We’re calling this one the 30th Anniversary…, but we really aren’t sure. There was much discussion, debate, and even a fair bit of delusion bantered about before the 25th Anniversary was declared five years ago. And to this day Dave and I don’t have enough fingers to count back on and figure out just what year we might have thrown in together and started buying a keg of beer and asking a few friends to join us in a celebration of our birthdays, which are just three days…, and one year apart. He’s the old fart…, just needed to make that clear. He’s turning 60 on the 16th of April this year and he feels it’s about time to “retire” from this particular party scene. And since this Pugilist will be 59 three days behind Dave …, I am backing him up and throwing in the towel too. Yeah..., that old rock and roll has declared victory in the fight for my soul, it’s time to put down the gloves, live on love, and retire in my prime..., before I am counted out and can’t get up off the mat anymore. With a very special hat tip to Tom Russell.
In the interest of full disclosure, the seeds of this function were sown in about 1975. I got my name in the paper for things that didn’t exactly make my parents proud..., OK..., not at all proud. Thanks to my Dad and brother Larry and the Bail Out Funds they provided..., I wasn’t in jail. I had a new girlfriend from Lewiston and she hadn’t meet a lot of my Weippe friends yet, so I thought that throwing a birthday party for myself at a friends house would be a good idea. I miscalculated a little..., and failed to send an engraved invitation to the Clearwater County cops. They were a bit insulted by that I guess. It’s not like I sent out invitations, it was all word of mouth..., and they got the word alright. So I am not sure just what their problem was..., but they definitely had one. They stopped several car loads of prospective attendees and informed them that the party had been cancelled. Luckily for those folks, there were laws back in those days against unreasonable search and seizure..., that were respected and observed by even the most zealous of cops and courts. But it did scare the celebratory intentions right out of a lot of people. Including yours truly.
The Show was over and Julie and I stepped outside the Treehouse Café for a smoke in the cool, crisp air of the Olympic Peninsula while we waited for the crowd to thin out. Tom Russell had put on a performance that was everything we had anticipated…, and more. Back inside, there I was with five of Tom’s CD’s in hand, standing in what was then a short line, to get them autographed by him…, and wondering what I should say…, besides, “Thank you,”?
It had been about a year since I had “discovered” Tom’s extraordinary songwriting and musical abilities. I had read a piece of his writing, posted on The Agonist Blog, which was linked from Tom’s own “Notes From the Borderland” blog. Intrigued by that piece, I began to read his other posts on his blog. They went back in time a bit, and many of them were about the songs from his newly released CD, “Blood and Candle Smoke”. I don’t buy…, or even listen to…, any “new” music these days. The old chain saw, rock concert, barroom boogie days have left these old ears of mine ravaged to a degree that if I don’t already know the words to a song, I can barely discern them. But based on Tom’s writing I decided to take a chance and bought “Blood and Candle Smoke” and “Veteran’s Day – The Tom Russell Anthology”. It had been almost 20 years since a new artist’s work had graced my collection. I wish I could say that it was worth the wait…, but what I really wish…, is that I had discovered Tom 40 years and 25 albums ago.
Born on July 13, 1952 and passed away on July 26, 2008
I moved to Forks, WA in 1987, not long after Shotgun broke up. It wasn’t meant to be a permanent move on my part, but it turned out that way. Jackson had a couple of different bands after that and I got to catch their act a time or two when I was visiting family back in Idaho. He had taken one of the bands on the road…, and even played the opening act for Molly Hatchet somewhere. For a few years he and Linda ran the Greer Café and Tavern. It was a historic old roadhouse on a little railroad siding along the middle fork of the Clearwater River. Upstream about seven miles from Orofino, just at the base of the mountain highway that leads to Weippe and Pierce. I heard tell of some of the kick ass parties that took place there…, but only made one of them myself. On one of those trips to Idaho Jackson gave me a tape he had recorded on a four track machine like Springsteen used to record his Nebraska album. It was mostly just song fragments that hadn’t been fully developed yet and a few cover songs with the band at the time. Back in Forks I wrote him a letter filled with as much praise and encouragement as I thought I could get away with and not come off like I was being phony about it. As the years rolled along, the trips to Idaho became fewer and farther between. Logging in Alaska for a few years, then a serious career change that didn’t allow me to build up the necessary vacation leave time for several more years didn’t help. Plus, Julie and I were busy clearing the brush, drilling a well, putting in a septic system, running power and water lines, building sheds and fences on the property that would come to be The Ranch. Somewhere in the middle of that hectic time we made it over to Idaho again and Jackson gave me another tape, along with the refrain that it was the only one of its kind and please don’t lose or abuse it. The tape deck in the little blue Toyota had long ago given up on us, so we couldn’t listen to the tape right away. And with all we had going on back in Forks, the tape got put up somewhere…, unlistened to.
