Short Story: Ol' Lady Chensky

Ol' Lady Chensky

 By Ronald Nitke

COOLIDGE SPRINGS, NO. WISC. - 1964

I stopped the car. I couldn’t just leave her lying there on the side of the highway.

My new six-dollar lure would not be tested this evening, and the walleye population of Pike Lake would be safe another day.

Several goats protectively surrounded her, as if they were mourning. It had to be her. I knew she lived near here and heard she kept goats, but had never actually seen them.

As I approached, her tribe hesitantly allowed me through their circle. Her left arm was clutched tightly to her chest. I touched her lifeless arm; the skin was cool. Her pitchfork was by her side. A peaceful look was on her face, and maybe even a little air of satisfaction.

Most, including me, didn’t even know her first name. Everyone just called her “Ol’ Lady Chensky.”

I drove back into Coolidge Springs and called the sheriff. Luckily, he was still at his office in Parkfield, only five miles away.

“Is that the old lady that I sometimes see walking along the highway?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s the one. Her name is Chensky.”

“I’m just closing up the office,” he said. “I can meet you there in about ten minutes. I’ll need to fill out a report.”

When she was alive, she looked like she was a hundred and ten, maybe five feet tall if she straightened her stooping shoulders, worn and weathered, like a crusty old seaman. No one knew for sure, but she was probably closer to seventy-five, maybe eighty.

As near as any of the locals could recall, she had been on that forty acres for what seemed like forever. She would walk the half mile into town every week. She didn’t drive, walked everywhere… and always came into my store after stopping at the post office.

The neighborhood children were frightened of her, but they would mock her and giggle from a safe distance. Her dark eyes would burn holes through them, but they didn’t care. They had the strength of numbers as their security. She would soon turn away and silently go about her business.

John Rivers warned me about her when I bought this little general store from him fourteen years ago. She even scared me a little the first time she came in, but I soon grew to find her a bit amusing.

She had yellowish-gray hair which was mostly covered by a shabby scarf tied under her chin… a “babushka” she called it. She was never seen without it.

She would search through the shelves and find damaged and dented cans of beans, or fruit, or something with a torn label. Sometimes, I even put one or two cans where she would easily find them, knowing that her tattered and faded apron would transport her trophies up to the check-out counter.

It was a little game we played that she always won. She reminded me of my own grandmother. Even with her raspy broken English, she negotiated like a Philadelphia lawyer.

“Mr. Miller,” she would say, (she always called me Mr. Miller, and I always called her Mrs. Chensky). “You know you can’t sell ‘dees, you have to tro’ dem out.”

If she had teeth, she didn’t bring them into town with her. She would miserly pluck a few cents from her leather coin purse as an offering. That worn purse looked like it was as old as she was. I saw the corner of a dollar bill sticking out once… she deftly pushed it back to safety.

One day, she found a leaking five-pound bag of flour. I taped it up and just let her have it. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Mrs. Chensky nodded what could have been perceived as a thank you, but she promptly strode from my store, certain she was doing me a favor.

Some of the folks around town suspected her husband may have left behind a little money when he supposedly died from the pox thirty years ago… or maybe it was an accident of some kind. The sum compounded itself as it passed from person to person and barstool to barstool.

The word was, the Chenskys had come up from Chicago in the early thirties. He had some kind of business dealings down there, but it was never exactly clear what kind of commerce was involved. They bought forty acres just outside of town, paid cash, and kept pretty much to themselves.

He was reportedly buried up there on a hillside, but no one knew for sure. There was no stone for him in the town cemetery.

One or two of the townsfolk thought they heard someone say they had seen a big black sedan with whitewall tires going into their property about the time he disappeared. One or two other rumors had him simply sneaking off to town one day for tobacco, and he just caught the southbound train never to be heard from again.

In the summer, Mrs. Chensky could sometimes be seen walking along the highway, toting home some treasure she had found in the dump. Or after the town crew would mow the tall roadside grass, she could be spotted with a pitchfork gathering up the freshly cut fodder for her goats. She would carry the hay up her dirt path to a small barn near her shack… forkful by forkful.

The Goats

There were some accounts that she had been seen petting and coddling, or even kissing her goats when the naked winter trees allowed some sight into her property. Some suspected the goats even frequented her house.

No one ever attempted to approach her near the path or her shack. No family. No friends. No visitors. The fear of the unknown outweighed the curiosity.

There was a son, Ludwik, believed to be in Chicago now, about four-hundred miles to the south. He didn’t stick around our sleepy little village long… must have been fifteen or sixteen when he left.

I heard he started calling himself Louis, and did some odd jobs around town to earn a little money. Most figured he probably caught the next train or bus out of town as soon as he could save the fare. No one claimed to know for sure.

Mrs. Chensky never mentioned him, or any other family. Louis never returned to Coolidge Springs, the locally proclaimed vacationland of the north. Not much activity here… not enough to hold the young man’s attention.

