We
were
branding Zaga's cattle
at Frost Canyon in the spring
when neighboring with each other
was still such a normal thing
that a fellow never realized
that the use of this practical tool
in twenty years would be an exception
and not the common rule.
The wives were all at the cabin visiting
an d cooking a feast
that'd be served up on long
tables with benches
when the sun had moved from the east.
Everyone else was down at the trap
in the dust and the wind and the sun,
in unwashed Levi's
and sweat -stained hats,
teaching me work can be fun.
From the west, a rider came,
leading a packhorse
towards camp.
Dad put his hand on my shoulder
and said, son, there's a last saddle tramp.
Well, to the mind of this 13 -year -old,
that was romantic as hell.
He rode up to the herd
to visit with Fred,
and I learned his
name was Thomas O'Dell.
He asked Fred permission
to camp a few days,
rest his horses,
mend a sawbuck.
He's told he's welcome.
There's grain in the barn,
and well,
we'd soon all be sent to Chuck.
Well, we had finished the branding
and had washed at the creek
and was hunting some shade
and a drink
when Tom yelled out loud, Fred,
your outhouse is locked.
And then just stood there
and squinted and blinked.
Well, Fred pulled out a key,
threw it to Tom.
He said, you know, vandals,
insurance and such.
They broke all the dishes.
They've shot out her phone.
We just can't be here that much."
But Tom wasn't about to let this thing drop.
He kept standing there
blinking his eyes.
I recognize now,
that's the cue that he gives,
just be fore he philosophizes.
He said, Fred, my granddaddy,
Lord rest his soul,
took a homestead in what's
now Arkansas.
And the first thing he done
was to dig a deep hole
and take some lumber
he'd cut from the raw
and built him a three -holer privy,
one that'd stand through the good
times and bad.
And for thirty years, Fred,
he never locked the door once.
Then he turned the place
over to Dad.
Then through the Depression,
Dad raised us kids.
There's times we
didn't have a dime. time.
But unlocked it stood there,
through famine and flood,
even through Green Apple time.
Now my brother runs that outfitting house
for thirty years,
and that outhouse is still used regular,
unlocked, I have little fear.
About now, Fred says, Tom,
don't you see it's really not that big a deal,
it's just that these van
dals from town'll
tear up anything that ain't handy to steal.
But Tom just kept squintin' and blankin'
and scratchin' his head neath his hat.
We were all on our toes to hear what he'd say next,
and he's relishin' that.
And he looked at the ground
he'd been towin',
said, Fred, I'd bet my good
horseshoe and anvil
that in the seventy -five years
that that outhouse has stood there,
no one ever stole as much as one handful.