Rancho Reality

This seemed to take a long time to come together. (I know, some of you think I should have given it more time) A lot of what I write is shaded by the fact that I make my living in an office with occasional trips to the West. My feelings about the cowboy spring from movies and classic television shows. That's what this is all about.

Rancho Reality

I expected to see the Marlboro man;
tall in the saddle, broad shouldered and tan.
I looked for Tom Selleck or someone like that
wearing chaps and spurs and a big Stetson hat.
Instead, there’s a spindly old guy in a truck
who looks worn out and weary and down on his luck.

I hoped for “The Duke” ridin’ hard in his prime
not a grizzled old coot who is long past his time.
But, this geezer explained, “When you live on the land
the hard work will wear down the heartiest man.
The shortage of water and the high price of hay
turns what hair you have left to gunmetal grey”.

I longed for the movie, the myth and the dream
but reality’s different and not nearly as clean.
There’s dust in my dinner plate, sand in my shorts
and gooey stuff sprays from my horse when it snorts.
The cattle are smelly, my saddle is hard,
I got stuff on my boots when I walked through the yard.

I wonder if God feels the same about me?
Disappointed I’m not everything I could be.
Do the things that I do ever give God the blues?
Am I like the stuff on the soul of his shoes?
What would God do in His infinite grace?
Oh, yeah, he sent Jesus to die in my place.

Jeff Hildebrandt © 2008

Silverheels

While researching old West ghost towns I came across a story that was different from all the other's I had read. This poem sprang from that true story.

Silverheels

The West is littered with remains of towns who’s only worth
was the gold and silver wrestled from the unforgiving earth?
But a town Southwest of Denver had a different tale to tell.
And this is just what happened when its miners went through hell.

In October, 1861,
to a camp called “Buckskin Joe”
came a mutton puncher with a herd
from down in Mexico.
But he brought more than sheep it’s said,
to the folks at Buckskin Joe.
He brought a case of smallpox
and he was first to go.
An epidemic gripped the town;
folks dropping left and right.
The women all packed up and left,
‘cept one who stayed to fight.
She nursed the sick and dying
and laid the dead to rest
in a graveyard midst the aspens
down below the mountain crest.
They say she was a dancehall gal
and no one knew her name.
Though she was shunned by decent folks,
she helped them just the same.
Folks said she’d won the favor
of a silver miner there
who made her shoes with silver heels
that she would always wear.
And the last thing many miners saw
when their life on earth was done
was a smiling face and silver heels
ah-glistening in the sun.
When the worst of it was over
the survivors in the town
came to show their gratitude,
but, she could not be found.
Some say she’d caught the virus
and it scared her lovely face
and rather than be ridiculed,
she up and left the place.
Years later someone spied a woman
veiled and darkly dressed,
who wandered through the graveyard,
there below the mountain crest.
Folks say it was that dancehall gal,
amidst those Aspen trees
who paused and touched each marker,
then vanished like the breeze.
They immortalized her sacrifice,
so we would always know
of the tarnished mercy angel
in the camp called Buckskin Joe.
They didn’t build a statue
or hang up any sign.
Instead, they picked the grandest
thing around that they could find.
Nearly 14 thousand feet, it soars,
this Rocky Mountain high
that’s known now as “Mount Silverheels”
and she’s the reason why.
Well, the mining camp called Buckskin Joe
is just a memory;
a ghost town full of broken dreams
is all that’s left to see.
Unless, of course you look beyond
the mere fact this occurred
and see it as a parable like
those which fill God’s Word.
The message of Mount Silverheels
reminds us here today
how the least becomes the greatest
in God’s own mysterious way.
The stone, at first rejected,
was the one that saved the wall
like the man the world rejected
who is Savior of us all.
Jeff Hildebrandt copyright 2002

Volunteer

I spent the weekend watching a wonderful group of volunteers at the first Ed McCaffrey "Dare to Play" football camp for youngsters with Downs Syndrome. The Global Downs Syndrome Foundation organized this event at Valor Christian High School in the Denver area. Kristin Brooks headed up a team of professional cheerleaders who coached the girls in cheer routines that rocked the fans during Saturday's game. Valor's high school football players acted as buddies for all the Downs Syndrome campers and Valor's coaching staff did a marvelous job teaching the skills in a way that made the weekend fun and productive. I came away feeling that everyone involved was moved by the compassion and genuine love shown during the weekend. This morning I was thinking about a poem I wrote a few years back. I wanted to make the point that none of us are "drafted" into eternal life, we have to volunteer.

Volunteer

Wondering what your talents are?
Tell me, can you drive a car?
You can be somebody’s chauffeur
or help a food bank as you go fer
anything that might help feed
some families that are in need.

You can go on mission trips;
praising God with hands and lips.
Help the hopeless, wash the dishes.
God’s not choosey, all He wishes
is that we show some love each day
to all those that He sends our way.

Ask God to open up the door
then walk on through to what’s in store.
I hope it doesn’t make you nervous
to learn that Christian life is service.
Remember, as you live your years
God’s army’s made of volunteers.
Jeff Hildebrandt © 2008.

We Got Troubles.