The sheriff was there in ten minutes, like he said he would be. Tom Peltz had been the county sheriff here for almost twenty years. He removed his hat and admitted he’d never actually spoken to her, and didn’t know much about her, other than what he heard. He didn’t get out that way much. We both knew she never bothered anybody.

He had called the county nurse before leaving his office.  She drove out and said, “Yup, she’s dead.”

Carol was all business. She would call the funeral home and they could send out the hearse. No need for an ambulance -- too late for that. She signed something and her work was done.

Since I probably knew Mrs. Chensky as well as anyone, the sheriff asked me to go with him up to her home as a witness.

We herded the goats up the trail, through the aspens and alder overgrowth, into the rickety old barn. Summer vegetation kept the house and barn totally secluded from the highway.

Ol' Lady Chensky's House

It was just after eight p.m., but the setting sun was still good for another hour of light. Plenty of time left for a quick check of the place.

The well was out the front door twenty paces to the left. The outhouse was twenty paces to the right… its silhouette in the setting summer sun. Her garden was halfway between. It was safely protected from her goats and other predators by a rusty chicken wire fence.

We ventured into her tiny four-room farmhouse. No electricity. The drafty shack offered little protection from the mosquitoes that were beginning to mount their evening assault. It was apparent that the goats freely roamed the house.

The pine floor boards creaked over the dugout root cellar below. I checked out the murky cellar… nothing more than cobwebs and a few mason jars of sauerkraut and raspberry preserves. Tempting, but I left them down there.

There was an old steamer trunk at the foot of her wrought iron bed. Neither the unpainted front door, nor the trunk, was locked. In the trunk were some of her winter clothes, a faded white wedding dress, a pair of brown lace-up baby shoes, and one pair of knitted baby booties… pink.

Tom found a tin box under the old clothes. It looked like, at one time, it may have been a bright red. It too, wasn’t locked.

Being aware of all the stories, the sheriff smiled at the thought of what he might find. He motioned me over. “Let’s have a look,” he said. “This should put to rest all those rumors and unsolved mysteries.”

Inside were two gold wedding bands, along with some old photographs that were neatly bound with string. The largest was an eight by ten wedding portrait of a handsome young couple taken at Lakeside Studio, Chicago, dated 1914. It looked like the bride was wearing the same wedding dress that was in the trunk.

Another picture, a souvenir postal, taken in the same Chicago studio: same couple, but in it, the young lady is holding a baby. A boy about three, or four years old, is standing in front of the adults. That must be Ludwik. The four of them looked like a proud little family…very well dressed. She was much shorter than the man.

There were a few other pictures that looked even older of other unidentified people; her parents, or other relatives, perhaps. Other than the deed to the forty acres, there were no insurance papers or any other valuables. No birth certificates. No death certificates. Along with the neatly bundled pictures was a folded hand written paper. The language was simple; humble… the penmanship was shaky but stylish.

“To whom it may concern:

     “When I die, I want the portrait of my husband, Joseph, to be buried with me. That is most important.
     I want the casket to be a simple pine box. There is some money in a jar in the woodbox. Take that and the rings for the expenses.
     Please give my goats to Charley Miller for his big yard on the edge of town. They are Bessie, Martha, Francis, Hank, and Little Billy, he’s the youngest. They all know who they are.
     All my other belongings and land can go to Ludwik to do with as he wishes. He is in Chicago. He has a telephone, but I don’t know the number. I think the operator can get it for you. Call him collect.” 

Signed - Anna Chensky: dated May 2, 1964"

She had written that only a few months ago. The sheriff had to move some kindling wood, but the jar was where she said it would be. Inside were thirty-eight well-traveled one dollar bills.

They looked like they may have been there a long time… hardly the much ballyhooed fortune whispered over clotheslines and between Saturday-night barstools.

Tom counted another two dollars and forty-one cents in her coin purse. Most people, including me, Charley Miller, never believed any of those so-called treasure stories of mysterious money brought up from Chicago.

The requested portrait of Joseph was hanging above the bed. The large oval frame was elegant. I would have been proud to own it myself.

The sheriff had done his duty and made the collect call to Ludwik that evening. Tom was reminded that he was "Louis" now, and although he wouldn’t be able make it, asked that the sheriff let him know if there was anything he needed to do. He wasn’t interested in the old pictures, or any other stuff. Tom left me with that and called it a day.

It seemed a simple request. “We’ve done it before,” boasted Bruce Carlton from the funeral home. “Sometimes people are buried with some of their jewelry, a Bible, favorite books, even a deck of cards, so the portrait of her husband is easy. A lot of the ladies like to be buried with their rosary. One time this old guy wanted a map of the stars… I suppose so he could find his way around up there.”

Father Francis came and said a few kind and inspirational words, but besides Bruce and his wife, there were only me and Mrs. Miller there to hear them.

In accordance with her last requests of simplicity, she was given a pauper’s funeral. Her tiny stature allowed for her to be placed in the smallest of the adult pine coffins.

Bruce carefully placed the portrait of Joseph in the coffin with Mrs. Chensky, but he couldn’t close the lid. The portrait with that elegant frame was too large for the tiny coffin.

