Another Good Man Gone

Hal Swift, noted Reno resident and a great friend to my sister and niece.

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/rgj/obituary.aspx?n=ralph-swift&pid=181458469

From my sister’s Facebook page.

This man was a wonderful mentor to me and my family. The stories we have are many and some shouldn't be shared with everyone. He was our minister but was a dear friend. My heart is breaking even though I knew that at some point in time he was going to make his transition. LUVS and blessings~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~my friend.

Hal and my late brother-in-law were great friends and fellow poets. I will always remember Hal’s great kindness and quiet compassion at the memorial service despite his own deep grief. 

Truly one of the good men.

Cowboy Poetry

My pal Hal Swift sent me another. Offered as relief from the elections drama.


The Cowpokes' Roll-Away Saloon
by Hal Swift

In the early history of the Golden West,
along the Arizona, Utah border,
there was only one bar where a thirsty cowpoke
could set down an' place 'im an order.

But north to south, Kanab to Fredonia,
the cowpokes' spirits was low.
Seems that lone saloon kept runnin' outta booze,
cuz the ol' freight wagon's so slow.

Some a the boys started stashin' their stuff,
so's to sneak a sip durin' the day.
But by late afternoon their off-key singin'
would allus give 'em away.

The cowpokes felt they was bein' held down,
an' it made 'em both mean an' cross.
 An' they got no help from the old, married men,
whose wives seem to think they're the boss.

If you happened to be too close to the house
when y'stopped to wet yer whistle,
you kin bet one'd see ya, an' give you a look
like she maybe jist swallered a thistle.

Some men got fired, and their wives got upset,
and declared no more drinkin' at all.
But the drinkin' continued in all sorts a spots.
One boy had a bar in a stall!

Things only got worse as the days went by.
The men was all mopin' aroun',
'til someone suggested that they build another
saloon on the outskirts of town.

They decided the state line would be a good place,
an' they'd build it on rollers becuz
then they could move it if worse come to worse,
an' the womenfolk found where it was.

So that's what they did, the boys built their saloon,
south of town maybe four miles or so.
They built a road to it, on top of the dunes,
where the ladies weren't likely to go.

Kanab's side of the border's where they parked it first,
an' ever'thin' hummed along fine.
Then the gals found out, an' went to set it on fire,
but the men rolled it over the line.

"We're in Arizona!" the boys all hollered,
"so you better stop right where you're at!"
The women said, "Okay, but leave it right there.
Roll it back, an' it's gone, like that!"

Then Fredonia's ladies decided they'd give
their Kanabian sisters a hand.
The men tried to roll their saloon back north,
but the thing bogged down in the sand.

The Kanab ladies heard, an' come back on the run,
an' you knew that the drinkers'd lose.
The saloon couldn't roll, so it set there an' burned,
with thirty-six kegs fulla booze.

With alla that alcohol burnin' at once,
the flames was angry an' loud.
The ladies was dancin' an' singin' with joy,
til a shout went up from the crowd.

Seems some a the cowpokes had stayed with the booze,
an' was there when the ceilin' fell in.
A collection was took up to care fer the widders,
an' a prayer was said fer the men.

Where the tragedy happened is all desert now.
Ghosts play in the light of the moon.
An' some folks say they've heard off-key singin'
comin' from down on the dune.

                           --0--

Based on a true story, reported in the
Southern Utah News by Dixie Brunner
August 21, 2002 Special Section p.8

And the cowboys in Kanab still do  their drinking in Fredonia.

Think Before You Shoot

Another from my pal, Hal Swift.

Wups!
by Hal Swift

A young gunslinger comes inta the bar,
an' spies an ol' shooter he's seen.
He sets down by 'im, an' orders some gin,
an' sez, "Folks tell me yer mean."

The ol' boy sez, "That's what some folks claim,
but I give it all up last year."
The young feller sez, "I'll give ya this gin
if you gimme some tips right here."

The ol' boy sez, "Give y'tips fer what?"
An' the kid sez, "How t'shoot straight."
The ol' man sez, "Lemme see your piece."
An' the kid sez, "Don't tempt fate.

"I don't hand off my gun t'jist anybody else,
irregardless of 'is reputation.
Jist tell me some things that'll help me shoot straight,
an' do it in conversation."

