most of the time. I considered Jim (if I considered him at all) nothing but a dumb boy. He thought I was too privileged, being the boss' daughter. I did not have to milk the cows or do 5:30 a.m. chores. I worked in the hayfield but got off early on Saturday afternoon. I had to do evening chores, but sometimes I had other plans and didn't have to help.
My sister Lisa was a year older than Jim; they became better friends because Lisa didn't worry about being friends with an un-cool kid. She was cool.
When Lisa was 17, I was 14, my brother, Roger, 9, and Jim was 16, Dad employed a new full-time hired man. Jack Walker, came with a wife and 4 kids; Peggy was 15 and the boys, Kerry, Alan and Brian, were 12, 10, and 4. For two years we didn’t need to leave the ranch to find fun. We should have been beyond the age of playing, but we weren’t. We played almost every night. We rode horses; we rode the milk cows; we played hide-and-seek, and tag and baseball and Red Rover. We climbed on the roofs of the sheds, we actually played cowboys and Indians. We three girls roped the boys and tied them to the corral fence. We had a 'neighborhood' right in our yard. It was in those two years that I came to appreciate Jim. I looked at Jim like a brother. He still wasn't 'cool', but he was all right.
The year Jim was a senior at the public school, I was a junior at the Catholic high. Jim moved to the ranch full-time. The Walker family had moved on and Jim had a work-study program where he worked on the ranch in the morning and went to school in the afternoon. He lived alone in the hired man's house and ate all his meals with us. Jim had changed by the time he was a senior. He was on the wrestling team. He still wore glasses and was not real cool, but he was tolerable. I even acknowledged him around my friends. Jim had a steady girlfriend and I had learned how to be friends, just friends, with boys.
Jim married Phyllis after they graduated high school; she was a hardworking girl with a heart of gold. The next spring they had a baby. The hired man's house had a family again.
The following year I graduated and went to college. I came home for holidays and summer vacation. I came home for good 4 years later, bringing my infant daughter. I worked in town and we lived on the ranch for the next 7 years.
Ranch hands come and go, two or three years and they move on. Jim was different. Loyal? Stubborn? Contented? Afraid of change? He just stayed. For 20 years he stayed.
Then came some hard times. The economy of the 80's was tough on Dad. High interest, low calf prices, plummeting land equity, and his penchant for race horses, had eaten him alive. He was past retirement age and couldn't afford to retire. I had two children and a disastrous relationship. Jim and Phyllis could not stretch their paycheck to keep up with their growing family. Roger went to college, got married, was setting up a mechanic shop, and doing what he could at the ranch. The ranch was sinking and we were all deciding how to jump ship.
Dad was in turmoil, he had sold most of his cows and was leasing out the pasture, he didn't really need Jim and couldn't afford to pay him. Jim knew it was time to try something else. All he knew was cowboying and he had only one boss in his whole career. It was a big leap. He found a ranch job in southern Colorado. Dad didn’t want Jim to move so far away, but knew he couldn’t stay.
My own life was not easy. I moved to town and was working 3 jobs, making house payments and keeping just ahead of the bills. I was trying to keep my personal and financial problems to myself; mom and dad had enough worries.
A few days before they left for Colorado, Jim and Phyllis were finishing packing and I was watching their girls at my house in town. It was about 8 p.m. when Jim came to pick them up; it was cold and starting to snow. He put the girls in the pick-up and came back to the door. Jim stood in my doorway, and said, "We might not see each other before I leave, so we'd better say good-bye now." We stood and looked at each other; I had tears welling in my eyes, his cheeks were wet, from snow or tears, I could not tell. Jim did not display emotion and had always been a man of few words.
There were no words to say good-bye; we realized the ranch would soon be gone; the life we had known for 20 years would be gone. The ranch had been our anchor, we were now adrift.
Twenty years! From a 10-year old "privileged brat" to 30-year old "world-wise woman", Jim had been there. He was there when I went out with boys that weren't worth my time; he'd seen me in curlers and beauty masques, in bib overalls and swimming suits. He'd witnessed my Irish temper in outbursts against my parents, my boyfriends and life in general. Jim had turned his head when I'd cried over the death of my white collie, probably so I wouldn't see him cry, too.
I'd gone away to college and to Kentucky and Pennsylvania and I'd come home again. He was there. His little girls had been my daughter's first best friends, playing in the same dirt and corrals where Jim and I had played.
We didn't speak, Jim hugged me and I held on tight, I thought couldn't let go. If I let go, I was letting everything go. Jim went down the steps, got in his pick-up and drove away.
Life went on.
The bank got the ranch, my brother bought a corner of it to build his house and raise his family with a few cows and horses. Mom and Dad had an equipment sale, bought a little house on the edge of town and have grown old in comfort.
I got on with my life quite happily.
Most holidays I go home to the little house on the edge of town to visit my folks. That is usually when Jim is back visiting his kids, he always stops to see the folks. I've known Jim now for nearly 40 years. He might be a 50-something cowboy from Oregon, whip thin and tough, ruggedly handsome, but to me he's just Jim, the boy who grew up on our ranch. He's still not cool…but I have come to love him.
Jim stands at the door with his hat in his hand. He's in town to visit my aging parents. He is thin, too thin for his 5'10" height. Without his hat, his nearly bald head is pale, in great contrast to his tanned, weathered face. Dressed in dark blue jeans, new boots, and a crisp white shirt, he seems awkward, ill at ease, but happy to see us; happy to see that Mom and Dad are doing fine.
Jim is a cowboy. Jim spent his teenage and young adulthood, nearly 20 years, on my parent's ranch. When the ranch had to be sold, Jim moved with wife and kids, first to Colorado, then back to Nebraska, then Jim moved on without his family, to the mountains of Oregon, he's been there for 10 years.
To look at Jim today in my parent's living room, he is not an especially good-looking man. He is what he is -- a middle-aged, thin, balding, nearsighted man. Jim is not comfortable indoors, his element is the outdoors. Outside in the country, wearing soft, worn blue jeans, a faded western shirt, and his old cowboy hat covering his two-toned bald head; his thin, sharp, angular face is ruggedly handsome. Out-of doors he exudes a confidence, a sureness of himself that is not present inside the house.
When I first knew Jim, he was, in my opinion, very un-cool. Jim came to work, for the summer, on my dad's ranch, when he was 12 -- I was 10. He was the oldest of 5 boys. Jim's dad was a part time farmer and a friend of my dad.