Here is the latest from the Southwest from: http://www.infowars.com/large-areas-of-arizona-now-part-of-mexican-narco-state/ I’ll quote, in part, “If you live in southern Arizona now is the time to move if you can. Mexican drug runners and executioners armed with automatic weapons now control three counties stretching from the border to Phoenix… A large area once used for family hiking and off road vehicles now has government signs warning residents of drug and human smugglers. Night vision cameras have photographed cartel members with military arms delivering drugs to vehicles along Highway 8, according to Borderland Beat.” It brought to mind some thoughts I put down on May 5th.

We Got Troubles.

Nashville’s under water, the Gulf Coast’s under oil
New York’s under pressure as jihad hits our soil.
Arizona’s buffeted for finally passing laws
to protect our Nation’s border while D.C. hems and haws.
Arizona, don’t deport them. That’s not smart at all.
When you find illegal aliens, make them stay and fix the wall
that’s supposed to stop the smuggling of the drugs and people who
will gun down border agents then go after me and you
when we stand against the tyranny that Washington endorses.
And they won’t try to close the gate till they’ve run off all our horses.
Unwanted from around the world are washing on our shores.
There is no turning back, my friend. The devil’s at our doors.
So, pray for understanding and for God to show the way
to survive all politicians…until next election day.

Jeff Hildebrandt © Cinco de Mayo, 2010

The Old Man at the Bar

This poem came from a scene I watched as I was having dinner by myself at a hotel restaurant years ago. I had finished work for the day was grabbing a bite before I went to my room. I remember writing down notes and later, creating the back story about the guy who was sitting at the hotel bar, alone with his thoughts.

THE OLD MAN AT THE BAR

He sits there on the barstool,
his hat low o’re his eyes.
His beard is gray, but neatly trimmed
and about four times the size
of the way he used to wear it
when he was young and wild.
They say he could be fearsome then
if someone got him riled.
They say he’d ride the Brahma’s
till one up and broke his back.
And he still walks bent over
though it’s years since the attack.

Now, he sits there on that barstool
and stares off into space.
And you know that he’s rememberin’
a far off time and place
when he was rough and ready,
full of vinegar and spit
and he’d take on any challenge
just to have the fun of it.

Now he sits there on that barstool,
Jack Daniels by his side.
Knowing he’d a been the champ
if he just had one more ride.

Jeff Hildebrandt copyright 2002

Cowboy Legends (Gunsmoke)

I've been invited to the 55th anniversary of the Classic TV Western, Gunsmoke, in Dodge City the first weekend in September. If you don't have plans, you should think about coming. There's going to be lots of entertainment and insights from folks who were on the show.
I'll be doing some poetry and this is one of the poems I'll perform. I wrote the original version a decade ago and have adapted it to specific situations several times since then. I figure, it's my poem and I can change it how and when I want. So, this is the Gunsmoke version.

Cowboy Legends

He’s a Cowboy Legend from his hat to his boots.
He could ride like the wind, he could rope and could shoot.
And, when we were young, on a Saturday
we would watch him for hours at the matinee.
He’d ride cross the prairie on that big silver screen
and we called him Wild Bill, Lash LaRue, Eddie Dean.

We would visit Dodge City on Saturday nights
and cheer as Matt Dillon would fight for the rights
of any lost soul who wandered that way.
And we hoped we’d all do the same thing some day.
Matt Dillon, Chester, Festus and Newly,
Doc and Miss Kitty, we all loved you truly.

The good guys are gone and what’s left us today
are heroes whose morals and feet are of clay.
So, I guess if young cowpokes are gonna learn how
to respect one another, we’ve gotta start now
to teach em there’s value in all that God’s made,
to show love and compassion, not anger and hate.
The young uns need heroes to learn what to do
So, saddle up pard, cause that hero is you.
Jeff Hildebrandt © Sept. 10, 2005

By the way, the original version is in my first book of cowboy poetry: "Prairie Prose...and Cons."

You Don't Know Jack !

Let me digress. Let me take a side trail along this poetry path I've started down. There is a picture on my office wall of actor Jack Palance and me. It was 2004 at the Festival of the West in Scottsdale, AZ. We are both smiling. Me, because I'm glad to have met this icon. Him, because our interview is over and he can get back to selling pictures and books. Prior to our interview, I did some research because I wanted to ask him questions that he never gets asked. I wanted him to talk about the sort of things that inspired him without coming off like a trite reporter. Then, this poem came to mind and I titled it with a phrase that I'd heard directed at me more than once. It seemed to fit.



You don’t know Jack!

Jack?
I know Jack -
have for years.
Two dimensional
unless you count emotion.
Mostly mad but with passion.
Snickering shooter in Shane
Double-crossed Heavyweight
Imposing Icon for City Slickers
Always tall, Raspy drawl
Impressions all from celluloid.

An American Comedy Award?
Not the Jack I know.
Action, Adventure, Monsters and Mayhem
Killer, Thriller, War and Westerns
That’s the Jack I know.
Who would have thought?
Multi-dimensional, Multi-colored
not merely grayscale.
Who would have thought?
A painter, A poet
“The Forest of Love”
expressing His emotion
not verbalizing another’s words.
Jack?
I thought I knew Jack
but for years
I only saw the shell.

Jeff Hildebrandt copyright 2004