By Ken Hanson
I went to the Civic Center to kill some time,
To a Severe Weather Seminar that was free.
There were all kinds of exhibits and tables set up,
A lot to do and even more to see.
The local weather men were in a big room,
Talking about this upcoming year,
How to spot severe storms and tornadoes,
And all of the weather conditions we fear.
They showed us video of storms from last season,
And talked about what to do to prepare,
And where to look for a place you can hide,
From damaging tornadoes, although they are rare.
Lightening is especially dangerous,
It can get you just about any place,
Heavy rain and its runoff are some of the dangers,
That all of us could possibly face.
Why is he talking about tornadoes,
To a room full of people that came here today,
To hear cowboy poetry, or maybe a song,
If I gave you the chance that’s what you would say.
Let me tell you a secret before I explain,
I hope that you’ll go check it out on your own.
The Civic Center has the best hot dogs in town,
That information is not widely known.
So I’m having a smokey sausage dog with chili,
Standing in the middle of the main hallway,
When I see a sign out in front of a door,
They’re having another exhibit here today.
I’m licking the chili off of my fingers,
Walking over to read the sign so I’ll know,
What’s happening in the room next door,
The sign says, Western Antique Collectables Show.
I walk through the door and I’m astounded to see,
This incredible history of the cowboy way.
More things on display than I even knew existed,
To see it all will take most of the day.
I spent a few minutes looking around,
And realized, there’s a poem in here.
A room full of inspiration is what I have found,
But there’s too much to remember it all, I fear.
I’ve got to write some ideas down,
But pencil and paper is what I lack.
I headed back to the Weather Seminar,
I told the guy by the door, “I’ll be back”.
I returned in a few with an un-sharpened pencil,
And pieces of paper that were giveaways.
I needed a way to sharpen the lead,
But I don’t carry a knife anymore these days.
I figured that every cowboy in that room,
Would be willing to loan me his pocket knife.
The first one I asked handed me a really old one,
His father had given him early in life.
I sharpened the pencil, thanked him for his kindness,
And started looking around the room that day.
I was completely overwhelmed by the variety of items,
And the people I met, and the things they would say.
Most of the men were old cowboys themselves,
They patiently explained what their items were for.
To a greenhorn like me, it was a history lesson,
That left me wanting to learn much more.
Many displays had boots and old spurs,
I never knew there were that many kinds.
There were lots of old books and photograph albums,
Pictures and drawings and hand painted signs.
There were Bowie knives and leather knives and pocket knives,
More kinds of knives and swords than I’ve ever seen.
Saddles and blankets and stirrups and ropes,
And even a couple of wooden canteens.
There were bits and bridles and riding whips,
And several sets of old leather reigns.
Sleigh bells and cowbells, saddle holsters and chaps,
And a couple of antique iron weather vanes.
There were many examples of old branding irons,
I wonder how long it’s been since they glowed.
Sculptures, cowboy art and old cow skulls,
Leather work and all of the skills that it showed.
All kinds of guns and holsters were displayed,
Pistols and rifles, a shotgun or two,
Flintlocks and muskets, a blunderbus and a coach gun,
A powder horn and old shells were all there to view.
A lot of old coins were there to see,
A couple of safes you could have kept them in.
Gold scales, poker chips, even a roulette wheel,
With which to lose your money, or perhaps even win.
There was an Indian headdress, a bow and some arrows,
Kachina dolls, eagle feathers and beads were displayed.
A bone handled knife, and hand made moccasins.
I imagine long ago an Indian had made.
There were frying pans, skillets, and cooking pots,
A Dutch Oven, coffee pots and scoops at the show.
Milk jugs and bottles, coffee grinders and wash tubs,
I bet were used on some Chuck Wagon long ago.
Old guitars were in abundance along with banjos,
Whiskey jugs, walking sticks, an old leather vest.
Fire bellows, Flax water bags and oil lamps,
Were likely found around campfires in the West.
I saw lots of pocket watches, an old mantle clock,
Belt buckles and badges, Bolo ties that somebody wore.
Bull whips, Derringers, saddle soap and sombreros,
A brace and bit that probably made someone sore.
There was barbed wire and wagon wheels,
Both likely ran for miles and miles.
Handcuffs and bedpans were unlikely items,
When spotted by people would sometimes bring smiles.
There were old Bibles, and an older church bell,
I wonder where that came from.
Lots of Turquoise jewelry, a few animal traps,
A strong box and gun belts that were used by some.
Boot Jacks were plentiful, their design and workmanship,
Is something you don’t see much of anymore.
Arrowheads and pottery were everywhere,
And old glass bottles like in the antique store
Antlers and cow horns were there in great numbers,
Some looked like they were straight from the cow.
Some were mounted and would look nice in your den,
The cow don’t need ‘em anymore anyhow.
There was an old stick horse, and bags full of marbles,
I’m sure meant the world to some kid back then.
They sure had fun without microprocessors and batteries,
It was just a simpler time way back when.
I saw more old hats than I’ve ever seen,
Oh the stories I bet they could tell.
Western wear of all kinds, an old pair of saddlebags,
Likely used for generations and obviously worn well.
There were old cameras, older maps,
Even a dog eared Howdy Doody book.
Irons with wood handles you heat up on the stove,
Pieces of history everywhere you look.
There was a hand made model of a windmill,
The kind you don’t see much anymore.
Home made footstools made out in the barn,
Better than you can find in a Wal Mart Store.
There were home made clothes pins and humidors,
Pearl handles you could put on your gun.
An old brass spittoon, tarnished and dented,
That looked like for years it had sat in the sun.
I saw a piece of wood on a table,
The same one with the wooden canteen.
I asked what that wood was used for,
It was something I don’t think I’d ever seen.
The man said, “It’s a singletree, there’s also a doubletree”,
“It’s part of the harness used to hook up your team”.
I realized that so much of this history is slipping away,
The young people today just don’t care it would seem.
I spent a while talking to this friendly fellow,
James Weathers is his name.
He came here from Hamilton Texas,
Seems his interest and mine are the same.
He said he was a cowboy,
And used all these things for much of his life.
I told him my story about writing this poem,
Finding the paper and borrowing the knife.
We talked about the history on display in that room,
And the people that do it are fewer each year.
When his generation are all gone, will this lifestyle be lost?
I hope not, but it might, that’s what I fear.
Even though people like me are interested,
We didn’t live that life, it just isn’t the same.
We’ll only be curators of the artifacts,
The experiences that life gives you is the name of the game.
I did notice something in that room full of people,
Money wasn’t what it was all about.
Though most of the items were for sale,
It was the love of the history that brought people out.
The obvious pride people took in their wares,
Made me wonder how they could part with a single one.
It probably didn’t bother ‘em too much,
To haul it all home when the day was done.
So James, God Bless You My Friend,
Don’t be in a hurry to join those who’ve passed on.
Our world would be a lonelier place,
If all the cowboys were gone.