Jim did not want to farm and so he came to put up hay and chase cows on our ranch. He was, at age 12, a sturdy, round faced kid, with square black glasses. He was either shy or didn't like to talk; he barely spoke. He went to country school, which was not cool. I, on the other hand, talked nearly all the time; I was on the edge of being one of the popular girls at my Catholic school. But I was not self-confident enough to befriend an un-cool, round faced, bespectacled, country boy. He might think I liked him and that would not be cool. So we spent those first couple of summers keeping our distance, working together when we had to, playing together in the evening, only in a group with my sister and brother and the current full-time hired man's kids.
Our ranch had about an acre of cottonwood and elm trees; nestled in these trees was our two story, four bedroom house, about 50 yards to the north was the hired man's 3 bedroom house. To the east was the big hip roofed barn, with a milk room/bunkhouse on the west side. Jim lived in the bunkhouse attached to the barn.
Jim arrived at the ranch every May as soon as school was out. He stayed all summer, going to his folks on Saturday nights and returning to the ranch on Monday morning. He became a part of our lives.
Jim and I sparred back and forth most of the time. I considered Jim (if I considered him at all) nothing but a dumb boy. He thought I was too privileged, being the boss' daughter. I did not have to milk the cows or do 5:30 a.m. chores. I worked in the hayfield but got off early on Saturday afternoon. I had to do evening chores, but sometimes I had other plans and didn't have to help.
My sister Lisa was a year older than Jim; they became better friends because Lisa didn't worry about being friends with an un-cool kid. She was cool.
When Lisa was 17, I was 14, my brother, Roger, 9, and Jim was 16, Dad employed a new full-time hired man. Jack Walker, came with a wife and 4 kids; Peggy was 15 and the boys, Kerry, Alan and Brian, were 12, 10, and 4. For two years we didn’t need to leave the ranch to find fun. We should have been beyond the age of playing, but we weren’t. We played almost every night. We rode horses; we rode the milk cows; we played hide-and-seek, and tag and baseball and Red Rover. We climbed on the roofs of the sheds, we actually played cowboys and Indians. We three girls roped the boys and tied them to the corral fence. We had a 'neighborhood' right in our yard. It was in those two years that I came to appreciate Jim. I looked at Jim like a brother. He still wasn't 'cool', but he was all right.The year Jim was a senior at the public school, I was a junior at the Catholic high. Jim moved to the ranch full-time. The Walker family had moved on and Jim had a work-study program where he worked on the ranch in the morning and went to school in the afternoon. He lived alone in the hired man's house and ate all his meals with us. Jim had changed by the time he was a senior. He was on the wrestling team. He still wore glasses and was not real cool, but he was tolerable. I even acknowledged him around my friends. Jim had a steady girlfriend and I had learned how to be friends, just friends, with boys.
Jim married Phyllis after they graduated high school; she was a hardworking girl with a heart of gold. The next spring they had a baby. The hired man's house had a family again.
The following year I graduated and went to college. I came home for holidays and summer vacation. I came home for good 4 years later, bringing my infant daughter. I worked in town and we lived on the ranch for the next 7 years.
Ranch hands come and go, two or three years and they move on. Jim was different. Loyal? Stubborn? Contented? Afraid of change? He just stayed. For 20 years he stayed.
Then came some hard times. The economy of the 80's was tough on Dad. High interest, low calf prices, plummeting land equity, and his penchant for race horses, had eaten him alive. He was past retirement age and couldn't afford to retire. I had two children and a disastrous relationship. Jim and Phyllis could not stretch their paycheck to keep up with their growing family. Roger went to college, got married, was setting up a mechanic shop, and doing what he could at the ranch. The ranch was sinking and we were all deciding how to jump ship.
Dad was in turmoil, he had sold most of his cows and was leasing out the pasture, he didn't really need Jim and couldn't afford to pay him. Jim knew it was time to try something else. All he knew was cowboying and he had only one boss in his whole career. It was a big leap. He found a ranch job in southern Colorado. Dad didn’t want Jim to move so far away, but knew he couldn’t stay.
My own life was not easy. I moved to town and was working 3 jobs, making house payments and keeping just ahead of the bills. I was trying to keep my personal and financial problems to myself; mom and dad had enough worries.
A few days before they left for Colorado, Jim and Phyllis were finishing packing and I was watching their girls at my house in town. It was about 8 p.m. when Jim came to pick them up; it was cold and starting to snow. He put the girls in the pick-up and came back to the door. Jim stood in my doorway, and said, "We might not see each other before I leave, so we'd better say good-bye now." We stood and looked at each other; I had tears welling in my eyes, his cheeks were wet, from snow or tears, I could not tell. Jim did not display emotion and had always been a man of few words.
There were no words to say good-bye; we realized the ranch would soon be gone; the life we had known for 20 years would be gone. The ranch had been our anchor, we were now adrift.
Twenty years! From a 10-year old "privileged brat" to 30-year old "world-wise woman", Jim had been there. He was there when I went out with boys that weren't worth my time; he'd seen me in curlers and beauty masques, in bib overalls and swimming suits. He'd witnessed my Irish temper in outbursts against my parents, my boyfriends and life in general. Jim had turned his head when I'd cried over the death of my white collie, probably so I wouldn't see him cry, too.
I'd gone away to college and to Kentucky and Pennsylvania and I'd come home again. He was there. His little girls had been my daughter's first best friends, playing in the same dirt and corrals where Jim and I had played.
We didn't speak, Jim hugged me and I held on tight, I thought couldn't let go. If I let go, I was letting everything go. Jim went down the steps, got in his pick-up and drove away.
Life went on.
The bank got the ranch, my brother bought a corner of it to build his house and raise his family with a few cows and horses. Mom and Dad had an equipment sale, bought a little house on the edge of town and have grown old in comfort.
I got on with my life quite happily.
Most holidays I go home to the little house on the edge of town to visit my folks. That is usually when Jim is back visiting his kids, he always stops to see the folks. I've known Jim now for nearly 40 years. He might be a 50-something cowboy from Oregon, whip thin and tough, ruggedly handsome, but to me he's just Jim, the boy who grew up on our ranch. He's still not cool…but I have come to love him.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
IGOR
(Written for English Comp Colby Community College 1976 )
Igor was a security blanket.