The old timer sez, "Well first off yer gun
is way too high t'draw fast.
If y'lower yer holster 'bout a foot-an' a half,
you never gonna be outclassed."

The kid did jist that, his draw was a blur,
quicker'n y'blink yer eye.
Fired off a round at the man at the pie-anna,
an' shot off 'is little bow tie.

The old man sez, "Here's another cute trick
that'll help out the talent y'got.
Cut a notch in yer holster where the hammer rests,
fer a clean smooth draw an' quick shot."

That's what the kid did, and shot a cuff link off
the pie-anna man's left shirt sleeve.
He sez, "Gimme 'nother good tip, ol' man,
then I gotta git up an' leave."

The old man sez, "Take this salt an' pepper,
an' some a' that butter over there,
an' rub it all over the length a' yer gun.
An' make sure y'do it with care.

The kid sez, "Wait jist a cotton-pickin' minute!
Up t'now ever'thin's worked fine!
Is this gonna help me t'be a sure-shot,
or you steppin' over the line?"

The old man sez, "Well, the number one reason
t'dress yer gun like a chicken wing,
is Doc Holliday gits through playin' this song,
he's gonna make you eat that thing!"

Something Lighthearted

To much politics and woes of the world on this blog lately. Here is something from my pal Hal Swift.

Springhouse Memories
Hal Swift

My Aunt Vin's springhouse was one of the best,
made of stones dug out of the ground.
Where food was cooled in a low stone tub
with the purest spring water around.

Ever now and then, in the summertime,
us kids would all disappear.
My aunt would come open the springhouse door
and say, "Any children in here?"

We'd all holler and say, "Not a one!"
then Aunt Vin would come on inside.
She'd look around at all the food in there,
and her face would be glowin' with pride.

There was rhubarb pies she'd baked last night.
There was butter she'd churned last Monday.
Iced tea, lemonade, and buttermilk,
all waited for dinner on Sunday.

Baskets of apples, and peaches and grapes,
each had its own personal shelf.
And, my were they good, 'cause I got to admit
I sampled a few for myself.

Aunt Vin says, "There's some fresh cookies coolin',
right now on the big kitchen table.
What I'd like is for someone to bring in some milk
that is, if there's anyone able."

 Six of us children all pleaded at once,
with voices as smooth as pure silk.
 "I reckon," said Aunt Vin, "the way that you talk,
 you'd all like some cookies and milk."

After all of these years I remember the taste
of those cookies fresh out of the oven.
And I fondly remember those days with Aunt Vin,
and the joy that she gave with her lovin'.

A Poem for Gunnies

Collector's Item
by Hal Swift

Jim Landis and me were takin' a ride
in his just-bought pickup truck.
"I bought an antique rifle, too." he says.
"I can hardly believe my luck.

"It's an eighteen-sixty-six Winchester model,
the one with engraving," he said.
"That must've cost you a dollar or two,"
I says, as I shake my head.

"Well," he says, "It cost more'n this pickup,
but it's worth ever' doggone cent.
I borrowed on the truck to pay for the rifle,
so my bank account ain't that bent.

"The rifle," he says, "has never been fired,
which is why it's such a great buy.
It's just like the day it came outta the factory.
That's why its value's so high.

"You bought you a rifle, and won't ever shoot it?"
I says, as my voice nearly fails.
"If I shot it," says Jim, "I might as well use it
as a hammer for poundin' in nails."

"If I were you," I said, "I'd make sure that rifle
gets only the greatest of care."
"It's on the wall," Jim says, "above the fireplace.
Nobody will  bother it there."

At Jim's ranch, we go inside through the kitchen
where Cookie is busy cookin'.
We go into the parlor, and Jim stands there,
just scratchin' his head and lookin'.

There's a look of puzzlement on his face
as he stares at the fireplace wall.
The Winchester's gone, and there ain't nothin'
over the fireplace at all.

"If that rifle is stolen," Jim declares,
"I'll see that the thief gets caught!"
Then he hollers out loud, "Has anyone seen
the rifle that I just bought?"