He dialed the operator and made a person-to-person collect call to Louis. He should decide what to do about this dilemma.

It didn’t matter to Louis. He suggested they just take the picture out of the frame. What difference could it make? He was very busy.

Bruce looked at me and said, “Charley, you want this frame?”

He knew I liked the frame, and that was okay, but I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the goats.

The paper backing on the frame was old and brittle and had loosened over the years. Bruce cautiously began to separate the backing from the frame and uncovered the corner of a fifty dollar bill. Not just any fifty dollar bill… but a gold certificate from 1913.

He nearly choked when he found more neatly pressed bills: fives, tens, twenties and more fifties, dating as far back as the 1880’s. Most were common silver certificates, but there were more gold certificates, some red seals, and a two-dollar Union Note from 1862.

I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing, after her unabashed negotiations with me all these years. [Two cents for a can of beans… a penny for can of peaches.]

I suggested to Bruce that we call an old army buddy of mine. He was a numismatist in Milwaukee. We sorted through the treasure and gave my friend a detailed inventory of the find. He speculated that the bills could have a collector’s value of about forty thousand dollars.

Bruce could only shake his head, “Don’t that beat all? That old lady lived like a beggar and thought she was going to take it all with her when she died. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I told Bruce we should probably call Louis again.

It must have rung a dozen times. The operator finally cut in, “I’m sorry sir, your party is not accepting the charges.”

[Author’s note: This is a fictionalized story, based on true events. Anna, in fact, lived alone with her goats just outside a small town, and she did the gathering and bargaining as described. She also intended to take the portrait of her husband stuffed with the bills with her when she died. The value stated is believed to be reasonably accurate. Names and places were changed to protect privacy.]

Ronald Nitke

About The Author

Ronald Nitke has a B.S. in business administration, and has worked many years in corporate and forensic accounting. After serving aboard the USS Sanctuary 1967-1969, he was a logger in Northern Wisconsin.

In addition to writing several short stories, he is completing the final edits for a fact-based novel involving his forensic experiences, titled, "Hidden Assets". 

He and his wife Charlene, by way of Arizona, California, and Alabama are currently living in Appleton, Wisconsin, and restoring an 1880’s farmhouse. They share their space with a Golden Retriever, Lady Grace, and a Shih Tzu, Dixie Belle.

Email Ron

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Other Stories by Ron:

The Courier
The Waiting Room and The Judge

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Santa Claus Loves Books ...

A Whole Tree of Books!

Ho! Ho! Ho! 

Merry Christmas!

I know you're busy, but I want to tell you a secret.

Shhhhh ... I know Santa Claus.  

Santa told me he loves to read and he loves filling his sleigh with books for gifts and stocking stuffers.

Hey!  How about my books?  I have one for every age.

A book is the perfect gift for children, parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, teachers, sisters and brothers, and friends  ... 

Children’s Books:  [Paperback or Kindle]

Barking Spiders and Other Such Stuff

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Buy at Amazon

Barking Spiders 2 (the sequel)

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Me Too! Preschool Poetry

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Adult Books:  [Paperback or Kindle]

Anatomy of a Poet

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Bits and Pieces from a Writer's Soul

Read an Excerpt

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Merry Christmas!  

~Hugs from CJ


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Flash Fiction Horror: Terror on Hilltop Drive

by CJ Heck

Home alone, the sound of breaking glass wrenched Maggie from sleep. 

Waiting, listening, afraid to breathe, her heartbeats mingled with a wooden creak as someone climbed the stairs in the hallway.

Her door was open, she thought.  Oh my God!  The door was open!

Icy tendrils of fear prickled the nape of her neck, yanking the wisps of hair and standing them on end. 

Perspiration beaded her forehead and neck, the little runnels slipping down between her breasts, soaking the front of her nightgown. 

Suddenly a shot rang out in the darkness.  The bold flash was all at once blinding. Her ears were stunned to silence and a scream tore from her throat. 

She waited in the hushed gloom, her eyes again adjusting to the night. 

The smell of burnt gunpowder and blood filled the air and it was nauseating.

Afraid of the dark, but more afraid of turning on a light, she picked up the phone and dialed. 

“Nine-One-One. What is your emergency?”

“1010 Hilltop Drive. Help me!  I’ve just shot an intruder. Hurry!  Please hurry!”

Smoke clung to her like a shroud, its gray wisps still rising from the trembling .38 as Maggie crept through the doorway and into the hall to wait ...


[From the Book, "Bits and Pieces", by CJ Heck] 


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Flash Fiction Horror: "Half Past Five"

Peck's Corner

by CJ Heck

There’s a sewer drain in town on Peck's Corner.  At half past five every evening, the street lamp flickers on, near where gentlemen routinely take a leak after leaving the Raven's Wing Pub, after closing. 

It's been done for years.  No one even seems to notice, except for the smell of piss that assaults the nostrils when you step out onto the sidewalk. 

The smell immediately informs the brain, but only the vermin care -- and there were plenty of them out there, near the sewer drain in town on Peck's Corner.  I know.  I've been there.  That's where I saw the body.  