Lisa and I were barely teenagers when our sister Carol and her husband brought Christine home, wrapped in a beautiful blanket with satin piping.
By the time Chris was five, Igor was her constant companion. Her day started and ended with Igor. Igor went on countless car trips, he went to the zoo and amusement park. He traveled to the mountains and the lake, to rodeo’s and Grandma’s. Igor went daily to the babysitter and Sunday to church. Igor soothed Chris into thousands of naps and gave her courage when she was afraid. That darn blanket caused hours of searching when he got lost. We always found him.
In five years he had been washed and dried, patched and sewed, until he was a tattered 12 x 12 thermal square with a bit of satin edging.
Igor was still on the job.
We were in high school when Lisa and I took Chris (and Igor) to the theater to see Where the Red Fern Grows. At the end of the movie, Lisa and I had tears flowing down our cheeks. Chris offered us each a corner of Igor. To anyone else, it would not be a decent dust rag; to us, he was a friend.
Comfort in a little girl’s pocket!
Igor was a security blanket.
Lisa and I were barely teenagers when our sister Carol and her husband brought Christine home, wrapped in a beautiful blanket with satin piping.
By the time Chris was five, Igor was her constant companion. Her day started and ended with Igor. Igor went on countless car trips, he went to the zoo and amusement park. He traveled to the mountains and the lake, to rodeo’s and Grandma’s. Igor went daily to the babysitter and Sunday to church. Igor soothed Chris into thousands of naps and gave her courage when she was afraid. That darn blanket caused hours of searching when he got lost. We always found him.
In five years he had been washed and dried, patched and sewed, until he was a tattered 12 x 12 thermal square with a bit of satin edging.
Igor was still on the job.
We were in high school when Lisa and I took Chris (and Igor) to the theater to see Where the Red Fern Grows. At the end of the movie, Lisa and I had tears flowing down our cheeks. Chris offered us each a corner of Igor. To anyone else, it would not be a decent dust rag; to us, he was a friend.
Comfort in a little girl’s pocket!
Friday, January 18, 2008
LIFE'S ABOUT CHANGE
(Written for Mother's Day Contest LHJ 2001)
Growing up, a sense of security can be gained from sameness. I grew up very safe but I sure didn’t get my security from sameness.
These things I could count on:
My mom changed our house around a million different ways. I don’t mean just common old rearranging. She moved pots, pans, dishes, foodstuff, stoves, refrigerators, cupboards, walls, bedrooms, doors, windows and even the bathtub.
Twice a year Dad would be away for a weekend. Mom planned for weeks in advance for these opportunities. These were the times she would undertake a major remodeling project. Dad would drive out of the yard; we would wave good-by to him and as soon as he turned the corner we all had hammers in our hands, tearing out walls.
One time Mom was removing the wall between the living room and the downstairs bedroom. All went well until we took the two-by-fours out and the ceiling started to cave. It appeared that the upstairs bedrooms were going to fall into the living room. Mom called for reinforcements; a friend of the family came with jacks and a beam.
With the new large living room, there was a big closet (inaccessible), a linen cupboard (wasted space) and a hallway that went to nowhere. Dad, totally unaware, went off for the weekend. Out came the hammers and saws. This time she put a support beam up herself, reinforced the floor of the former closet and moved the tub across the room.
I can’t remember how many different places the stove and refrigerator were moved within our kitchen. First all the appliances would be in the breakfast nook, and the table would be in the center of the kitchen, then the washer and dryer would be in the nook, then the buffet and TV. Sometimes my brother, sisters and I would have to help push, pull, carry, drag and shove. Other times we would come home and things would magically be changed.
Mom and Dad retired and moved to a smaller house. That poor little house! New cupboards, new vanity, microwave by the stove, then by the fridge, then on the new rolling cupboard. The bedroom sets from the two bedrooms have traveled the stairs several times. The cedar chest, recliner, bookcase and rocker make a regular rotation up and down the stairs. Mom is 84 and Dad 92, either she can still magically move furniture or Dad shoves while she drags.
If life is about change then I grew up very well prepared. Have I ever wished that my mom were like other moms? Would I like to have the drinking glasses in the same cupboard every time I go home? No and no. Mom is unchanging in her capacity to change. I loved my childhood. I strive to be like her. If only I were so talented.
I called home the other day, Mom said she would sure like to do some major remodeling in the bedroom. But Dad wouldn’t go away for the weekend.
Growing up, a sense of security can be gained from sameness. I grew up very safe but I sure didn’t get my security from sameness.
These things I could count on:
- that my parents loved each other
- mom would be gone every Wednesday, playing poker
- there would be three meals a day
My mom changed our house around a million different ways. I don’t mean just common old rearranging. She moved pots, pans, dishes, foodstuff, stoves, refrigerators, cupboards, walls, bedrooms, doors, windows and even the bathtub.
Twice a year Dad would be away for a weekend. Mom planned for weeks in advance for these opportunities. These were the times she would undertake a major remodeling project. Dad would drive out of the yard; we would wave good-by to him and as soon as he turned the corner we all had hammers in our hands, tearing out walls.
One time Mom was removing the wall between the living room and the downstairs bedroom. All went well until we took the two-by-fours out and the ceiling started to cave. It appeared that the upstairs bedrooms were going to fall into the living room. Mom called for reinforcements; a friend of the family came with jacks and a beam.
With the new large living room, there was a big closet (inaccessible), a linen cupboard (wasted space) and a hallway that went to nowhere. Dad, totally unaware, went off for the weekend. Out came the hammers and saws. This time she put a support beam up herself, reinforced the floor of the former closet and moved the tub across the room.
I can’t remember how many different places the stove and refrigerator were moved within our kitchen. First all the appliances would be in the breakfast nook, and the table would be in the center of the kitchen, then the washer and dryer would be in the nook, then the buffet and TV. Sometimes my brother, sisters and I would have to help push, pull, carry, drag and shove. Other times we would come home and things would magically be changed.
Mom and Dad retired and moved to a smaller house. That poor little house! New cupboards, new vanity, microwave by the stove, then by the fridge, then on the new rolling cupboard. The bedroom sets from the two bedrooms have traveled the stairs several times. The cedar chest, recliner, bookcase and rocker make a regular rotation up and down the stairs. Mom is 84 and Dad 92, either she can still magically move furniture or Dad shoves while she drags.
