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November 21, 2009

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ONE OF THE nice things about writing a column is that readers send me notes and suggestions and old clippings and interesting stories. It was that way a few years back, when I received a fat envelope from a reader out near Abilene. He reads the column in “Grass and Grain.”

The occasion for his writing me was that he was killing time. It was in July and he should have been cutting wheat, but it was postponed by rain, he said.

Well, at least there was something good about that wet and muddy summer. He sent me some photocopied pages from two little books that he’d bought at a farm sale. One, “Rhymes of the Rockies,” is dated 1922. The other, “Mountain Memories,” was published in 1925. Both are collections of poetry by James W. Whilt.

Now, I’m normally not attracted to poetry. I just don’t understand it, maybe. There are exceptions, lines of poetry that I can really relate to. Usually they have a rhyme and rhythm that’s simple enough even for me. I have a really tough time with some of the artsy stuff with no rhyme or meter that is called poetry now.

These little poems, I could appreciate. Although labeled “mountain” poetry, they are really outdoor subjects, much like cowboy poetry. They remind me of the work of the late S. Omar Barker, a grand old man who was called the “poet lariat” of Western Writers of America. I have a letter from Omar, which I treasure. It’s written on the back of a Leanin’ Tree birthday card which carries his poetry. “I write little verses for these folks,” says Omar, “so they keep me supplied with cards for whenever.”

Calling Omar Barker’s work “little verses,” of course, is like saying Joe Montana plays ball. Barker was the author of the famous “Cowboy’s Christmas Prayer” and the “Code of the West,” written at about the time of James Whilt’s work. (He was paid five dollars for that one).

This is maybe a long way around to note that cowboy poetry has attracted quite a bit of attention in recent years. Baxter Black, probably the best known of the cowboy poets, was on the Tonight show several times. The annual Cowboy Poetry Gatherin’ at Elko, Nevada, has gained a lot of notoriety.

There’s even a move to consider a Golden Spur award in Cowboy Poetry by the Western Writers of America. (Omar Barker was one of their early presidents). I hope they don’t do it. Some cowboy poetry is good, some bad, some even great. Yet, the thing is, it’s not a contest, but a performing art. It originated with lonely cowboys riding night herd and crooning to cows to keep them quiet — making up a thousand verses to “ki-yi-yippy-yippy yay,” some of which can even be sung in mixed company. They weren’t looking for perfection, but for amusement and fun. When it becomes more important to win than to have fun, things sort of go to hell in a handbasket. Might as well take up figure skating.

I want to share one of James Whilt’s verses, called:

The Old Frying Pan

You may talk of your broilers, both single and double,

Your roasters and toasters, they’re all lots of trouble;

But when out in the hills, just find if you can,

Any kind of dish like the old fryin’ pan.

Over a campfire you don’t need a stove,

Out in the hills, the place we all love,

Such hotcakes they never were tasted by man,

With many the thanks to the old frying pan.

When the trout are all fried to a rich golden brown,

I know all epicures would look with a frown

At the meal set before me; dispute it who can,

With naught for a plate but the old frying pan.

Now that’s pure poetry. The kind I can understand. Thanks, Curtis!

See you down the road.

Author and columnist Don Coldsmith lives in Emporia.

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