It was at half past five on Monday.  The chimes from the clock in the tower told me it was so, and when I called, that’s what I told the authorities. 

The body was posed, sitting.  The head was in his lap, resting between the legs which were all askew and bent at impossible angles.  

The arms hung down, elbows facing out. The hands were placed on top of the head, fingers entwined in the flaming red hair of the head -- the head that was in his lap. 

The body was sitting in a pool of its own blood, the mouth frozen in a scream that no one will ever hear.  But the eyes, the eyes ... I will never forget the eyes. The vermin had eaten both eyes. 

Will anyone ever know the horror they saw on Peck's Corner, just before half past five ...  


[From the Book, "Bits and Pieces", by CJ Heck]

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Short Story: "Yardsticks"

"Yardsticks" of Life

by CJ Heck

It was late autumn, but a day still warm enough to make Kathryn sweat and she smiled, remembering her mother's words. "Always remember, Kathryn, ladies never sweat, they perspire."

The salty air wafting over the water felt good as it teased the corners of the tablecloth up and out, like checkered wings. It also mercifully cooled the, (ahem), per-spi-ra-tion that had glued wisps of hair to her forehead.

From somewhere nearby, cicadas in love were calling each other in the trees. Their haunting chirp mixed curiously with the waves, the soft clinking of silverware, and the distant laughter of children playing in the dwindling daylight on the beach below.

Kathryn was celebrating her last full day of vacation with a hot fudge sundae. Both were few and far between and justly savored -- the vacation, day by lazy day, and the sundae, spoonful by decadent spoonful.

The best hot fudge sundae she had ever eaten had been in San Francisco, down near the water at the Chocolate Manufactory in Ghirradelli Square. That had been back in the early seventies, now nearly a lifetime ago, she thought, with a sigh.

Through the ensuing years, whenever she allowed herself this treasure, a comparison took place in her mind. Each hot fudge sundae from a new place was measured against The Ghirradelli Square Yardstick.

Of course, there were very few of these indulgences -- she wanted to maintain her figure, but the time between them built up a delightful anticipation, which made the stretches between easier to handle. Funny, until now, she hadn’t realized just how many of these invisible yardsticks she actually carried around with her.

Katheryn had just turned fifty-nine. Admittedly, she had arrived at that age kicking and screaming -- after all, no one ever consciously decides to be middle aged. Ultimately, thoughts of the alternative to getting older washed over her and, with a feeling of resignation, she bathed in all the positives of actually being allowed to live that long.

Kathryn had a sudden epiphany. She just realized that she even looked at other women around her who were her age, or near it, with yet another invisible "yardstick".

While never model-beautiful, she supposed she could have been considered a striking woman. She still had her figure and she worked hard to keep it, although admittedly, gravity was beginning to coax some things a little lower ...

Her hair had recently begun to silver at the temples with a few others twinkling here and there, as if in afterthought. She smiled, deciding that the total effect could be considered attractive. Besides, she felt she had earned the silver -- after all, she was a grandmother several times over.

Kathryn still noticed, and secretly welcomed, when a masculine head turned in her direction for a second look. She wasn't aware, (and would have denied it had she been told), that their attraction to her came from a puzzling enigma, one that only surrounded her in public -- she seemed mysterious.

Her child-like naiveté contradicted the sensual, at times even haughty, self-assurance she exuded in her walk and manner. However, if you were to ask Kathryn, she would tell you she was merely aloof.

Men thought, now here was a woman who drew your attention. She could walk into a room and own the room. Here was a confident woman who looked comfortable in her clothes -- and a woman they enjoyed imagining even more comfortable out of them, thus, the enigma.

Kathryn wasn’t aware of those things. What she did know was, the heads that turned in her direction were divinely better than looking in a mirror -- and more flattering, too.

Kathryn leaned back in her chair, not wanting this last vacation day to end. The sea breeze still felt wonderful. Maybe she would sit here just a little while longer.

The sun was making its descent into the distant trees and she was suddenly struck by the silence. When had that happened? The laughter of the children, even the drone of the cicadas, had disappeared sometime during the reverie about her various yardsticks.

Comparing hot fudge sundaes, or other women her age, was one thing, but she felt guilty, when her mind eased on over to compare the men she had known in her life. She knew she shouldn’t -- each deserved to be separate and unique -- still, she rationalized, everyone did it and she couldn’t help doing it either.

It wasn’t that she had a huge number of men to compare.  She didn’t, but she felt safe saying that the ones who had been in her life, had been there for a damn good reason.

It took years, but she eventually came to see that each had played a specific part in who she now was. Each unknowingly brought a valuable lesson, or lessons, that she was to learn. After all, aren’t we all products of our environment? Everything that happens to us changes us, making us who we were destined to become.

No, she decided.  She would save her yardsticks to think about at another time. God knows, there were many nights when sleep wouldn't allow her in.  That's when she should think about her silly yardstick comparisons about life.

With that decided, Kathryn stood and adjusted her skirt. Then she lifted her chin for maximum effect and walked proudly and confidently to her car.