If life is about change then I grew up very well prepared. Have I ever wished that my mom were like other moms? Would I like to have the drinking glasses in the same cupboard every time I go home? No and no. Mom is unchanging in her capacity to change. I loved my childhood. I strive to be like her. If only I were so talented.
I called home the other day, Mom said she would sure like to do some major remodeling in the bedroom. But Dad wouldn’t go away for the weekend.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
PLAYIN' CARDS----how to pick up and go on
Wednesday cattle auction,
Young wives gather
At the yardman’s apartment.
“Let’s play cards.”
And so the Wednesday afternoon
Penny ante poker club was born.
Gladys, Arlene, Verna, June,
Lillian, Velva and Shirley.
Little children play at their feet,
Tug at their sleeves.
Put in a dollar,
Count out the chips,
The children are teenagers,
Check in after school.
Shuffle the cards,
Bet a penny,
Teenagers go to college,
Get jobs and marry.
Flush beats a straight,
The sale barn closes,
The card game goes on.
Got an ace in the hole,
Next week at Velva’s,
Week after at Lil’s.
Jacks or better,
A pair of kings.
Young ranch wives are grandmas,
Husbands mostly gone.
Railroad terminal replaces
The livestock auction.
The women keep dealing.
Nearly fifty years
Of setting the clock
By the Wednesday afternoon
Penny ante poker club.
Young wives gather
At the yardman’s apartment.
“Let’s play cards.”
And so the Wednesday afternoon
Penny ante poker club was born.
Gladys, Arlene, Verna, June,
Lillian, Velva and Shirley.
Little children play at their feet,
Tug at their sleeves.
Put in a dollar,
Count out the chips,
The children are teenagers,
Check in after school.
Shuffle the cards,
Bet a penny,
Teenagers go to college,
Get jobs and marry.
Flush beats a straight,
The sale barn closes,
The card game goes on.
Got an ace in the hole,
Next week at Velva’s,
Week after at Lil’s.
Jacks or better,
A pair of kings.
Young ranch wives are grandmas,
Husbands mostly gone.
Railroad terminal replaces
The livestock auction.
The women keep dealing.
Nearly fifty years
Of setting the clock
By the Wednesday afternoon
Penny ante poker club.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
SUMMER IN MY HEART -- my sister, my friend
(Written for class, Memoir Writing Workshop, 12-15-2002)
It was the middle of the night. It was also the first time in all my travels that Lisa or Sue had not met me at the airport. I was 21, no longer a schoolgirl, and they were busy with their own lives; Lisa, married in Kansas; Sue, working in Ft. Collins. It had been nearly six months since I had seen either of them.
I was on my way home. Home was Morrill County, Nebraska where we had all grown up. Home was a ranch in the sandhills. Home was the pivot point of our lives. The place where all our memories were kept.
I had taken a late night flight from Atlanta to Denver, then caught a bus to Cheyenne. The bus broke down 50 miles out of Denver. There would be a two-hour delay. I needed to get to Cheyenne.
One a.m., one call, and Sue was there, in bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. She drove me the 60 miles to my destination. The hour together was not nearly enough time. So much to catch up on; my travels, her job, her love life, my love life, our families, my plans, had she seen Lisa?
Lisa, Sue and Donna, I was the baby. Lisa and Sue were three years older, not much difference now, but when we were 17 and 14, it was incredible that we were best friends. Remarkable in many ways, Sue was an only child; she transferred to our school from an all girl's boarding school. Lisa was part of the popular clique, Sue was of the independent set and I was … well, I was still in Jr. High.
Lisa and Sue were sophomores and they became best of friends. Amazing that they let me in, I was just a kid and besides that, I was Lisa's little sister. I guess I was part of a package deal.
Three ranch girls, we were country when country wasn’t cool. We waited out the long school year, being proper schoolgirls. Going to classes, club meetings, sporting events, containing our rural ways the best we could. We lived for spring to arrive, and reveled in the summer. Oh, summer!
We worked for our respective fathers in the hay field, checked windmills, irrigated, gardened, cooked, did the 4-H thing, rode horses, and went to fairs and rodeos and dances. How we loved to dance!, country western dancing at rodeos, town halls, weddings, any occasion.
We spent Sunday mornings dancing with one another and my little brother, showing the others the new steps we learned. We danced, we discusussed, we dissected, we laughed; things that weren't even remotely humorous to others were hilarious to us.
Lisa and Sue went off to college in Kansas and Colorado. So we wrote letters, hundreds of letters to keep in touch. I knew their daily lives and they knew mine. Mostly, we planned for summer. Every letter mentioned holding out till spring. Those letters, now safe in a cedar chest, are a chronicle of dreams and the reality of our youth.
Each alone we were vulnerable; united, we were invincible. We could handle anything. Together we weathered the storms of adolescent love and later real love.
Lisa met Steve in college and married a year after she graduated. Her wedding was in late summer. The three of us had gone in different directions after high school, we were independent, yet we were together.
That August day definitely marked the end of Lisa/Sue/Donna. While Lisa honeymooned, Sue and I went to the Wyoming State Fair, we were like a ship without a rudder.
Sue went back to Colorado, Lisa and Steve to Kansas, and I kept traveling. Sue met Kevin in Colorado and they came back to Morrill County to work Sue's family ranch.
I stopped wandering when I met Gary and settled in central Nebraska. Lisa, Sue and I have each married only once and stayed happily married; a testament to our enduring friendship. We learned from one another what it took to make a relationship work and we applied it to our marriages.
We have had other friends, friends from every path we’ve been down. Many we shared with one another, some we kept to ourselves.
I have had good friends, true friends. But none can compare with the bond I have with Lisa and Sue. Whatever it was that made us friends, it has endured. It is a part of our lives, constant, taken for granted, like breathing.
I never could have grown up without Lisa and Sue. There is security in knowing that if the whole world fell apart, we will be there for one another. Lisa and I, we’re stuck with each other, but we chose to be friends. Then we chose Sue.
Long ago Sue wrote a letter with the familiar salutation, “Dear Lisa/Donna, I have picked the people I want to grow old with... You two win!”
Time, distance and the direction of our lives have separated us, except for in our hearts, where it’s always summertime.
