Wednesday, November 2, 2011


The following poem was found in his typewriter on the morning of the 1940 death of the original cowboy poet, Lysius Gough . . .

The Old T-Anchor Ranch is gone, and with it the open range,
No more we'll ride the plains alone, there's been a mighty change.

No more we'll round the circle wide, in early Spring and Fall,
Or stamp T-Anchor on the hide and hear the yearlin's bawl.

No more we'll trail T-Anchor herds to Fort Reno and "Montan,"
or hear the drawling campfire words, nor wear the trail brown-tan.

We've seen cowboys in their prime, and the ranch in all its glory,
Now some have crossed the line and others bald and hoary.

May the T-Anchor Ranch in memory live through all the coming years,
And our deeds strong courage give to future youth and steers.

Reminiscing . . .

Many changes more have been,
in one life's fleeting span,
brought about by sturdy men,
who never failed to duty stand.

Historians, to thee this charge we give,
write for us three cherished words,
let them through future ages live,
cowboys, cutting horse, and herd. . . .

Judge Lysius Gough
29 July 1862 ~ 02 November 1940

Friday, May 13, 2011

RIP Bob Wills 1905-1975

Deep within my heart lies a melody,
A song of old San Antone.
Where in dreams I live with a memory,
Beneath the stars all alone.

Bob Wills
06 March 6 1905 ~ 13 May 1975

He was a favorite of my Bennie's . . .

Friday, April 15, 2011

A Little Country Churchyard

I would rather sleep in the southern corner of a little country churchyard than in the tomb of the Capulets. . . . Edmund Burke (1729-1797)

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Old Pictures

Here's a little girl playin' dress up
Somewhere under all that lace
Standin' in her mama's high heeled shoes
With a lipstick covered face

And here's a little boy on a pony
He's a cowboy all the way
He used to pull my hair and make me mad
At the Saturday matinee
Who would've thought that I'd lose my heart
To the same little boy someday

Lookin' through my old pictures, faded photographs
Some of them bring me close to tears, others make me laugh
Old memories seem to come alive
And open up the past again and let me dream inside

Here's brother with his very first automobile
Thought he'd washed the paint away
He took a job that took him West
He's doing very well and we don't see much of brother these days
Oh, and this is my favorite of my papa
He's dressed up in his Sunday suit
A wide brimmed hat, a watch on a chain
Well, I'm gonna tell you the truth
It's a picture of a downright handsome man
Caught in the prime of his youth

Lookin' through my old pictures, 
faded photographs
Some of them bring me close to tears, 
others make me laugh

Old memories seem to come alive
And open up the past again and let me dream inside

They open up the past again and let me dream inside
K.T. Oslin & Jerry Gillespie

Thursday, April 7, 2011

If I Had Only Known

In loving memory
~ Bennie Everhart ~
20 March 1948 ~ 07 April 2010

If I had only known
It was the last walk in the rain
I'd keep you out for hours in the storm
I would hold your hand
Like a life line to my heart
Underneath the thunder we'd be warm
If I had only known
It was our last walk in the rain

If I had only known
I'd never hear your voice again
I'd memorize each thing you ever said
And on those lonely nights
I could think of them once more
Keep your words alive inside my head
If I had only known
I'd never hear your voice again

You were the treasure in my hand
You were the one who always stood beside me
So unaware I foolishly believed
That you would always be there
But then there came a day
And I turned my head and you slipped away

If I had only known
It was my last night by your side
I'd pray a miracle would stop the dawn
And when you'd smile at me
I would look into your eyes
And make sure you know my love
For you goes on and on
If I had only known
If I had only known
The love I would've shown
If I had only known

Jana Stanfield & Craig Morris

Reba McEntire

Sunday, March 27, 2011


So . . .
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea,
you're off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So . . . get on your way!

Oh, the Places You'll Go!
Dr. Seuss

As quoted at
The Sand Creek Sentinel

Saturday, March 26, 2011

The Road Not Taken

'Tis now 2 a.m. . . . on the morning of the anniversary of the date on which my cousin, Robert Lee Frost, was born . . . I'm watching re-runs of Fame from 1984 . . . and they just recited the following poem on the show . . .