Then I got the call in 2008 from a friend in Idaho saying that Jackson’s condition was indeed, terminal. As we made ready to go to Idaho for the April Birthday Party and the Benefit Auction, I made a frantic search for that tape. Julie’s daughter, Jamie still lived in our trailer house in town and she had boxed up all of our stuff there and “stored” it in closets, bedrooms, and the garage for us. We hadn’t needed a lot of stuff in the camp trailer we were living in while we were waiting for a house to materialize on The Ranch. I made as concerted an effort as I could to track down the tape, but couldn’t possibly go through every box that Jamie had packed for us. I was pretty damn disappointed in myself. So much so that I couldn’t tell Jackson that I knew it was packed away somewhere. I didn’t mention it…, and neither did he.
The Benefit Auction was held at the old Weippe Community Hall. Though Jackson was from Pierce, he had played as much…, probably more…, music in Weippe. He probably played his first real, paying gig there at the old Community Hall. I know it was the first place me and most of my friends ever heard him play. After I had figuratively wrestled that old George Lawrence saddle away from Jim Jensen…, we got to see Jackson get up on that old stage once again and hear him play a few songs that day. I don’t know how he did it…, barely able to breathe…, with an oxygen tank strapped at his side. I take that back…, I do know how he did it. Sheer fucking determination and will power. After all…, I was the one who had to walk up behind him on the gridiron, put my hands under his butt, looked at some beast in front of me that was virtually slobbering to get his hands anywhere on me, a beast that out-weighed Jackson by 30 or 40 pounds at least…, and I didn’t worry about it. But there were a whole lot of people worried about Jackson that day in Weippe. A whole lot of people that wanted to give back to him just a little of what he had given to them over the years through his music and his friendship. From a couple of tiny timber and farming communities, both suffering along with the rest of the nation, an economic collapse that was being compared to the Great Depression…, the generosity was nothing short of amazing, phenomenal…, unbelievable. I have been to a lot of those things and I have never seen anything like it. Right at $20,000 raised…, for a few songs. Even Browne and Springsteen don’t rate that kind of pay scale. Three months later Jackson was gone. I couldn’t make it back to Idaho for the “services”. At his request, his ashes were scattered on the North Fork of the Clearwater River. A touch that he didn’t request…, but seems as fitting a tribute as could be imagined…, an acoustic guitar was set adrift in that River. The ceremony was well attended and I deeply regret having to miss it. Oh man…, yeah.
A few months back, Julie and I sold the trailer house in Forks…, so we finally had to haul a lot of stuff out to The Ranch. A lot of it got stacked in The Saddle Bar(n). A couple of weeks ago I was out there sippin’ an ice cold Hamm’s, when the tuner went out in the old Heathkit stereo receiver. I can’t go without music…, so I scrounged around and found an old tape deck that had belonged to Jamie…, and hoping that it would work, I hooked it up to the old amp. I started scrounging around looking for some old tapes and found an old Marshall Tucker that I had recorded. You’ll hear “Can’t You See” every once in a while on classic rock FM stations…, but it had been a long time since I heard, “A New Life”, or “Take the Highway”, or “Fire on the Mountain”. I was thinking about all the memories music can dredge up…, sorting through boxes of junk that I was wondering why I kept. Then, there it was amid a clutter of old photographs…, SmithSongs - A Life’s Work / Volume 2 / Copy 1.Oh man…, oh man. I put that tape on and let “Jackson” feel my butt for a change. I cranked the volume up, sat in that old George Lawrence saddle and listened.
