Most of this mining community was moved north during several successive winters by "tractor-train" to a new townsite at Lynn Lake after the ore body was exhausted. My hometown was approximately one mile from Sherridon, on the lakeshore. 
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Aerial View of Sherridon,Manitoba
Most of this mining community was moved north during several successive winters by "tractor-train" to a new townsite at Lynn Lake after the ore body was exhausted. My hometown was approximately one mile from Sherridon, on the lakeshore.
Monday, November 06, 2006
A Cowboy's Christmas
A Cowboy's Christmas( with apologies and gratitude to Clement C. Moore)
Twas the night before Christmas, and all thru the spread,
The cattle were sleeping, all 500 head.
The tack was hung in the barn with care,
Ready for the work-day that would soon be there.
The cowboys were snoring in their bunk-beds
While dreams of soft saddles ran thru their heads.
And Maw in her nightgown and I in my hat,
Had just hunkered down for a long winter's nap.
When out in the barnyard there rose such a racket
Then I fell out of bed and grabbed my jacket.
To the window I flew like a fast burning flame,
Tripped over my boots, put my hand thru the pane.
The moon shining bright on the fresh fallen snow,
Lit up the barnyard and the scene below,
When what should I see with my bleary eyed stare
But a shiny stage coach and 8 tiny black mares.
With a dusty little driver, an old cowpoke,
I thought for a moment it must be a joke.
Quicker than lightning, his horses they came,
And he whooped and he hollered and called them names.
Now,dang you, now darn you, now you old mules,
On with it, get moving, you dad blasted fools.
To the top of the roof and over the wall,
Now giddy up, giddy up, giddy up all.
As tumbleweeds before the west wind blow
Before they hit the fences, roll and roll,
So up to the rooftop the mares flew
With the shiny coach and the old cowboy too.
And then in an instant, I only heard of course
The neighing and pawing of each black horse.
As I pulled in my head and also my hand,
On the fireplace hearth I saw the oldtimer land.
He was dressed in red, an old union suit,
And covered in ashes from his head to his boots.
Two saddlebags he had slung on his back,
He was bent like a mule under its pack.
His face, how wrinkled! his eyes shot red,
His cheeks sunburnt under a snow-white head.
His tight little mouth was drawn up in a leer
And white was the color of his bushy beard.
His lip stuck out with a wad of chew,
His teeth were obvious for the lack of a few.
He had a tight face and a belly likewise
All of which lent to his diminutive size.
He was lean and trim, a regular ranch hand,
No different than most who rode the rangeland.
A twinkling eye, a quick nod of his head
Let me know he was friendly, nothing to dread.
He turned,not speaking a word to me
And emptied his saddlebags under the tree.
He laid out presents for all of the crew
And then up the chimney he flew.
He jumped on the coach, to his team gave a yell,
And away they flew, like a bat out of hell.
But I heard him call before he flew out of sight,
Merry Christmas pardner, have a good night!
Twas the night before Christmas, and all thru the spread,
The cattle were sleeping, all 500 head.
The tack was hung in the barn with care,
Ready for the work-day that would soon be there.
The cowboys were snoring in their bunk-beds
While dreams of soft saddles ran thru their heads.
And Maw in her nightgown and I in my hat,
Had just hunkered down for a long winter's nap.
When out in the barnyard there rose such a racket
Then I fell out of bed and grabbed my jacket.
To the window I flew like a fast burning flame,
Tripped over my boots, put my hand thru the pane.
The moon shining bright on the fresh fallen snow,
Lit up the barnyard and the scene below,
When what should I see with my bleary eyed stare
But a shiny stage coach and 8 tiny black mares.
With a dusty little driver, an old cowpoke,
I thought for a moment it must be a joke.
Quicker than lightning, his horses they came,
And he whooped and he hollered and called them names.
Now,dang you, now darn you, now you old mules,
On with it, get moving, you dad blasted fools.
To the top of the roof and over the wall,
Now giddy up, giddy up, giddy up all.
As tumbleweeds before the west wind blow
Before they hit the fences, roll and roll,
So up to the rooftop the mares flew
With the shiny coach and the old cowboy too.
And then in an instant, I only heard of course
The neighing and pawing of each black horse.
As I pulled in my head and also my hand,
On the fireplace hearth I saw the oldtimer land.