Cookie comes in and says, "Yeah, I seen 'er,
but she shot to the left a bit.
So I cleaned 'er up, and zeroed 'er in,
an' what y'aim at now, you hit!"

--0--


From my friend 
http://www.cowboypoetry.com/halswift.htm

Memorial Day

From my pal, Hal Swift
http://cowboypoetry.com/halswift.htm


The Patriot
by Hal Swift

At the close of the day, an old cowboy sets
kinda quiet in the old porch swing.
Now and then he'll softly whistle a tune,
or maybe he'll start to sing.

Then he'll change his mind and waggle his head,
and close his eyes in thought.
He thinks of Korea, the war over there,
and some of the lessons it taught.

When his gaze wanders over to the nearby hills,
he recalls how they look when it snows.
He studies the flag that he raised this mornin',
how it moves when the west wind blows.

If you look real close you'll see that a tear
gives a hint of some inner strife.
His mind's eye's seein' the faces of friends,
who long ago left this life.

The flag waves gently in the sunset sky,
and the old man raises his chin.
In his mind he's hearin' the sound of drums,
and he waits for the tune to begin.

When it does, his step is strong and brisk,
as he marches out to the flag.
He stops and stands there, watchin' it wave,
wipes his eyes with a pocket rag.

He continues his march to the old corral,
where his Morgan comes over to talk.
He saddles him up, and climbs on top,
and heads him out for a walk.

On a hill, he wonders if the whole blamed thing
was worth all the friends he lost.
Headin' home, he knows down deep in his heart,
he too, would have paid the cost.

Yeah, he shared the peril, but he returned
to his home in the sand and the sage.
Then, back at his flag, he thanks all his pards
for lettin' him reach old age.

Thank you, Ralph. And let us not forget the Korean Conflict veterans, the most overlooked and under appreciated group today.

Luck of the Irish

My sister and I agree. St Patrick’s Day is for amateurs. We are Irish 24/7. My pal, Hal Swift, sent me this. For those who don’t know, the Truckee River flows (sometimes) through Reno.


The Colorful Truckee River
by Hal Swift

The Truckee River in Downtown Reno
is famous for how it flows.
And Saint Patrick's Day it's always dyed green,
as any Nevadan knows.

But a group of men met in secret one year
and formulated a plan.
They charged themselves with just one task,
to change how the river ran.

Boyle and Brady, Buckley and Burke,
Costello, and Casey and Carroll.
The toughest cowpokes this side of Saint Jo,
like Foley, Fitzgerald, and Farrell.

Protestant cowpokes, the boys set out,
and they all knew exactly why.
They rode upriver a mile-and-a-half,
with a hundred barrels of orange dye.

They didn't know that Catholic cowpokes
had rode up two miles or so.
They had 'em a hundred barrels of green,
and dumped it into the flow.

Hamilton, Hogan, Kelly and Lynch,
O'Connell, O'Donnell, and Shea.
All set up a shout, as the green poured out,
and quickly was carried away.

Downriver, the Protestants heard the shout,
and hastened the work they'd begun,
to get their orange in the Truckee first.
And quickly, the deed was done.

They mounted up and rode back to town,
to see the results of their prank.
The Protestants stood on the river's north side,
and the Catholics took the south bank.

Someone hollered from off to the west,
"Get ready, boys, here she comes!"
Then, along the river, the shouting stopped,
from a shock of the kind that numbs.

It had only taken a matter of minutes
for that dye to reach downtown.
But the green and the orange had mixed together
and the river had turned dark brown.

If you think that ended it, guess again
the fight goes on each year.
But the green and the orange you find these days,
is only in the cowpokes' beer.

And the reason the boys're drinkin' such stuff
is enough to make a grown man quiver.
The EPA threatened 'em all with jail
for pollutin' the dadblamed river.

But hope springs eternal in a cowpoke's heart,
and some Saint Patrick's dawn
you'll find the Truckee's dyed orange or green,
and the one who did it is gone.

A light hearted Holiday. Those of us who care to remember know that over a million Irish died in the potato famines. There was no lack of food. The land owners, often absentee, continued to ship grain and meat to Great Britain while the peasants, who relied on potatoes for the majority of their calories, were starved and driven off the land. Unbridled capitalism at it’s worst. Catholic, Protestant, or Ulster Scots, if peasants, suffered equally.