90 minutes worth. Mostly new material. Jackson had fleshed out several of the song fragments he had done on the first tape he gave me. I kept waiting to hear the cover songs that I was expecting…, but they never materialized. The tape wasn’t any half-hearted, fooling around, let’s have some fun, effort. Every cut was an original that he had written himself and I would guess that most of the music was performed by only him…, laying down each track and mixing them together later. Though he could have had other musicians set in and he did have a female back up on a couple of cuts, I believe it’s about as close to pure Jackson as you could get. There were only a couple of the old songs that I knew from the Shotgun era. Back in those days most of the originals were geared toward a barroom boogie, get ‘um up and dancing genre. There are a few blistering rockers on this tape…, but mostly it is just Jackson and his acoustic guitar…, and he does know how to make it talk. Jackson had continued to get better and better as all those years rolled by. Most of the songs are the singer-songwriter stuff that I am partial too…, Buffett, Browne, Cougar, Crouse, Sam Neely, Tom Russell. Evidently Jackson wasn’t nearly as competent as a technician as he was as a musician. The recording level is a bit too low and you can hardly make out one cut at all. But the material…, some of it…, is awesome. I hadn’t really heard Jackson on an acoustic guitar much…, but there is plenty of that on this tape. I couldn’t help but shake my head in wonder as a chill ran up my spine when I heard, “Wannabe Cowboy”. Sittin’ in that old saddle I was thinking…, oh man…, why…, hadn’t I taken the time to listen to that tape before…, when I could have told Jackson how great it was? I have often said that I may not be proud of some of the things I have done in my life…, but I don't regret doing them. What I regret…, are the things I didn't do. And until my dying day I will regret not listening to that tape and telling Jackson how great it is. But I will tell him some day. Whatever road he has taken, or trail he has blazed on ahead…, I’ll track him down. If I have to be good to get there…, I’ll be a damn saint. If I have to raise a little hell to get there…, I’ll raise holy hell. Whatever it takes…, oh man…, yeah. And I was thinking that when I get there we’ll have the time to take another long ride of one kind or another…, whether it is in that old Camero, or the old Land Cruiser, or in a couple of old George Lawrence saddles…, and we'll have time to talk again. And I'll apologize…, and he'll laugh it off…, I hope. Then I heard this cut from the tape…, my jaw just dropped…, and some other things started to fall. Oh man…, oh man. As another Jackson once said, “Here come those tears again…”
Born on July 13, 1952 and passed away on July 26, 2008.
This isn’t a saddle story…, but I call this old George Lawrence saddle, “Jackson”. I don’t name all my saddles. Usually it’s just, “Julie’s saddle”, or “Jamie’s saddle”, or “My saddle”, or the “new George Lawrence”, if you’re speaking about them. But this is a very special saddle…, and so was the fella that I named it after. Oh man…, yeah. Was he ever. Songwriter, singer, guitar picker…, leader of the band. And a hell of a musician. Fighter, scrapper, logger, timber cutter. And a hell of a man. Classmate, teammate, employee, barroom buddy. And a hell of a character. Husband, hunter, father, grandfather. And gone before his time. Still in his prime…, at least musically speaking.
So, when it was widely known that Jack S. Smith had a deadly form of cancer and was only a few months away from performing the ultimate gig on stage in another realm, a Benefit Auction was planned for him in this one. Another good friend of mine, Jim Jensen, offered up the old George Lawrence saddle as a donation for the auction. And the damn fool even tried to bid against me on it! There was no way that old saddle that I had already named “Jackson” was going to be anyone’s but mine. Jim can be forgiven for being such a fool; he wasn’t born in Idaho like Jack, and he wasn’t raised in Idaho like Jack and I. Jim came out from Wisconsin years after Jack and I had become friends back in high school, and he didn’t know just how close our relationship had been. Oh man…, yeah. For four glorious months in our senior year at Timberline High…, I had my hands under Jack’s butt almost every day. Stuff like that can warp your mind…, and leave a lasting impression I guess.