It was the middle of the night. It was also the first time in all my travels that Lisa or Sue had not met me at the airport. I was 21, no longer a schoolgirl, and they were busy with their own lives; Lisa, married in Kansas; Sue, working in Ft. Collins. It had been nearly six months since I had seen either of them.
I was on my way home. Home was Morrill County, Nebraska where we had all grown up. Home was a ranch in the sandhills. Home was the pivot point of our lives. The place where all our memories were kept.
I had taken a late night flight from Atlanta to Denver, then caught a bus to Cheyenne. The bus broke down 50 miles out of Denver. There would be a two-hour delay. I needed to get to Cheyenne.
One a.m., one call, and Sue was there, in bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. She drove me the 60 miles to my destination. The hour together was not nearly enough time. So much to catch up on; my travels, her job, her love life, my love life, our families, my plans, had she seen Lisa?
Lisa, Sue and Donna, I was the baby. Lisa and Sue were three years older, not much difference now, but when we were 17 and 14, it was incredible that we were best friends. Remarkable in many ways, Sue was an only child; she transferred to our school from an all girl's boarding school. Lisa was part of the popular clique, Sue was of the independent set and I was … well, I was still in Jr. High.
Lisa and Sue were sophomores and they became best of friends. Amazing that they let me in, I was just a kid and besides that, I was Lisa's little sister. I guess I was part of a package deal.
Three ranch girls, we were country when country wasn’t cool. We waited out the long school year, being proper schoolgirls. Going to classes, club meetings, sporting events, containing our rural ways the best we could. We lived for spring to arrive, and reveled in the summer. Oh, summer!
We worked for our respective fathers in the hay field, checked windmills, irrigated, gardened, cooked, did the 4-H thing, rode horses, and went to fairs and rodeos and dances. How we loved to dance!, country western dancing at rodeos, town halls, weddings, any occasion.
We spent Sunday mornings dancing with one another and my little brother, showing the others the new steps we learned. We danced, we discusussed, we dissected, we laughed; things that weren't even remotely humorous to others were hilarious to us.
Lisa and Sue went off to college in Kansas and Colorado. So we wrote letters, hundreds of letters to keep in touch. I knew their daily lives and they knew mine. Mostly, we planned for summer. Every letter mentioned holding out till spring. Those letters, now safe in a cedar chest, are a chronicle of dreams and the reality of our youth.
Each alone we were vulnerable; united, we were invincible. We could handle anything. Together we weathered the storms of adolescent love and later real love.
Lisa met Steve in college and married a year after she graduated. Her wedding was in late summer. The three of us had gone in different directions after high school, we were independent, yet we were together.
That August day definitely marked the end of Lisa/Sue/Donna. While Lisa honeymooned, Sue and I went to the Wyoming State Fair, we were like a ship without a rudder.
Sue went back to Colorado, Lisa and Steve to Kansas, and I kept traveling. Sue met Kevin in Colorado and they came back to Morrill County to work Sue's family ranch.
I stopped wandering when I met Gary and settled in central Nebraska. Lisa, Sue and I have each married only once and stayed happily married; a testament to our enduring friendship. We learned from one another what it took to make a relationship work and we applied it to our marriages.
We have had other friends, friends from every path we’ve been down. Many we shared with one another, some we kept to ourselves.
I have had good friends, true friends. But none can compare with the bond I have with Lisa and Sue. Whatever it was that made us friends, it has endured. It is a part of our lives, constant, taken for granted, like breathing.
I never could have grown up without Lisa and Sue. There is security in knowing that if the whole world fell apart, we will be there for one another. Lisa and I, we’re stuck with each other, but we chose to be friends. Then we chose Sue.
Long ago Sue wrote a letter with the familiar salutation, “Dear Lisa/Donna, I have picked the people I want to grow old with... You two win!”
Time, distance and the direction of our lives have separated us, except for in our hearts, where it’s always summertime.
Monday, January 14, 2008
A TOUGH ACT TO FOLLOW--the woman who is my mother
(Written for Mother's Day Contest LHJ 2001)
Sometimes I look in the mirror. I look at my life, and I say to myself, “My God, I’ve become my mother”.
Oh, how I wish.
In a perfect world all mothers would be superwoman. Mine is.
She took me horseback riding; she built tree houses and dollhouses. She sewed summer wardrobes, winter formals and prom dresses. She baked billions of cookies, served on countless committees, Mom was a leader for bluebirds, campfire and 4-H. She drove carloads of giggling girls to camp, volleyball games and speech meets.
She did all these things for me. She wasn’t new to the job; I have three older sisters.
The first actual memory I have of Mom is when I was 5, she was 44. She was in a brown two-piece maternity dress, pregnant with my little brother.
She was 44, had a daughter in college, one in high school, a third grader, a 5 year old and a baby on the way. Imagine that!
My Mom was a teacher. She stopped teaching school when she had kids. From the day Helen was born until Roger went to college, for 38 years Mom was a full time mother. Oh, yes, and she rose before 5 each morning, milked a few cows, cleaned the milk house and had a big breakfast on the table by 6. The rest of her day was spent cooking, baking, cleaning, building, and caring for chickens, garden, house, cows and kids. Work, for Mom, is a challenge, a game. Mom loves to do dishes. Loves to do dishes? That’s just the way she is.
Mom was an environmentalist before they were radicals. She loves nature and creatures of every kind. Flies, snakes, spiders and mice are safe with Mom.
When Mom was 62 she had finally served on her last prom committee, baked her last batch of cookies for school.
Mom milked her last beloved Guernsey at the age of 69. Mom took her second paying job at the age of 70. She was a teachers aide for a few years, then she took a half a day job as a clerk at the city office, and she was there until she was 82.
Mom is young at 84.
Mom gives herself a manicure on Saturday afternoon, goes to church every Sunday, and plays penny-ante poker on Wednesdays. She is beautiful, strong and sensible.
Mom came of age during the Great Depression. She married a rancher. Times were never easy. She taught school to make a living. She never stopped teaching--her life has been my lesson.
Mom showed me how to find joy in work; how to love a man ‘because of’ and ‘in spite of’; she let me go and she let me come back. She taught self-sufficiency, thriftiness, generosity, humor, tolerance, compassion, morality, empathy, decency, honesty, integrity and fairness.
Mom has aged without getting old.
I want to pattern my life after hers.
I say to myself, “Good luck”.