That is why us Irish descendants don’t trust the son of a bitch 1%. We know history often repeats itself.

That was then, this is now. Enjoy the day! And for my spud fucker brethren, watch out for the amateurs.

New Iditarod Entry

h/t to Way Up North for the idea and Hal Swift for the poetry
http://www.mooseintheyard.com/2012/03/quandary.html

Huskies Like These?
by Hal Swift

Things here in Reno was quiet last winter
and there weren't that much we could do.
Till one snowy mornin' we hear dogs barkin',
and makin' a hullabaloo.

My boys and me looked out the north barn door,
and there in the cold mornin' fogs,
was a big old boy on a big old sled,
bein' pulled by ten big dogs.

It just so happened the boss's sister,
Matilda, come walkin' up then.
She's a gal that none of us likes a whole lot,
cause she always picks at us men.

"What's the matter?" she says, with a haughty air.
"Never seen dogs pullin' a sled?
The handsome young musher who's drivin' the thing
is a boyfriend of mine, named Ted."

She says, "It'd take a dozen of you,
to be as smart as one of his fingers."
But none of us says anything, you know?
'Cause we ain't too good with the zingers.

The dogs stop runnin', and start restin' up,
and Ted comes walkin' inside.
Matilda says, "Oh, come on, Honeybun!
You promised your snookums a ride."

I sees a frown on young Ted's face,
and I figger he ain't too happy.
But Matilda's smilin' an' giving 'im a look
that's best described as sappy.

Ted looks at us, then he looks at her,
and I can see the boy's plumb wore out.
"Oh come on, Sweetie!" Matilda begs,
and puckers her lips in a pout.

Ted wraps Matilda in a bearskin rug,
then ties her onto the sled.
He climbs on the back, and Matilda winks.
"Let's make this a long ride," she said.

Ted blushes and "mushes," and the dogs take off,
then Ted seems to trip and to fall.
But he lands on 'is feet, and it soon turns out
the boy wasn't injured at all.

Some of us boys see the look on 'is face
as he watches Matilda depart.
From the way he's grinnin', we can tell at a glance,
it ain't really breakin' his heart.

We crowd all around him and somebody says,
"It's all right, we know how ya feel.
That gal could cause a true saint to go bad,
her leavin's a heckuva deal."

Ted says, "I thank you, I just got fed up
with the way that she always is pickin'.
When she said I had to come out to the ranch,
I'd sooner have taken a lickin'."

"How far will them dogs of yours run," I asked,
"before they come bringin' her home?"
Ted sighs and grins, "With Huskies like these?
They'll run till they get t'Nome."

From my pal, Hal Swift, Nevada Poet
http://www.cowboypoetry.com/halswift.htm

"White Knight" Presidential Candidate

Waco Walmsley for President
by Hal Swift

This is a story that Waco Walmsley
doesn't too often discuss.
It's about when he ran for the president's job
and all the resulting fuss.

You see, he allowed himself to get
into one of them big debates.
He didn't reckon that it'd be seen
by the whole United States.

When asked to describe the perfect marriage
his opponent turned and ran.
But not old Waco. He says, "I think
it's between a woman and man."

The subject of taxes came to the front,
and Waco allowed as how
they'd be okay as long as they don't
take the en-tire price of a cow.

The reporter makes a big mistake when she
asks what he thinks about schools.
Waco grins and says, "If reporters attended,
they wouldn't turn out such fools."

The reporter totally loses her cool,
and calls him a Chauvinist Pig.
Waco squints his good eye and says,
"At least I ain't wearin' a wig."

The reporter yells, "I'm not wearing a wig!
This hair all belongs to me!"
"Maybe so," says Waco, "but my opponent wears one.
It's as plain as plain can be.

"And I got to tell you, it makes me wonder
what else don't we know about?"
Now, Waco's opponent, who's close to tears,
lets out a defiant shout.

He figures it's time to take a stand,
and to make some sort of defense.
He swings at Waco, which anyone knows,
shows a lack of plain horse sense.

Well, Waco decks him, right then and there.
sayin', "I ain't cut out for this.
Find somebody else to run for this office,
it's somethin' that I won't miss."