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Just Passing Through: The Stranger

Marlborough Man

“Magnetism:  one of the Six Fundamental Forces of the Universe, with the other five being Gravity, Duct Tape, Whining, Remote Control, and The Force That Pulls Dogs Toward The Groins Of Strangers.” ~Dave Barry

A Short Story

by CJ Heck


People who know me know I’m well-grounded, practical, fairly logical, painfully honest, and I don’t believe in love at first sight. However, I do believe in something at first sight -- but wait, I’ll tell you what happened. You decide.

I find it interesting, what our senses can pull out of the recesses of our mind into the now, with a smell, a taste, even a sound we heard a long time ago. Something, anything, can be recalled and relived, as though it happened only minutes ago.

There’s a whole day like that and it lingers, hidden in my mind, until my senses suddenly bring it up and out.

I can still taste the gritty dust the wind blew across my face on a sweltering summer’s day; still hear the ding-ding-ding at the old-fashioned red and white gas pumps, as someone filled their tank, and I can still smell the mingled aromas of diesel and gas.

As I recall, it was the middle of August, during what we called 'the dog days of summer'. It was stinking hot. I was on a road trip to nowhere in particular, just going from here to there, and taking a few days to do it.

I had stopped for gas and an orange soda at a truck stop somewhere along a two-lane road. I remember the hot wind blowing dust, and it was gritty, and it covered everything that got in its way.

Not ready to get back inside the steamy car, I sat on a large rock under the only tree I could find, savoring the ice cold soda and mopping the sweat and grime from my face and neck with a wet paper towel from the ladies room.

I remember hearing door hinges whining in protest and as I glanced up, I saw a man, a perfect stranger, climbing out of an old blue pickup parked to the side of the gas pumps.

He was walking straight towards me, wearing run-down leather boots and the wind was ruffling his sandy blond hair. Even now, I’m not sure why I was so mesmerized by the sight of him, but I was.

I can still see him walking.  He was tall and wiry, with long legs moving him along in a slow, bowlegged stride that literally reinvented the swagger. It was pure poetry.

As he got closer, I saw a tanned face road mapped with lines, and he was squinting at me through ice-blue eyes.

When he caught me staring, he touched a finger to the hat cocked to one side, threw me a wink, a quick nod, and then a crooked smile. “Maaa’am.” That’s all he said, but it was enough. I had heard his Texas drawl.

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but when he passed by, my eyes were drawn to the back of those tight worn jeans and the perfect butt that filled them.  Lord, I hope my mouth was closed.

It wasn’t that he was Marlboro-Man handsome.  What he did have was a rugged muscular look, one that hinted of riding horses, squinting into the sun all day and sleeping under the stars at night. It was all of that, and being perfectly packaged in tight jeans and a blue plaid shirt with pearl snaps and rolled up sleeves.

My emotions ran high that afternoon so long ago. Maybe it was the love I had for westerns as a child, maybe his Texan drawl -- I guess I'll never really know.  The only thing that ever passed between us was a wink, a nod, and a crooked smile.

But I’ll never forget the day when I fell --- not in love, but definitely something, by the side of the road with a man I never met ... someone just passing through.



"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

One Morning in "The Enchanted Land"

"Jingling" in New Mexico

by John A. Roof

"Ranger! Ranger, wake up! Ranger, it's time to go!" shouted Tucker.

I heard this distant booming voice, and felt the world shake beneath me.

Overly tired from the previous late night's "boy talk," I wasn't sure what I was hearing or what I was seeing.

Slowly, my mind started to churn awake and I began to remember. I was in the Clark's Fork bunkhouse and this morning it was my first time to herd in a remuda of horses, or jingle, as the old cowboys called it. Oh, and I was deftly sure I was Ranger.

The excitement began to build. I was nineteen years old; the world as I knew it was pure, new, and full of adventure. Today was starting out with great excitement.

"Come on, Ranger! It's getting late. Grab your rigging and let's go! You ride Double S!" commanded Tucker.

Lying in my bunk which had just been shaken to near collapsing, and now wearing my glasses, I could see the back of Tommy Tucker as he walked away. I remember well the sound that he made, as we all did, when we walked in this old bunkhouse.

The floor was so worn over time that its wooden planks, which had never seen paint, were all wavy. No matter how many times a day you swept the floor, it always remained dusty and dirty-looking from all the mud tracked in over the years. When you walked, there was this hollow echo, enhanced further by the grinding of the dirt into dust. Add to that the musical metal jingle of spurs on the heavy cowboy boots we wore, and the picture was complete.

Quickly I glanced around the bunkhouse, taking note of all the nails that had been driven into the walls by previous inhabitants to hang clothes or other items. Though many of the nails were empty, more nails continued to be driven into the wooden walls, as though someday they might all join as one continuous nail.

The smell of the bunkhouse, even though it was quite airy, was a mixture of old leather, dust, and body odors laced with a light scent of aftershave lotion. The aftershave was used in place of a shower, because the showers were a half mile from the bunkhouse. There was no hot water, so the walk back produced the same body odors that the showers took away.