Sometimes I look in the mirror. I look at my life, and I say to myself, “My God, I’ve become my mother”.
Oh, how I wish.
In a perfect world all mothers would be superwoman. Mine is.
She took me horseback riding; she built tree houses and dollhouses. She sewed summer wardrobes, winter formals and prom dresses. She baked billions of cookies, served on countless committees, Mom was a leader for bluebirds, campfire and 4-H. She drove carloads of giggling girls to camp, volleyball games and speech meets.
She did all these things for me. She wasn’t new to the job; I have three older sisters.
The first actual memory I have of Mom is when I was 5, she was 44. She was in a brown two-piece maternity dress, pregnant with my little brother.
She was 44, had a daughter in college, one in high school, a third grader, a 5 year old and a baby on the way. Imagine that!
My Mom was a teacher. She stopped teaching school when she had kids. From the day Helen was born until Roger went to college, for 38 years Mom was a full time mother. Oh, yes, and she rose before 5 each morning, milked a few cows, cleaned the milk house and had a big breakfast on the table by 6. The rest of her day was spent cooking, baking, cleaning, building, and caring for chickens, garden, house, cows and kids. Work, for Mom, is a challenge, a game. Mom loves to do dishes. Loves to do dishes? That’s just the way she is.
Mom was an environmentalist before they were radicals. She loves nature and creatures of every kind. Flies, snakes, spiders and mice are safe with Mom.
When Mom was 62 she had finally served on her last prom committee, baked her last batch of cookies for school.
Mom milked her last beloved Guernsey at the age of 69. Mom took her second paying job at the age of 70. She was a teachers aide for a few years, then she took a half a day job as a clerk at the city office, and she was there until she was 82.
Mom is young at 84.
Mom gives herself a manicure on Saturday afternoon, goes to church every Sunday, and plays penny-ante poker on Wednesdays. She is beautiful, strong and sensible.
Mom came of age during the Great Depression. She married a rancher. Times were never easy. She taught school to make a living. She never stopped teaching--her life has been my lesson.
Mom showed me how to find joy in work; how to love a man ‘because of’ and ‘in spite of’; she let me go and she let me come back. She taught self-sufficiency, thriftiness, generosity, humor, tolerance, compassion, morality, empathy, decency, honesty, integrity and fairness.
Mom has aged without getting old.
I want to pattern my life after hers.
I say to myself, “Good luck”.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
RIDE TO THE WHISTLE -- the man who was my father
(published - Rodeo News - volume 13, issue 10 November 2005)
Motherless, four brothers grew up knowing no life but that of a cowboy. Their father was a self-educated, board certified veterinarian. He was the foremost horse vet of the region. Doc Applegarth was rarely home. After their mother’s death, the boys basically cared for themselves and the small Nebraska sandhill ranch.
Barney Applegarth, 95, was one of these boys. For 94 years he lived everyday with a horse or two… or sixty. Barney sold his last two horses in 2004. Slightly gnarled with arthritis but still spry, he said, “When the snow is a blowin’, it’s tough to chore.” The horses are gone, but the memories remain.
From his birth in 1909, Barney’s every memory includes a horse. Doc Applegarth raised, bought and sold horses for the U.S. Army. In 1915 Barney was five years old and he was about to acquire the first horse of his own. He remembers like it was yesterday; his dad told him, ‘Geleta will foal tonight, if it’s a filly, she’s yours.’ Barney barely slept that night, waking early and running to the barn, the other boys behind him. The mares came galloping in from the pasture, all but Geleta. Four boys ran to the top of the hill to see Geleta and her new filly sedately following. The love affair of boy and horse had begun.
By the time Barney was eight, he had broken his first horse. He rode his filly, Beauty, to school. The Applegarth boys spent their lives horseback; seldom riding a broke horse, they went back and forth more than five miles to school. In the 1920’s it was rare that young cowboys finished high school. Bill and Joe, held out through the tenth grade and then went to work on nearby ranches.
Barney and Hank finished high school. “If we had quit, that would have left only four boys in the high school. Mr. Anderson, the basketball coach, worked extra with us, keeping our studies up when we had to miss school.” With a wink, he adds, “He needed us to fill the basketball team.” Barney and Hank were all of 5’6” and 5’2” but the Bingham High School basketball team went to the Nebraska state tournament nearly every year in the 1920’s.
The two boys rode 5½ miles to school in the morning, rode home in the evening, did chores and ate supper. Most of the time Doc was gone and the boys were alone. They saddled fresh horses and went back to town for 7pm practice. Twenty-two miles a day. They broke more than 40 horses each school year.
In 1925, their father began a contract haying business to keep the boys employed and to break horses for the army. They also broke horses for area ranches. Besides the four Applegarth boys who were 18, 17, 15, and 13, Doc employed three or four other boys.
They mowed, raked, swept, and stacked hay. Most days they teamed broke horses with broncs; some days they hooked up all broncs. Barney recalls, “We went to get the stacker over at Ballinger’s, about four miles away. Rusty Hunzicker and I hooked up four broncs to the cart. Hank rode ahead to open gates. We had a wild trip, the horses never did settle down. When we got to the stacker, Rusty jumped off, I circled the team around. Rusty was ready to hook-up on the go; we did it all the time. Rusty got the chains hooked but he missed when he jumped on to the cart. The stacker ran right over him. It was a drag stacker that only cleared the ground about 8 inches. He was pretty skinned up. Lucky we had some of ol’ man Ballinger’s bootleg whiskey, a couple of swigs and he was fine.”
After working the horses six days, the boys got a day off; the horses did not. Sundays were for rest, relaxation and bucking out the workhorses. There was no arena, the horses were kept in a rope corral. A bronc was chosen, saddled, flanked, mounted and bucked out into the meadow.
The Applegarth hay crew had nearly 60 horses in their remuda; they ended their season in the U-Cross Valley, where they met another crew and another 60 horses. The bucking practice grew to include cowboys from area ranches. With the lessons learned on Sunday afternoons the boys were strong contenders at rodeos.
Barney’s first rodeo bronc ride was at Hyannis, Nebraska in 1925. He was 15. “I rode to the whistle but didn’t get in the money… but I won the match race on Beauty.” Barney began racing in elementary school, discovering that Beauty could not be beaten in schoolyard races. Beauty, herself a quarter Thoroughbred, produced many foals, most of them three-quarters Thoroughbred. “The best horse I ever raised was old Croppy, he was born in a blizzard and froze his ears off. He was natural racehorse, he didn’t like to be beat.”
