Cattle Auction

Once in a while Daddy would let one of us go with him to the cattle auction in Powell. Here he would hope for good prices for his Hereford breeding stock, or maybe bid on a new milk cow.  Before the auction we would stand on the rails of the wooden pens, checking out all the animals, noting lot numbers of worthwhile stock.  

Then the stands, shaded by a tin roof would fill with ranchers all dressed in their worn Levis, western shirts, cowboy hats and boots. Ranchers caught up on the latest news from their neighbors spreads, swapping stories and needs. With a bang of the gavel it was time for the action to begin. Horses, cows, pigs and all kinds of livestock passed through the arena, accompanied by the rapid fire chant of the auctioneer.  

Rattlesnake Bits

There was a concession stand that sold the usual hot dogs and fries, but also deep fried rattlesnake bits and mountain oysters. 

Rocky Mountain Oysters

It was an exciting day for a kid, and as we would head home, the sun shining through the dusty afternoon, making a rosy haze we would talk of all the special things of the day.  But most special, a day spent with Daddy.

Paper Bag Check

My Daddy was an honorable man.  I remember one time he was in a store in Cody, and didn't have his checkbook, so he tore off a piece of brown paper bag, and wrote his "check" on that.  The merchant didn't hesitate to accept it.
I'm sure we have all heard the saying a man's word is his bond.  In the olden days, that would be when I was a kid, it actually meant something. Honor was held in high esteem.  It was well known throughout the community whose word was good and whose wasn't. Contracts, in those days were usually verbal and just sealed with a handshake.  For the honorable that was all that was needed. And Daddy was such a man.

"It was understood that if a man's word was no good, his "bond" therefore being no good, then he was no good either and he was not to be dealt with nor trusted. In those days this was a matter of severe disgrace. Honor meant something back then, and a man without honor was shamed. A man knew that if he was to be paid, he owed an honest day's work, and if he failed to give it, he didn't expect anything, as he had not earned it.  A man's character was all he had, and not to have a good character was a heavy burden to bear. A man without good character was looked down upon. He was "no count." A poor man of good character was more highly respected than a rich man without honor, and rightly so.

We live in an age now where not only is business no longer done with a handshake, but even a written contract is no good. Credit card companies, telephone companies, cell phone companies, mortgage companies, and other large businesses can change a written contract unilaterally, without notice, to your detriment, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it! In other words, a contract is no longer a contract. Where once a handshake constituted an iron-clad guarantee, now there are no guarantees at all! Honor, character, and a man's word, once more valued than gold, are largely anachronistic these days, reflecting the low level to which human relations in general have sunk in this Country. It is a sad state of affairs."Reflections

Ecclesiastes 5:5-6
It is better to say nothing than to make a promise and not keep it.
Don't let your mouth make you sin. And don't defend yourself by telling the Temple messenger that the promise you made was a mistake. That would make God angry, and he might wipe out everything you have achieved.

Not Sweet Little Buttercup

A couple of days ago, I told the story of Sheila--a wonderful wild horse that we raised from a colt.  She was a gentle, well-behaved mare.  When she was four or five years old, she had a colt, a pretty little pale buckskin that Daddy named Buttercup.  Now, Buttercup was like a lot of today's kids--she just didn't want to conform.  She would nip you every chance she got; picked fights with other horses; and when Daddy tried to break her, she was ornery.  Here she is trying to buck Daddy off.  She never did conform.  She was one generation removed from a wild horse, and that blood coursed through her veins.  

I'm sure at night she heard the call of the wild horses across the river, and longed to join them as they roamed the  high plateaus. 

Sheila

Across the valley from our ranch, lies Sheep Mountain, stretching up the south side of the Shoshone River. Above the breaking cliffs near the top, once mountain sheep roamed, but growing up it was known more for the herds of wild horses.
Every year a group of ranchers who held hunting trips would take a ride up to the top and try to round-up as many horses as possible herd them into make-shift corrals, then work to train them enough to trail them down to the ranches, so they could use some for pack horses for the hunting trips, some for riding horses and those that were wild to the core were sold as bucking stock to the rode

One year during the round-up a wild mare escaped leaving her newborn colt behind.  The question was, what to do with this little filly, who was only a few weeks old.  They couldn't turn her loose-mama was long gone and the wild animals would surely get her. She was too young to make the difficult trip down the mountain. One of the cowboys, a compassionate man, picked up the little horse, put her in front of him in the saddle and brought her to the base camp, then loaded her into his vehicle and brought her home. He named her Sheila. Daddy, with Mom's help bottle fed her, she would wander into the summer kitchen, nuzzle for some lovin' and a carrot. I think she believed she was the family pet.