"Ranger! Hurry up!” barked Tucker.

I quickly walked to the grain room that was located at the end of the bunkhouse, and grabbed a feed bag. I then walked to the tack room to gather my rigging, which had been selected for me because of its weight. It was ten pounds heavier than a normal saddle, so the horse would believe a bigger. meaner person was sitting on his back.

Coming through the tack room door was like taking a step back in time. It was just before sunrise and the light had not yet reached the trees surrounding the bunkhouse. The early morning mountain air was chilled, crisp to the point of seeing your breath out in front of you.

I carefully approached Double S, my ride for this morning. I slipped the feed bag over his nose and gave him a reassuring stroke on the neck. I swung my rigging onto his back, positioning it and cinching it tight, and then I waited for Double S to finish his feed.

I looked around the corral and saw Tucker, who was checking Concho, his ride, for loose shoes. Tucker had been raised on many ranches as a child and he always knew what to do when it came to horses. Double S finished his grain. I slipped on the bridle, checked the cinch one more time for tightness, and swung into the saddle.

Now it was my turn to wait for Tucker. I was to ride as his bumper. Concho, who put on a rodeo show every morning, needed another horse and rider to ride alongside to calm him down because he had been broke as a cold back and not gentled as the new horses are today.

Sure enough, soon as Tucker's weight hit the saddle, Concho began bucking. As we finally rode out the gate together, Concho gave one last kick and we were on our way.

We rode in silence. Tucker was a man of few words so as not to disturb the serenity of the mountains and the feeling of peace that surrounded us. We rode our horses to a little knoll just above the main pasture overlooking the hay racks and we waited for the sun to rise over the mountain ridge in front of us. As the sun's rays approached, I could see the horses in the pasture below.

Suddenly, in front of me, appeared this panarama -- just like a painting -- its beauty and color so vivid that no artist could duplicate it, nor a writer ever describe it. It took my breath away. In that one moment, I knew why they called New Mexico "The Land of Enchantment."

"Sixty-one -- three are missing. Let's ride!" Tucker shouted as he snapped the bull whip in the air.

The sharpness in Tucker's voice woke me from a feeling of grace that I have only known a few times in my life. For the next hour we rode hard, gathering the renegade horses and herding them back to the corral.

Then we hit the bunk house and a welcomed cup of hot campfire coffee. The other wranglers were up and waiting. While they grained and saddled the horses for the day's work ahead, I was told to go look for the three horses that were missing.

I reined Double S back down the trail that I rode earlier that morning. For me, this was a blessing. I rode back to the knoll, dismounted and sat in blessed silence for some time. I knew I would be in trouble for being so long, but my thoughts had returned to the vision of that early morning.

I jingled many times that summer of 1968, but never again would I see or feel the experience of that first time, especially that morning, in quite the same way. The lasting impression of that one moment in time has never gone away, for it was truly an enchanted morning, in an even more enchanted land.


About The Author

John and Betsy Roof

Originally from Coshocton, Ohio, John A. Roof is an artist, furniture restorer, writer, and a published Western Memoir Author who lives in Staples,Texas with his wife, Betsy.

"As a young man, I spent my summers in Cimmarron, New Mexico, at Philmont Scout Ranch. I could walk for hours looking at the trees, sky, and mountains. Sometimes it was like the earth was put here just for me to see the true beauty." ~John A. Roof

John's Books:

Bill the Calf and the Ride Down the Road
The Walk: Short Stories of a Teenage Boy in the 60's

John's Website

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Short Story: In Honor of Life

Beautiful Flowers

by CJ Heck

It was Memorial Day and, as she did every year, Sharon Cleary drove to the Eternity Gardens Cemetery with three of the prettiest spring bouquets she could find.

She took this day seriously. It was her private, personal time to honor family members who died in war. It was her way to show she cared.

One bouquet was always for Great-Grampa, "PJ" Mullerton, who died in a bunker during the first world war. Another bouquet was for Uncle Theo Tarns, who was killed when his bomber was shot down in the second world war.

She had never met Uncle Theo, but she was still fiercely proud of him and, as with great-grampa, forever indebted to him for his service. The last bouquet of flowers was always the most difficult for her. She always made sure this bouquet was the largest and most colorful of the three. This one had to be special. It was for Daddy.

Sharon was only six when she hugged Steven Cleary's neck tightly for the last time at the airport in Stewartsville. She remembered crying and pleading with him to stay. "Please, Daddy, don't go. I will miss you and so will Mommy. Please stay with us. We need you." She knew her father had been just as sad to leave them. She saw the tears he silently wiped from his cheek after he hugged her and then turned to hug and kiss her mother.

Steven had been killed in action in Vietnam six months later, a decorated soldier and a hero. Her mother, Sarah Cleary-Buddig, had eventually framed his medals and they still hung on the wall beside his picture over the fireplace. Sharon remembered what a sorrowful time that had been, after the family learned of his death. But as sad as she had been, she had never felt so completely helpless as she did, hearing her mother sobbing into her pillow at night and not knowing how to comfort her.