He was dressed in red, an old union suit,
And covered in ashes from his head to his boots.
Two saddlebags he had slung on his back,
He was bent like a mule under its pack.
His face, how wrinkled! his eyes shot red,
His cheeks sunburnt under a snow-white head.
His tight little mouth was drawn up in a leer
And white was the color of his bushy beard.
His lip stuck out with a wad of chew,
His teeth were obvious for the lack of a few.
He had a tight face and a belly likewise
All of which lent to his diminutive size.
He was lean and trim, a regular ranch hand,
No different than most who rode the rangeland.
A twinkling eye, a quick nod of his head
Let me know he was friendly, nothing to dread.
He turned,not speaking a word to me
And emptied his saddlebags under the tree.
He laid out presents for all of the crew
And then up the chimney he flew.
He jumped on the coach, to his team gave a yell,
And away they flew, like a bat out of hell.
But I heard him call before he flew out of sight,
Merry Christmas pardner, have a good night!
Sunday, November 05, 2006
The Long Way Home
The Long Way Home
The candle burned low in the old chipped plate,
The night was dark, the hour late.
Snow, piled high at the cabin's eaves, reflected the flame
On the cracked window pane.
The cabin was small and almost bare,
Rough shelves, a stove, a bed, a table and chair.
An old wooden chest stood guard by the door,
A bearskin rug, by the bed, on the floor.
A thin bearded man sat,white head bent low,
Intent in his task, not seeing the fast drifting snow.
A stub of a pencil held tight in his fist,
Aged eyes filled wih a teary mist.
" My Darling, I'm writing on this stormy night,
To tell you I'll soon be home to make things right.
The winter's been good, the trapping better;
That's why I'm writing this letter.
I know that I've been gone for a few years too long,
And I know that it's been hard for you and I know that it's wrong,
I know that I promised you that I'd always be there,
But you know that I love you and you know that I care.
The years away have been hard for me too,
But all that I've done, I've done for you.
I've worked and I've saved,I've been all alone,
Just for you and the boys, to build you a home.
Finally, I've made it, success is near,
I'll be home soon, maybe next year.
I'll close by saying " I love you" to you and the boys;
Please tell them that they're my pride and my joy."
The letter was folded, the envelope sealed,
By the door, on the floor, the man kneeled.
Carefully he opened the wooden chest,
And placed his letter, with all the rest.
A Ranch-Hand's Last Summer
A Ranch-Hand's Last Summer
Old Hank had just about reached his trail's end,
Everybody knew it, his boss and his friends;
But most of all, Hank knew it best,
He knew that he was overdue for a rest.
His work became less, his aches and pains more,
Wasn't one part of him that wasn't sore.
But he never complained, he never quit,
Just shook his head and got back to it.
Then came the day when Hank left the gang,
It was a quiet burial, no choir sang.
A few cowboys weeping, feeling like fools;
For you see, Old Hank was only a mule.
Old Hank had just about reached his trail's end,
Everybody knew it, his boss and his friends;
But most of all, Hank knew it best,
He knew that he was overdue for a rest.
His work became less, his aches and pains more,
Wasn't one part of him that wasn't sore.
But he never complained, he never quit,
Just shook his head and got back to it.
Then came the day when Hank left the gang,
It was a quiet burial, no choir sang.
A few cowboys weeping, feeling like fools;
For you see, Old Hank was only a mule.
Cowboy Poetry by Bovine Deprived Poet
The moon hung low like a cowgirl's jeans on a drunken Saturday night,
The stars shone bright like a cowboy's eyes before a barroom fight.
Across the range came a sound that was plain,
To a rider's experienced ear;
A sound so loud that it shook the ground,
And made a cowboy shake with fear.
A sound worse than a herd of stampeding cows and their thundering hooves,
A sound that chilled a cowpoke's heart,a sound he dreaded to hear,
" Sorry,boys,bar's closed,we're all out of beer"
The stars shone bright like a cowboy's eyes before a barroom fight.
Across the range came a sound that was plain,
To a rider's experienced ear;
A sound so loud that it shook the ground,
And made a cowboy shake with fear.
A sound worse than a herd of stampeding cows and their thundering hooves,
A sound that chilled a cowpoke's heart,a sound he dreaded to hear,
" Sorry,boys,bar's closed,we're all out of beer"
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