So that's how Waco was almost elected
to our country's most powerful post.
Folks say he'd surely have won because
he's the candidate they liked most.

But Waco says, "There's a lesson in this,
it's the way things always have been.
In any election, you got to remember
the best man don't always win."

From my pal. Hal Swift, Nevada Poet
http://www.cowboypoetry.com/halswift.htm

Cowboy Poetry

Jimmy's Valentine Poem
by Hal Swift

Jimmy, a friend, of mine tells this story
of a poem that he once wrote.
It's for a girl he seen in a local parade,
ridin' the Kiwanis' float.

He says she looks like an angel come down
to bless ever'body on earth.
And he decides he'll tell 'er first hand,
just what her visit is worth.

He figures that writin' a Valentines poem
is maybe the best way to go.
So that's what he does, he takes pencil in hand,
and the words just literally flow.

"You are," he writes, "more beautiful than
a baby pig is to 'er mother.
Your face is sweeter than a fresh green onion,
when compared to any other.

"Your smile lights up the morning sky,
like a fire at brandin' time.
Your voice is softer than the belly of a calf,
whose parents have been judged prime.

"I gotta say, you're the purtiest gal
this cowpoke ever did see.
And, if you ever wanta go out on the town,
just put in a call to me."

Well, Jimmy, he sends his poem to the girl,
and waits by 'is phone for her call.
He just sets there, in front of 'er photo
that he's hung on the bunkhouse wall.

A week goes by, before the telephone rings,
but it's the beauty queen's mean ol' dad.
He says t'Jimmy, "Stay away from my daughter!
If ya don't I'm gonna hurt you bad!"

Well, Jimmy is no small amount dismayed,
by this unseen turn of events.
And it hurts 'im deep--so deep in fact,
he ain't wrote another poem since.

And I've heard tell, that this beauty queen
has taken a serious vow, boys.
That whatever happens the rest of 'er life,
she ain't never datin' no cowboys.

Courtesy of my friend, Hal Swift Nevada Poet

Ladies, watch out for cowboys
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BeiT-JrcFGk

A Christmas Poem

From my friend Hal Swift, Nevada Poet

Christmas is a Birthday Party
R. H.Swift
12/17/87

Christmas is a birthday party
we celebrate every year.
And happy invitations call
our guests from far and near.

The party held in Bethleham
found shepherds the first to go.
Then wise men followed, gifts in hand,
to worship in the glow.

This Christmas, too, we celebrate,
sing carols of peace on earth.
Just as the joyful angels did
the night of Jesus' birth.