You see…, Jack was the starting center on our football team, and I played quarterback. Jack was also our starting free safety on defense, where he hit like another Jack…, Jack Tatum. He wasn’t all that big…, even for a safety…, let alone a center. Maybe 5’ 7” and all of 145 lbs. He got a hold of the roster before the manager printed out the lineup card and changed his weight to 165 to make it look good. At center Jack was always outweighed by a good 30 or 40 pounds, or more when he looked across at the nose guard lined up in front of him. He was never intimidated, I believe he relished it. Our coach gave out “hash marks” on our helmets when we made a hit that caused an opposing player’s head to “snap back”. When you got ten hash marks on your helmet, the helmet was painted black. Jack wore a black helmet early in the season. Not many others did, even at the end of the season. We finished tied for the League Championship that year. Jack played a big part in making my glory days a winning memory.
I knew who Jack Smith was a few years before we went to school together at Timberline High School. He lived in the logging town of Pierce, ID (pop 1029) which was just 11 miles up the road from my hometown of Weippe (pop 705), which had more farmers than loggers. The two towns were bitter cultural and sports rivals. There was always a little tension in the air, because back in those days it wasn’t hardly a Saturday night if there weren’t a couple of fights at a bar or at a local dance. It was virtually guaranteed if there were more than a couple of Piercites in Weippe, or Weippers in Pierce. Weippe had a venue called the Community Hall. A classic old log structure with a hardwood floor, a wood stove, and a stage…, where Jack and a couple of other guys from Pierce would often play music on weekends. And he had the reputation of a willing and able scrapper to boot. A well deserved, and honestly earned one I might add. So in the summer of 1969, I was walking down the street of Lewiston, ID (pop 17,900), heading to a dentist appointment, so the dentist could make sure the wires holding my jaw together hadn’t slipped any. I spied Jack Smith leaning up against a building. No one was sure how the consolidation of the Weippe and Pierce High Schools into Timberline High was going to work out that fall, given the ancient rivalry between the two towns. But I knew that Jack and I were going to be playing football together that season. I thought it proper to introduce myself, and after all, he might know who I was too. I’d been out on the dance floor and on the basketball court a few times. I knew…, from experience…, that it isn’t easy to introduce yourself through wire-clenched together teeth, and it’s pretty hard to slip into the conversation the story of why you are gritting your teeth and talking like that. But if your listener is looking at you like you’re the kind of guy who might want to get his hands under your butt…, and your listener isn’t helping you out with small talk of his own, it can get a little uncomfortable rather quickly. It can make you almost glad you have a dentist appointment. Oh man…, yeah. It gives you a chance to excuse yourself and move on. Jack reminded me of that moment many times over the years and told me that I caught him at a particularly bad time.
He later told me that he had just seen Linda off on a bus to school somewhere and he was pretty dejected. After I met Linda, I could understand why. Oh man.., yeah. Jack and his drop-dead gorgeous wife Linda were married probably a year after I introduced myself to Jack. They were together for nearly 40 years, and she was at his side at the end. Just like she was all the years they were together. Through all the ups and downs, highs and lows, hilarious and horrifying…, and sometimes…, plumb sideways crazy, borderline insane times. And that just describes the times that I can personally attest to. They had “gone steady”, as we called it back then, all through high school. After they got married, I know they were split up for a brief time early on, because Jack told me about coming home to an empty house one night. Well…, empty except for the man and wife figurine that had adorned their wedding cake…, it was sitting on the kitchen counter under the bare cupboards. He didn’t elaborate on what mistakes he had made to cause that, but he evidently never made them again. If they were ever split up after that, he never told me about it.
Been wanting to get back in the saddle here..., and ironically enough..., Sean Paul Kelley over at The Agonist asked in a post what folks were reading.
Right now? Thomas McGuane's “The Cadence of Grass”. One of my favorite books is Tom’s book of essays, “Some Horses”. When I had Amazon send my dear old Dad a copy…, I think he was as tickled with it as anything I ever gave him. More so than with the custom made pair of chaps from the Diamond “C” Saddle Shop, or the handmade elk horn button belt buckle with the inlaid silhouette of a cowboy leading two pack mules through the mountains, or even the border stamped George Lawrence saddle. Sad to say that I have the book, the chaps and the saddle now. Haven’t found the belt buckle. Anyway…, I wish the old cowboy was still around to share a seven page passage from “The Cadence of Grass” with. It’s a shame to have to leave out so much of it…, but here are the highlights.