Partner, also out of Beauty, was another all-around horse. Barney also owned a good horse named Drunk. “Drunk was really Hank’s horse, he had won the horse in a card game but I had staked him for quite a while and he owed me.”
Barney was a saddle bronc rider, a calf roper, and a steer wrestler. But at only 5’8”, when his heels didn’t touch the ground, he had to let the bigger steers go.
Driving a 1935 pickup truck with Drunk or Croppy or Partner loaded in the back and their saddles thrown up on the stock rack, Barney, Hank and Shady James went on the rodeo ‘circuit’ in the late 30’s. The circuit included Nebraska towns of Alliance, Bingham, Ogallala, Sutherland, Grant, Elmwood Kansas, Brush and Deer Trail in Colorado, Cheyenne and Wheatland Wyoming and an Indian Reservation in South Dakota.
Life on the road sure beat putting up hay. They were in the money enough to keep going all summer. In 1938 Barney and Shady teamed with George House and won the wild horse race two days in a row at Cheyenne. He grins as he remembers, “Not sure it was quite right, there were a few nasty, mean, sons of B’s that were near impossible to saddle but once you was on, they was like they was broke to ride. We drew one each day.”
Barney met his wife of 65 years, when she was a pretty young schoolteacher, walking four miles each way to school. He offered her his young mare, Babe, to ride. Eyes twinkling he says, “The only way I could get Babe back was to marry her.” In 1940 June Grouns became his bride.
Barney rodeoed a few more years, but with a wife and little Helen Laine, life on the road was not so appealing. Besides, as Hank once said, Barney had caught the ‘racing fever’. Match racers came from miles to try to beat Barney and old Croppy.
June, at 88, is still a tiny woman and strong. “Built just like a jockey.” And an expert horsewoman. Barney would put her up on Croppy and he would set the pace with Partner or Babe. Barney tells of a good race, “We were in a tight bunch of about five horses; June was on old Croppy and I was on the outside of her, riding Babe. Croppy had his little stubs-of-ears flattened back on his head; a horse came up on the inside, challenging Croppy. Croppy was concentrating on Babe, and didn’t see the challenge. I hollered to June, ‘Shout in his ears!’. She didn’t understand. So I gave Babe all I had and we got up next to Croppy, I shouted right in his ear hole. Old Croppy took off like he’d been shot. ‘Pert near left June sitting in the air.” Barney laughs, “That was the closest Croppy ever came to getting beat.”
As his rodeo career waned, Barney continued raising and breaking horses and threw his efforts into building a ranch for his growing family. Once he had established a small holding south of Alliance, Nebraska, the racing fever came back full force. He began breeding, raising and training Thoroughbreds in the early 1950’s.
For over 50 years Barney Applegarth has been a figure in Nebraska, Colorado, and Arizona Thoroughbred racing. The blue and white silks with the ‘slash A’ insignia, have been atop hundreds of winners. Most of the time Barney stayed at the ranch letting seasoned trainers take his horses. Jasper Hitchcock, Ray Robinson, Buster Carroll, Harlan Norman and Loyal Beavers, trained his horses through the years at the major tracks. Open Range was his first stakes horse, winning the Governor’s Handicap at Fonner Park. Barney rode high through the 1970’s and early ‘80‘s, the glory years of racing in Nebraska. Aksarben in Omaha was at it’s peak; purses were good and expenses were reasonable. Key To the Castle, This Is Annie, Orange Juicer, Dancing Deer, Candi’s Castle were among Barney’s allowance/stakes horses. Dare County won the Bachman and the Baxter Handicaps.
Two-year-olds left the ranch each spring broke to race and ready to run. Many horses won their first starts, proving that the foundation training was at it’s best. Barney put his heart and soul into his racehorses; the bloodlines were studied to produce Barney’s idea of the perfect racer. Barney started the horses at the ranch with an improvised track, a sandy mile of abandoned county road. Training and breaking methods were still being perfected on the last two horses who started in 2004. At 94, Barney had done the ground work before sending the horses out.
Old and weathered, leaning on his cane, Barney Applegarth seems a long way from the little boy who ran to the top of the hill to claim his first horse. To him, however, everyday of the past 90-some years, seems just like yesterday. Memories alive with horses, running and bucking.
Motherless, four brothers grew up knowing no life but that of a cowboy. Their father was a self-educated, board certified veterinarian. He was the foremost horse vet of the region. Doc Applegarth was rarely home. After their mother’s death, the boys basically cared for themselves and the small Nebraska sandhill ranch.
Barney Applegarth, 95, was one of these boys. For 94 years he lived everyday with a horse or two… or sixty. Barney sold his last two horses in 2004. Slightly gnarled with arthritis but still spry, he said, “When the snow is a blowin’, it’s tough to chore.” The horses are gone, but the memories remain.
From his birth in 1909, Barney’s every memory includes a horse. Doc Applegarth raised, bought and sold horses for the U.S. Army. In 1915 Barney was five years old and he was about to acquire the first horse of his own. He remembers like it was yesterday; his dad told him, ‘Geleta will foal tonight, if it’s a filly, she’s yours.’ Barney barely slept that night, waking early and running to the barn, the other boys behind him. The mares came galloping in from the pasture, all but Geleta. Four boys ran to the top of the hill to see Geleta and her new filly sedately following. The love affair of boy and horse had begun.
By the time Barney was eight, he had broken his first horse. He rode his filly, Beauty, to school. The Applegarth boys spent their lives horseback; seldom riding a broke horse, they went back and forth more than five miles to school. In the 1920’s it was rare that young cowboys finished high school. Bill and Joe, held out through the tenth grade and then went to work on nearby ranches.
Barney and Hank finished high school. “If we had quit, that would have left only four boys in the high school. Mr. Anderson, the basketball coach, worked extra with us, keeping our studies up when we had to miss school.” With a wink, he adds, “He needed us to fill the basketball team.” Barney and Hank were all of 5’6” and 5’2” but the Bingham High School basketball team went to the Nebraska state tournament nearly every year in the 1920’s.