Horseman, that Daddy was, he laid down the law, she was not to be ridden until she was two years old.  Ya right--us kids would play with her, crawl on her back, pretend we were Indians and she was our wild mustang, we would use a piece of string or our head scarves as reins.
When it was time to saddle break her, Daddy was amazed at what a gentle, smart animal she was--didn't even buck once!  He said she was one of the best saddle horses that he even had.  Sheila, born in the wild, raised with love.

Daddy and the Bear--Wish I had a Picture

Trout Creek Ranch, the adjoining ranch up the valley, needed some help riding fences before bringing cattle down from the upper range, so Daddy went over, saddled up and spent a long day checking and mending fences.  As they headed back to the ranch, they took a break in a little clearing, probably had a few beers, and were discussing life in general.

When out of the forest a black bear appeared, it was a couple of years old. One of the cowboys bet Daddy that he couldn't rope the bear. Daddy, never one to turn down a dare, shook out a loop, roped that bear on the first try.  The bear was shocked, shot up the closest tree with Daddy right behind.  He followed that bear out on a limb--snap the limb broke, the bear tumbled down, Daddy following landed on the bear.  They never could say who was more surprised Daddy or the bear.  Of course, Daddy said, "What else could I do, I had to get my lariat" 

 A good rope is priceless to a cowboy.
It has made for a story retold many times.

My Favorite Veteran

My dad loved freedom and wide open spaces. He was born in Ontario, Canada in 1890.  In his late teens he worked his way across Canada wrangling and taming horses, until he ended up in northern Wyoming. When World War I broke out, he tried to enlist in the US Army, but failed the physical because of an old eye injury.  Because freedom was so important to him, he returned to the land of his birth and enlisted in the Royal Canadian Army where he served in the Canadian Railway Construction Corp.  When the war was over, he returned to Wyoming and enlisted in the National Guard until his discharge in 1924. He knew that freedom was worth fighting for even when obstacles were thrown in his way.

In Flanders Fields 

By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) 

Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow 

Between the crosses row on row, 

That mark our place; and in the sky 

The larks, still bravely singing, fly 

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago 

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 

Loved and were loved, and now we lie 

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 

To you from failing hands we throw 

The torch; be yours to hold it high. 

If ye break faith with us who die 

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 

In Flanders fields.

Remembering Daddy--Snapshot of a unique man

Jimmy Tuff--Norman Price--Daddy

Born September 9th 1895 in Ontario, Canada, this cowboy moved West and settled near Cody Wyoming when in his early 20's.  He tamed wild broncos, competed in local rodeos, was a stunt double in several Hollywood western movies, and worked on ranches as a cowboy.  Then he bought some land on the side of Logan Mountain on the Northfork of the Shoshone River just east of Yellowstone Park, where he built a log home with the help of a team of horses.  He guided hunting trips into the rugged country of Yellowstone.  He raised Hereford cattle and also raised a family with his bride Elsie--seven children, four girls and three boys.  He never was more happy than when he was on a horse or playing with his kids.

Daddy taming horse at Valley Ranch on the Southfork--Cody, Wyoming 1915

Daddy holding me

He was an honest man, whose word was his bond.  He was a patriotic man--a cowboy who volunteered to fight in World War I. When he didn't qualify in the USA, he returned to Canada, the country of his birth and joined the Royal Canadian Army.  He was an adventurous, fun loving man--once roping a yearling bear cub and having to chase it up a tree, out onto a limb that gave way, sending him and the bear tumbling to the ground.  But he retrieved his good lariat, and the bear took off for Montana, so all was good. He was a loving man both to his wife and to his children.  He was a spiritual man, who had a quiet faith, trusting in God to help him through the many trials of his life.
In loving memory,
Your eldest daughter

Norman--Jimmy Tuff--Price

On this Memorial Day, I remember a hero of World War I--my father.  Born Norman Price, known by most by his rodeo name--Jimmy Tuff; but known to me as Daddy.  He was working in Wyoming as a cowboy when WWI broke out.  He tried to enlist in Cody, but didn't qualify so he returned to Canada where he had been born and enlisted in the Canadian Army.  He served in the Canadian Railway Construction Corp during the war.  When the war was over, he returned to the United States, enlisted in the National Guard, serving until his discharge on February 18, 1924.  He so valued freedom that even though the United States wouldn't let him volunteer, he made his way back to Canada so that he could fight for what was right.  I salute you, Daddy, and I also honor all of the men and women who volunteer in our armed services and protect our rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.