…
“We had just got our horses up for the year. They was out all winter and the saddles didn’t fit and them horses would buck all hell west and crooked till we could get ‘em rode. I was down in the ranch yard and Leo, the illegal worked for me then, said some old-timer had arrived on a wild horse and rolled out his bedroll under the loading chute, put his head on his saddle and gone to sleep. I had an idea it was Robert Wood, and it was. Course I didn’t find him asleep, just caught his eye and told him I would see him in the morning. I pretty much knew what he was after. He had a band of mares up on the bench behind our ranch, you know, Ev, where that tank went dry, mares that was running out with wild horses there, not real mustangs but just cayuses folks had turned out when they went to war and they’d reverted and was all outright broncs. I’d promised to gather ‘em for Robert when we had a full complement of help, because it wasn’t going to be easy in any way, shape or form. Well, Robert lost patience with me…”
…
“Robert Wood was just an old puncher who’d outlived his day. Thought the Old West could be brought back if they’d just quit dammin’ up water to make alfalfa. He hated alfalfa and would go a long way out of his way to keep from seein’ it. I suppose he was seventy-five years old ‘cause I seen in the papers when he died about ten years ago he’d made ninety or better. Wore a Stetson right out of the box, no crease, no nothing’. He wouldn’t wear a straw hat in the summer, said it was a farmer’s hat.”
Continued in the comments section..., wish you could edit them !
The picture doesn’t do her justice. It was taken some 20 years ago and taking a picture of a picture…., even with a fancy new digital camera…, loses a little in translation. Graham Greene said, “In human relations, kindness and lies are worth a thousand truths.” I tell her that she is getting better looking every day…, just like me…, and I tell her that her graying hair and character lines only add to her beauty. But sometimes you just have to tell the truth…, and today was one of those days. Sometimes she just ain’t too damn smart.
I had been slaving away out in the pastures, cleaning up horse manure for a good long hour or so and needed a little beer and cigarette break. I probably hadn’t been sitting in the lawn chair in the shade of the shed for more than a couple of hours, when she appears at the one corner of the house I can see from that vantage point. She has a bucket of soapy water and something that looks like a toilet brush with a long handle…, and she starts scrubbing away at the side of the house.
I should mention that we live on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington state in one of few temperate rain forests in the world. Forests aren’t the only things that grow here. If they ever prefect the art of making gasoline from algae…, we may be in the money. Green stuff creeps up the side of our house as relentlessly as government deficit spending. But that green stuff doesn’t look like money just yet. At least not to Julie. I have a better imagination.
I didn’t know that Julie was such a hard worker the first time I met her about 30 years ago in Idaho. I was an unattached bachelor, so naturally, I was at the bar where a bunch of my friends wives were having a girls night out in celebration of something or other. Julie happened to be sitting next to me. I had no idea who she was…, but after we danced a couple of times I began to realize just what a foxy lady she really was. Then she said she had to go. I was like, “Who was that girl?” to the gals I knew. I never forgot who she was…, but never saw her again until I came to Forks in 1987.
As my hero, Dick Pronneke, says in the PBS show, "Alone in the Wilderness"..., not much of a garden by Iowa standards. And it may not even rate as a garden by Texas standards. But I am brand new at this garden stuff. I'm a Rancher..., I ain't no Sod-Buster. Don Henry Ford Jr. inspired me to plant The Garden last year. Despite some life threatening experiences that happened back then..., I am trying it again.
If you have to ask about the .357 Colt Python that I carry..., you haven't heard thee story. This is what I wrote to Don last year..., admonishing him for his complete failure to warn me of the hazards involved.
Speaking of That Garden...,
you inspired me to plant. You could have warned me about hazards other than toil, sweat, and beers (to replace the sweat).
I will die of green mouth, the way many of my ancestors in Ireland did during the Great Potato Famine, before I will set foot in The Garden again. I mean, I planned The Garden as a life sustaining endeavor…, the sod-busting and planting of it produced a death wish on a day or two when the sweat was flowing like beer at a biker bash…, but last weekend I had one of those near death experiences that should be reserved for the movies…, or the Jerry Springer Show.