Sharon had been so lost in thought that she nearly missed Uncle Theo's grave. She had to turn and walk back two rows and she chided herself for not paying more attention. After she finished her prayers and was done talking to Uncle Theo, she took a deep breath -- it was time to find Daddy. Her heart always felt like it was in her throat as she walked the steep path to the upper section where her father rested in the Cleary family plot.

Just as she reached the top, she noticed an elderly woman bending over one of the older headstones on the left. Sharon watched in silence as the woman tenderly kissed a folded paper and then slipped it under a vase of roses on the flat marble headstone. Then she adjusted the small American flag that was stuck in the ground to the right of the marker.

As she stood, she suddenly turned and their eyes met. Sharon was stunned. She could almost feel the woman's thoughts through the look on her face and what was in her eyes. Then just as quickly, the moment was gone and the woman had turned away.

How amazing, Sharon thought, as she watched the woman walk slowly back down the path towards the entrance gate. The woman was crying -- I could see her tears, Sharon thought -- but she had the most beautiful smile on her face at the same time. Sharon felt compelled to go over to the headstone and read the letter the woman had so carefully tucked under the vase.

"To my husband, my lover, my friend:
I will always love you.
I hope you like the roses.
All my love forever,
Your Maeve"

She read the short note and, now crying herself, the words filled her with a beautiful new awareness. She could almost see the wheels of time turning the days and months to years, and then you realize that it's been a whole lifetime that a loved one has been gone. One day, like a bucket with a hole, you can see the sands of grief sifting slowly through, and instead of mourning their death, you begin to celebrate everything they meant to you in life.

Sharon closed her eyes and, as she replaced the letter under the vase of roses, she quietly thanked the elderly woman and walked back to her family plot. Then she placed her third bouquet on the engraved marble monument for her father.

And as Sharon thanked Steven Adam Cleary once more for being her father, she remembered the love and the good times they did have together. This time when Sharon cried, she could also smile -- and the tears were tears of joy.



"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Ride, Buffalo, Ride: by John A. Roof

John on Lisa

It was getting close to the fourth of July and there was always a big celebration in Cimarron, New Mexico. At the time, I was working as a burro wrangler at Harlan Camp.

We had been in the high country for three weeks and I was hoping that Bill Leach, my Camp Director, would let me have a couple of days off around the fourth. I always enjoyed going to the rodeo and, of course, checking out the girls.

Cimarron was a small town located at the mouth of the Cimarron Canyon and on the Cimarron River just on the edge of the high country and the plains which lead to the Texas flat lands and Lubbock, Texas.

I was going to college there at Texas Tech University, and working on an art degree in studio painting, which my father considered to be a waste of time.

This was also my third year at Philmont Scout Ranch and, in my mind anyway, there was no place greater in the world to be than there.

Later that day, Bill Leach said I could have the Fourth off, if the staff would let him have July 20 off so he could watch the first moon landing. Steve, the other staff member, had no problem with either one of us having our desired days off. He just wanted to have three days later that month so he could go to Denver for a weekend. So it was set. I would have the fourth off.

The problem with being in the high country camps was, even if you had the day off, you might not be able to get in because there was no traffic to the camps. So you would have to hike in or wait for a ride to show up.

I decided to take a different route. I was going to ride my horse, Lisa, in to headquarters. It was faster than hiking and I thought it would be a great experience, being on horseback for part of the day alone, and taking in the beauty of the landscape from the back of a horse. As a little boy, I had always dreamed of being a cowboy -- back then, I think everyone wanted to be.

The day of my departure, I grained the burros, cleaned the corral, gave a lesson on burro packing and showed the scouts how to tie a diamond hitch so their equipment would not fall off. 

Then I gathered my things, shoved them in the saddle bags, checked out with Bill, and headed for the corral. I saddled up Lisa, tied on the saddle bags, swung into the saddle and I headed out. I was really looking forward to this ride.

I followed the trail which led to Camp Cimmarroncito, between Deer Lake Mesa and Antelope Mesa. I had hiked this trail many times, when I was a Ranger, but this was the first time I had on horseback. I was hoping I wouldn't run into any bears.

I had been riding fence a couple of weeks before and Lisa and I ran across a bear at one of the stock ponds and she really gave me a ride. I don’t think she likes them very much.

I checked my map and ahead was a cut off that would lead into the pasture and on down to headquarters. I found the cut off, it was old and not used very much, so it was like unexplored territory. I followed the trail till I found the first fence gate, dismounted, opened the gate and went through. I rode for the better part of an hour and then came to two gates. Without checking my map, I took the gate to the right, figuring that was headed the correct direction towards Headquarters.

After a while, I saw some cattle up ahead and I thought I would investigate. As I got closer, I pulled my rope and thought maybe I would do a little roping. “Wow! Those are some big Angus cows!” I spoke out loud to the open spaces. I didn’t know the ranch had any Angus Cattle. The closer I got, the bigger they looked. “Those are the biggest Angus I have ever seen!” I said again out loud to no one.