Christmas is a birthday party,
and you are invited in...
to celebrate with grateful joy
God's wondrous gift again.
~~~
Just a note to wish you
the MERRIEST CHRISTMAS
and HAPPIEST NEW YEAR
ever.

The Swifts
Ralph "Hal" and Carol
cjrhswift@pyramid.netevade Poet.

Holler

Our country has a rich tradition of citizens speaking up. This results in someone being pissed off, usually a public official or politician. Contempt of cop comes to mind. Down at city hall dealing with some busybody who just wants you to go away is another. Politicians at town hall meetings nattering about "civility" are discomforted.

TSA? A couple I know have a child with medical problems. This child has been exposed to numerous x-rays in a short period of time. They refused to allow their child to go through a backscatter scanner. TSA went off on them and the mother went off on TSA. When I heard this, my response was, "Good for you"!

The old counter culture cry of "Resist Authority" still has validity. Whenever and wherever we encounter abusive authority, we need to holler. We need to support others who holler. We defeat abuse by standing up to it. Don't be bullied!

I'm not suggesting you be vulgar or engage in personal attacks. I do encourage going up the chain of command and putting the heat on those who are normally insulated from the "unwashed masses". Remember, you attract more flies with honey than vinegar.

The most effective person I know at doing this is my little sister. She starts out, "Honey, you don't get paid enough to get yelled at by me. Who in this place does"? Believe me when I say super important corner office occupant is about to have their day disrupted.

Most folks want to avoid conflict and just live their lives in peace and quiet. Sorry, I don't think that works. Don't be a sheeple. Suck it up and start hollering!

For a variety of reasons, MSN is my browser. Their liberal bias is blatant. Imagine my surprise to read a very negative view of the Lightbringer’s jobs speech.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/44449392/ns/politics-white_house/

Is it possible reality is setting in? No matter how much you may like the man (or not), he is in over his head. Unfortunately, we are all with him.

Different subject. A young friend is again blogging. Sometimes a younger perspective is interesting. Check him out if you will.

http://beamanifyoucan.blogspot.com/



On the road for a week; light or no blogging or comments. Still working on getting another laptop or getting back one of two “loaned” to offspring.

And now advice from my friend Hal Swift.

Never carry soda pop in your saddle bags.
And, if y'do, always let the New Guy open the first one.

My cowboy friend, Dave P. Fisher, added to my observation about not carrying soda pop in your saddle bag. He said, "Don't open it on horseback, either. It sounds like a big snake."

Stay safe - see you in a week.

Pale Horse, Pale Rider

My buddy, Dirty Al, is complaining about too many political postings. Due to ongoing statue of limitation restrictions, I can't tell more Dirty Al stories.

A family friend is a gifted writer and poet. He wrote this poem to commemorate the death of my brother-in-law.


Behold a Pale Horse
by Hal Swift

My buddy, Duane Laeger, just took off an' went
without even sayin' a word.
It just isn't like him to mount up an' ride.
You'd think that somebody'd have heard.

Then all of a sudden I hear a wild shout.
I look all around for the source.
An' here comes ol' Duane just a whoopin' it up,
and ridin' a borried pale horse.

It must've been borried because I've not seen
a horse like that here on this spread.
His mane flowed like honey, his tail did the same.
Ol' Duane had just give 'im his head.

Duane rides that there pony for straight where I stood.
He looks like a horse that I knew.
I hollars, "Hey Duane! Where'd you find that there stud?"
An' he says, "You don't, he finds you!"

That's when I knew where I'd once seen this horse.
Old Death had been ridin' him then.
An' that's when Duane hollered, "Be seein' ya, boy!'
And then he rides off on the wind.

I know that pale horse is out grazin' somewhere,
just waitin' for someone to bid.
Then he'll come an' get 'em, an' they'll ride away,
the same as ol' Duane and him did.

--0--

And I looked and behold a pale horse;
and his name that sat on him was death.
Revelation 6:8


You can learn more about the poet at

http://nphs.us/swift47.html

and

http://www.cowboypoetry.com/halswift.htm

Come to think of it, there are some potential blog posting involving Duane. Will check with my sister.

Cowboy Poet

New poem by Hal Swift, noted Cowboy poet and a close friend of my sister and late brother in law.

http://www.cowboypoetry.com/halswift.htm

Experience
by Hal Swift

Some time back, they's a sweet young thing,
with a look both wise an' bold,
sez, "You got the wrong idea 'bout age!
Yer experienced, you ain't old!"

I asked if she remembered Colonel Tim McCoy.
She sez, "Now none a yer tricks!"
I sez, I reckon you'd say the same thing
if I ask ya about Tom Mix.

Then I sez, Okay, take the Model A Ford.
Does 'rumble seat' make ya smile?
No, she sez, "But you'll tell me why,
if I jist wait around fer a while."

I sez, Do y'know what a bread line is?
She figgers it's to do with cattle.
She sez, "You'd know a lot more about that,
from alla yer time in the saddle."

Okay, I sez, Colonel Tim an' Tom Mix
was actors on the movie screen.
All of us boys tried to be like them,
the two finest cowpokes you've seen.

Two couples'd date in a Model A Ford,
an' the boy up front would drive it.
The other couple, back in the rumble seat,
could talk about love in private.

A bread line's where a lotta city folks went
to git a meal in the Great Depression.
They'd stand in line t'git some soup an' bread.
Cuz the "Great" was jist a expression.

A lotta these things folks my age has seen.
It's nothin' that we've been told.
To use yer words, we've 'Been there, done it.'
Experienced? Yeah, and we're old!

Words of Wisdom

Courtesy of Hal Swift, Cowboy Poet

No matter how hard you try,
you cannot displease everyone
Ralph 10:20

http://www.cowboypoetry.com/halswift.htm