I was just trying to water The Garden. I stretched a hundred feet of garden hose out from The Barn and was proceeding along at a leisurely pace, with visions of baked potatoes, boiled potatoes, fried potatoes, mashed potatoes, and French fries dancing in my head. When a 10 foot python danced out of a flake of hay practically under my feet. I know you'll say that we don't grow pythons in Washington State gardens…, but make and model aren't important or relevant here. And I refuse to look at a picture card line-up to try to identify the culprit. I don't know how many people reading this have ever tried to fight off a 15 foot python with nothing but a garden hose…, but I don't recommend it. Even with a fancy, high-powered spray nozzle attachment in place. The slimy bastard had me around one leg in no time flat. Then the other leg. Then around my waist, my chest. I fought valiantly…, though somewhat blindly. I can't stand to look at a picture of a snake…, let alone look one in the eye that's trying to eat me. Once he got me around the neck he really put the squeeze on…, and I thought I was done for. My life passed before my eyes…, and other things passed from my body. There was a terrible stench and everything went black.
I probably hadn't been lying on the ground long when my wife Julie found me there…, tied up in 100 feet of garden hose. That 20 foot python knew I wasn't dead…, and that evil bastard trussed and tied me up in that hose…, and left me there. I don't know if it was a male snake and he tied me up like that, then slithered off to get his buddies so he could brag about his capture…, and then let them in on the kill…, and the feast. Or, maybe it was a female and she needed to train her offspring to kill with some live bait? I won't bother to dwell on those possibilities…, or speculate on others. I was sure that Julie had somehow sensed that I was in mortal danger…, that famous women's intuition…, that bond between two people that is so strong that you experience the others' pain. But she denied that that was the case…, she said she heard the most horrendous bellering and screaming…, she said it sounded like a Sasquatch with its foot caught in a bear trap. I didn't know snakes could scream and beller. I certainly didn't hear anything like that. But then, often times when you are in a life or death struggle, some bodily functions shut down..., so that more life giving blood and oxygen can get to more important body parts. It seems logical to assume that my hearing and vision shut down during the struggle to survive. And I don't remember any of the details of the epic battle…, just the horror…, the horror. Not all bodily functions shut down…, some go into overdrive. I was glad the hose was still handy when Julie found me.
I posted these comments on one of Don Henry Ford Jr's pieces over at The Agonist. http://agonist.org/don/20100807/hard_times#comment-217810
Knock On Wood..., the hard times haven't hit us..., yet. Not as long as I am shooting the elk with a camera..., instead of a gun. Hope it doesn't come to that. But there is a big disconnect between what is happening on Wall Street and what is happening on Main Street. Whatever you believe..., there is one thing that can be counted on. There is a balance in this old world, and that balance will be achieved. Either Wall Street is coming down or Main Street is going up. Given the recent housing start numbers and the employment numbers..., I don't need to tell you that I don't think Main Street is moving up any time soon.
The elk stayed on their side of our fence..., this time. I do wish they would have come on over and cleaned up that last patch of Scotch Broom. Since they didn't..., I suppose I better get out there myself.
This saddle was made by Carl Elmer, who was a saddle maker for the George Lawrence Company for many years. I found out about him while searching the history of the GL company. After leaving the company, Carl hand made his own saddles..., and this is the first one I have seen pictures of. Here's a quote from an Oregon newpaper article I found: In nearby Alfalfa, Carl Elmer has made saddles since he apprenticed at Portland’s George Lawrence saddlery in 1942. He ran his own shop in John Day for many years. An Elmer saddle is completely hand-made, from the “tree,” or inner structure, to the stampwork on the exterior—the signature of the saddlemaker. A "little" out of my price range at $1450 on Ebay..., but none the less..., a real beauty. I love the patina of this saddle and it is like the patina on most George Lawrence saddles I have seen. The first George Lawrence I acquired is very similar in style and detail.
Would love to add this George Lawrence to my collection..., for a lower asking price on Ebay. The seller says it is "40's" vintage..., but is more like very early 1900's if not late 1800's. The "slick fork", "loop seat", and "high back" design indicate the age. It appears from the pictures to be a true original in excellent condition. Probably well worth the $1800 asking price..., but out of my range. The oldest in my collection is probably 10 to 20 years later (not "loop seat" and not all original). Hope to get it cleaned up and pictures posted at a later date.
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