The two boys rode 5½ miles to school in the morning, rode home in the evening, did chores and ate supper. Most of the time Doc was gone and the boys were alone. They saddled fresh horses and went back to town for 7pm practice. Twenty-two miles a day. They broke more than 40 horses each school year.
In 1925, their father began a contract haying business to keep the boys employed and to break horses for the army. They also broke horses for area ranches. Besides the four Applegarth boys who were 18, 17, 15, and 13, Doc employed three or four other boys.
They mowed, raked, swept, and stacked hay. Most days they teamed broke horses with broncs; some days they hooked up all broncs. Barney recalls, “We went to get the stacker over at Ballinger’s, about four miles away. Rusty Hunzicker and I hooked up four broncs to the cart. Hank rode ahead to open gates. We had a wild trip, the horses never did settle down. When we got to the stacker, Rusty jumped off, I circled the team around. Rusty was ready to hook-up on the go; we did it all the time. Rusty got the chains hooked but he missed when he jumped on to the cart. The stacker ran right over him. It was a drag stacker that only cleared the ground about 8 inches. He was pretty skinned up. Lucky we had some of ol’ man Ballinger’s bootleg whiskey, a couple of swigs and he was fine.”
After working the horses six days, the boys got a day off; the horses did not. Sundays were for rest, relaxation and bucking out the workhorses. There was no arena, the horses were kept in a rope corral. A bronc was chosen, saddled, flanked, mounted and bucked out into the meadow.
The Applegarth hay crew had nearly 60 horses in their remuda; they ended their season in the U-Cross Valley, where they met another crew and another 60 horses. The bucking practice grew to include cowboys from area ranches. With the lessons learned on Sunday afternoons the boys were strong contenders at rodeos.
Barney’s first rodeo bronc ride was at Hyannis, Nebraska in 1925. He was 15. “I rode to the whistle but didn’t get in the money… but I won the match race on Beauty.” Barney began racing in elementary school, discovering that Beauty could not be beaten in schoolyard races. Beauty, herself a quarter Thoroughbred, produced many foals, most of them three-quarters Thoroughbred. “The best horse I ever raised was old Croppy, he was born in a blizzard and froze his ears off. He was natural racehorse, he didn’t like to be beat.”
Partner, also out of Beauty, was another all-around horse. Barney also owned a good horse named Drunk. “Drunk was really Hank’s horse, he had won the horse in a card game but I had staked him for quite a while and he owed me.”
Barney was a saddle bronc rider, a calf roper, and a steer wrestler. But at only 5’8”, when his heels didn’t touch the ground, he had to let the bigger steers go.
Driving a 1935 pickup truck with Drunk or Croppy or Partner loaded in the back and their saddles thrown up on the stock rack, Barney, Hank and Shady James went on the rodeo ‘circuit’ in the late 30’s. The circuit included Nebraska towns of Alliance, Bingham, Ogallala, Sutherland, Grant, Elmwood Kansas, Brush and Deer Trail in Colorado, Cheyenne and Wheatland Wyoming and an Indian Reservation in South Dakota.
Life on the road sure beat putting up hay. They were in the money enough to keep going all summer. In 1938 Barney and Shady teamed with George House and won the wild horse race two days in a row at Cheyenne. He grins as he remembers, “Not sure it was quite right, there were a few nasty, mean, sons of B’s that were near impossible to saddle but once you was on, they was like they was broke to ride. We drew one each day.”
Barney met his wife of 65 years, when she was a pretty young schoolteacher, walking four miles each way to school. He offered her his young mare, Babe, to ride. Eyes twinkling he says, “The only way I could get Babe back was to marry her.” In 1940 June Grouns became his bride.
Barney rodeoed a few more years, but with a wife and little Helen Laine, life on the road was not so appealing. Besides, as Hank once said, Barney had caught the ‘racing fever’. Match racers came from miles to try to beat Barney and old Croppy.
June, at 88, is still a tiny woman and strong. “Built just like a jockey.” And an expert horsewoman. Barney would put her up on Croppy and he would set the pace with Partner or Babe. Barney tells of a good race, “We were in a tight bunch of about five horses; June was on old Croppy and I was on the outside of her, riding Babe. Croppy had his little stubs-of-ears flattened back on his head; a horse came up on the inside, challenging Croppy. Croppy was concentrating on Babe, and didn’t see the challenge. I hollered to June, ‘Shout in his ears!’. She didn’t understand. So I gave Babe all I had and we got up next to Croppy, I shouted right in his ear hole. Old Croppy took off like he’d been shot. ‘Pert near left June sitting in the air.” Barney laughs, “That was the closest Croppy ever came to getting beat.”
As his rodeo career waned, Barney continued raising and breaking horses and threw his efforts into building a ranch for his growing family. Once he had established a small holding south of Alliance, Nebraska, the racing fever came back full force. He began breeding, raising and training Thoroughbreds in the early 1950’s.
For over 50 years Barney Applegarth has been a figure in Nebraska, Colorado, and Arizona Thoroughbred racing. The blue and white silks with the ‘slash A’ insignia, have been atop hundreds of winners. Most of the time Barney stayed at the ranch letting seasoned trainers take his horses. Jasper Hitchcock, Ray Robinson, Buster Carroll, Harlan Norman and Loyal Beavers, trained his horses through the years at the major tracks. Open Range was his first stakes horse, winning the Governor’s Handicap at Fonner Park. Barney rode high through the 1970’s and early ‘80‘s, the glory years of racing in Nebraska. Aksarben in Omaha was at it’s peak; purses were good and expenses were reasonable. Key To the Castle, This Is Annie, Orange Juicer, Dancing Deer, Candi’s Castle were among Barney’s allowance/stakes horses. Dare County won the Bachman and the Baxter Handicaps.
Two-year-olds left the ranch each spring broke to race and ready to run. Many horses won their first starts, proving that the foundation training was at it’s best. Barney put his heart and soul into his racehorses; the bloodlines were studied to produce Barney’s idea of the perfect racer. Barney started the horses at the ranch with an improvised track, a sandy mile of abandoned county road. Training and breaking methods were still being perfected on the last two horses who started in 2004. At 94, Barney had done the ground work before sending the horses out.
Old and weathered, leaning on his cane, Barney Applegarth seems a long way from the little boy who ran to the top of the hill to claim his first horse. To him, however, everyday of the past 90-some years, seems just like yesterday. Memories alive with horses, running and bucking.
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