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost
26 March 1874 ~ 29 January 1963

Thursday, March 24, 2011

The Day is Done

Published 1844

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
27 February 1807 ~ 24 March 1882

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Afternoon in February

The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.

The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o'er the plain;

While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.

The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell;

Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
27 February 1807 - 24 March 1882

Saturday, February 12, 2011

More Hellos

Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos.

Charles M. Schulz
26 November 26 1922 – 12 February 2000

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Must we forever part?

The following was submitted by a family member for publication in the Rockdale Reporter in 1912 following the 10th of February death of my 2nd great-grandpa, William Paschal Henry (1836-1912) . . .

'Tis hard to break the tender cord,
When love has bound our hearts.
'Tis hard, so hard to speak the words
Must we forever part?

Dearest father we have laid thee
In the peaceful grave's embrace,
But thy memory will be cherished,
'Til we see they heavenly face.

We miss thee from our home, dear father,
We miss thee from thy place,
A shadow o'er our life is cast;
We miss the sunshine of thy face.

We miss thy kind and willing hand,
Thy fond and earnest care,
Our home is dark without thee;
Yes, we miss thee everywhere.

We would call not back the dear departed,
Anchored safe where storms are o'er
In the border land we left him,
Soon to meet and part no more.

Far beyond this world of changes,
Far beyond this world of care,
We shall find our missing loved one,
In our Father's mansion fair.

One by one earth's ties are broken,
As we see our love decay;
And the hopes so fondly cherished
Brighten but to pass away.

One by one our hopes grow brighter
As we near the shining shore,
For we know across the river
Wait the loved ones gone before.

Jesus while our hearts are bleeding
O'er the spirits that death has won,
We would at this meeting,
Calmly say, "Thy will be done."

Though cast down we're not forsaken,
Though afflicted not alone,
Thou didst give and thou has taken,
Blessed Lord, "Thy will be done."


The big oak trees

So they all went away from the little log house. The shutters were over the windows, so the little house could not see them go. It stayed there inside the log fence, behind the two big oak trees that in the summertime had made green roofs for Mary and Laura to play under. And that was the last of the little house.

Little House on the Prairie
Laura Ingalls Wilder
07 February 1867 - 10 February 1957

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Sunrise, Sunset

Is this the little girl I carried?
Is this the little boy at play?
I don't remember growing older
When did they?

When did she get to be a beauty?
When did he grow to be so tall?
Wasn't it yesterday
When they were small?

Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly flow the days
Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers
Blossoming even as we gaze

Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly fly the years
One season following another
Laden with happiness and tears

What words of wisdom can I give them?
How can I help to ease their way?
Now they must learn from one another
Day by day

They look so natural together
Just like two newlyweds should be
Is there a canopy in store for me?

Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly fly the years
One season following another
Laden with happiness and tears

08 February 1975

Monday, February 7, 2011

A long time ago . . .

A long time ago, when all the grandfathers and grandmothers of today were little boys and little girls or very small babies, or perhaps not even born, Pa and Ma and Mary and Laura and Baby Carrie left their little house in the Big Woods of Wisconsin. They drove away and left it lonely and empty in the clearing among the big trees, and they never saw that little house again.

Little House on the Prairie
Laura Ingalls Wilder
07 February 1867 - 10 February 1957

The Season of Light

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

A Tale of Two Cities
Charles Dickens
07 February 1812 – 09 June 1870

Monday, January 31, 2011

When forget-me-nots are withered

A good character is the best tombstone. Those who loved you, and were helped by you, will remember you when forget-me-nots are withered. Carve your name on hearts, and not on marble.

Charles Haddon Spurgeon
19 June 1834 ~ 31 January 1892

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Brushes of Comets' Hair (quote)

When Earth's last picture is painted
and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colours have faded,
and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it
lie down for an eon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen
shall put us to work anew!

And those that were good shall be happy:
they shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas
with brushes of comets' hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from
Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting
and never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us,
and only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money,
and no one shall work for fame,
But each for the joy of the working,
and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It
for the God of Things as They Are!

Rudyard Kipling
30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936