Then in a flash, it came to me. “Shit! I'm in the buffalo pasture! Oh hell ...” this time, speaking even louder, again to no one.

For the next few minutes, all you could hear were my spurs singing as I pushed Lisa into a hard run and headed for the nearest gate.

Coming up on a small rise, I dismounted, making sure I was not being followed by any of the buffalo. Quickly, I checked my map and located the closest gate out of the pasture and headed straight for it.

Once I was out of the buffalo pasture, I again spoke out loud, but this time it was to my horse, “Okay, Lisa, this is OUR little secret. We won’t tell ANYONE that we were in the buffalo pasture.”

We continued our ride to headquarters and then had a great Fourth of July.

The whole time I was in headquarters, and while I was at the rodeo, there was a smile on my face. The ride back on July 5 was not as exciting but it was a ride back in time and the beauty of the west. I was in the saddle early that morning and I am still in the saddle, in my thoughts.

An Honest to God True Story
Happy trails.
John A. Roof


About the Author

John and Betsy Roof

John Roof graduated from Texas Tech in December, 1973, with a BFA in studio painting.

Bill the Calf and the Ride Down the Road

The Walk: Short Stories of a Teenage Boy in the 60's

Visit John's Website

John and his wife, Betsy, live in their home amid  the wildflowers and fruit trees in Staples, Texas, where they are accomplished artists and photographers.  They also love to build and restore antique furniture together.

He's one of the nicest and most regular guys you'll ever want to meet.

John is fond of saying, he has found his garden ...

"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

The Fall of Life

Life is what we make it ... 

A Short Story
by CJ Heck 

Anna was signing a birthday card for her oldest daughter at the kitchen table and enjoying a late morning cup of coffee. 

The card was lovely with a beautiful verse. She had spent a lot of time in the card store yesterday, crying over the sad ones, laughing at the silly ones, until she finally found the right one, the card that captured her sentiments exactly. 

This was truly the perfect card, all about motherly love, and the pride she felt in the woman and mother Chelsea had become. Then something suddenly occurred to her -- Chelsea was turning thirty-eight.

Then a thought caught Anna by surprise, like a sucker-punch -- not that Chelsea would be thirty-eight. No. It was more than that. Anna was exactly twenty years older than her daughter, which meant that Anna would be fifty-eight this year. 

I'm now in the fall of my life, Anna thought … how the hell did I get here so quickly? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was young and crouched at life's starting gate, waiting for the race to begin, with all of my plans and my hopes and dreams stretched out before me? 

Wasn't it just yesterday that we were awaiting the arrival of our first-born, Chelsea? Anna's thoughts turned melancholy and they reached back, just for a while.

As a child, she remembered looking up at her grandparents and feeling such awe. These were her daddy's parents. Back then, she had thought they must be as old as the trees. Their hair was snow white and they always came with bottles of pills, which they lined up in a long row on the kitchen counter top.  

Being so old, she had thought, they were probably very wise, too, so she always listened closely to what Grampa shared. He told her stories about what it was like when he was a little boy and there were more horses on the streets than there were cars. He said they didn't have TV's back then. 

They read books and played games at the kitchen table when it rained, and when it was sunny, they played fun outside games, or climbed trees, or went swimming in the pond. She remembered the wonderful way grampa explained things so she could almost see everything he was describing, just through his words.

Yes, Anna thought, they were old, but I adored them and I saw them through eyes full of love. I loved hearing all the stories about when they were young. I remember going for ice cream cones at the dairy store with them, and hearing grandma hum while she baked pies -- and grampa puffing on his curved pipe that smelled so pungent and good. 

Then another sobering thought hit Anna. I am now older than these wonderful grandparents were when they passed away.  Oh, how I miss them, and suddenly she realized something. She wanted to be just like them.

Time moves so quickly. No, not in our youth. Then, time only gently pushes us forward towards the finish line and we hardly notice time at all. Then, slowly at first, then faster, life grows full and gets busy and things change. Where time used to stop us in our tracks, we suddenly learn just how fast it really goes -- like the thirty-eighth birthday of a child.  

Here in the fall of my life, time has simply caught me off guard. I have a few regrets, Anna thought. There are things I wish I hadn’t done, things I should have done, and things I wish I had done differently. But there are the many wonderful things that I’m happy to have done and glad that I had the chance to do.

Anna took another sip of her coffee, which had turned ice cold in her cup. I don’t know how long my fall will last, and I certainly have no promises that I will ever see winter, but I do know I've enjoyed a full life ... and damn it, it’s not over yet! 

I’m going to treat every day from now on with renewed appreciation. There are things I still want to accomplish, dreams that can still come true and children and grandchildren to hug and tell my stories to, and I'm fortunate to have a wonderful husband in my life to share it all with.

Anna remembered something her mother used to say, "Life is a gift, baby girl. How we live it is our gift to ourselves." Now that saying makes perfect sense, she thought, with a silent thank you to her mother. 

She decided to pour another cup of coffee, call her daughter, and then start opening more of her gift ... 





(from the book, "Bits and Pieces")

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