CATHY BRIAN
Loa, Utah
About Cathy Brian
photo by Jo Lynne Kirkwood
Grown Cowmen
I am not a country girl, I was city born and bred.
But a cowboy chose me for his wife, and I've learned rural ways instead.
He must a thought I'd do O.K. when he chose to tie the knot
'Cause I sure ain't nothin' special, but, look at what I got!
I got a man to raise my boys and to teach them how to live
By raisin' cows and sheep and such. Some may think it primitive.
But let me tell you what I've learned in this ranchin' mom's career.
Most times there's nothin' better then a workin' atmosphere.
Like that day we blew some dudes away. They was on a nature trek,
When they came upon our cowherd, and spooked 'em near to heck.
Here they came right straight at us in their fancy Nissan truck,
And the cows was bein' stubborn and just wouldn't light a shuck.
Now I was up on a horse that day and so were my two sons,
One was six and one was seven and we was wishin' we had guns.
'Cause we were pushin' cows that day, and I mean it literally
And ornery bovines sure ain't much cause for actin' cheerily
But we eased those cows on by them dudes and turned 'em round the bend.
'And then that herd started movin fast and our pushin met its end.
Cause they cut loose and headed south and we had to let 'em go
And those dudes just drove on past us after watchin' our little show.
We watched the truck stop up the road, there by my boys' dad
And when Dad met up with us for lunch he told us what they'd said.
See Dad'd been drivin' down the road in our beat up little jeep
'Cause my little girl was plumb wore out and seen fit to fall asleep.
He said those dudes had stopped him, wonderin' who the cowboys were.
They'd said, "We saw all those great big cows and figured we knew sure,
That once we made it through the herd, and out the other side
We'd run into some grown cowmen with rough and suntanned hide!"
They'd said they couldn't believe it when they finally got to the end
And there were two little cowboys doin' the job of four or five men!
Some say the cowboy's endangered. I say take 'em off the list
'Cause extinction sure can't happen, not as long as cows exist.
And I say they ain't endangered from my experienced point of view,
'Cause from one cowboy now I've got two brand new buckaroos.
So always give me primitive and a workin' atmosphere,
And don't think I won't always fight to keep my cowboys here.
© 2005, Cathy Brian
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.Cathy comments: I hope the experiences that this poem depicts will continue, not only through out my life but through generations of time. Where at least a select few may learn and revere the value of hard work and the duty we have to love and maintain the land that has provided us with such a unique way of life.
The Contradicting Cowboy
The cowboy sat there in his saddle
Like a bird rulin' over its nest.
'T was clear he belonged in the leather
You could tell by the way he was dressed.
His hat was all sweaty and dirty.
His shirt, torn and faded from wear.
His wranglers were not quite as shabby,
'Cause his chaps, they protected him there.
His boots were all scuffed, but were polished.
You could tell that he valued their worth.
And the spurs, were just a might rusty,
From the sweat of the horses scarred girth.
He sat in his saddle so proudly,
Contradicting the clothes that he wore.
His age was a mark of his wisdom.
His skin showed the trials he bore.
A king on his steed full of spirit
Just a colt he's still tryin' to break.
Not one of the others would ride 'im,
But the challenge was one he would take.
This cowboy had well earned his status,
You could tell it with just one small glance.
As he sat there at home in the saddle,
His ridin' a well rehearsed dance.
He swung himself down from the leather,
His feet hit the ground with a smack.
He tied up his horse to the trailer,
Turned, stumbled, and threw out his back!
© 2005, Cathy Brian
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Grandma and the Outlaw
Dad Gum evasive was Butch Cassidy that day
But his associate old blue John sure didn't get away.
It was my third great grandpa Chappell who nabbed him on the run.
And brought him back to Wayne County at the point of a gun.Twas Butch Cassidy he wanted but he settled on blue John
Cause one less outlaw in that gang was more'n he'd counted on.
My third great grandpa Chappell was the sheriff way back then
And he brought ol' blue John back to town to throw him in the pen.Problem was, that long ago, Wayne County was a hole
And there wasn't any jail house to keep that way ward soul.
So third great grandpa Chappell locked him in the grainery
But solid as that old shack was, Grandpa remained leeryAnd when my third great Grandma took food out to that crook
you can bet she's not the kind of gal to let him off the hook.
She glared him down while he ate the mutton and the beans.
And you can bet that she made sure he et up all his greens.Then, I know you won't believe me But I been told it's true
When he went to hand his dishes back she said “Oh no, Your not through!”
She placed her hand securely on his scarred and scruffy ear
And marched him to the kitchen never showing any fear.She put her apron on him and said “You wily snake.
You wash up all them dishes And I'll take myself a break.”
You should a seen the silly look and heard his quaking gibberish
As he stood there in her ruffles washing every dinner dishAnd when his chore was finished and she led him to the door
Nothing looked as welcome as that hard old granary floor.
He fairly flew inside the door and yelled “You lock it double.
If fen I'd a had a ma like you I'd a never been in trouble.”© 2007, Cathy Brian
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Cathy told us: This poem is a true story straight from my Mother-in-law's family history. It was her great grandpa that was the Sheriff of Wayne County, Utah, There are many stories that come from this area because of the rugged landscape that is known for hiding Butch Cassidy and the Wild Bunch. I love to write, I love history and I would hate to see stories such as this be lost. After all, in a world where we are constantly searching for answers to rid ourselves of crime it doesn't hurt to look to the past. Sometimes stories just need to be told.
Real Peace
In our high mountain valley on a perfect summer day
There you might, still, find the frost on the purple blooms of hay
That early in the morning I turn toward the east
And watch as shadows linger, for the light has now increased.
And the whole mountain valley, at least that’s how it seems,
Is covered in a halo of life pumped from the streams.
The sprinklers flicker on and off as young boys are out choring,
And the traffic hasn’t picked up yet, from the city folks a touring.
Peace is still existent in our hidden mountain home,
And everywhere the tourists look no matter where they roam,
They cannot find the real peace, It’s hidden from their view.
It doesn’t come aesthetically. Its produced by what we do.
Our scenery that seems perfect brings peace and traps the eye,
Because of all the labor our scenery must imply.
There in lies the real peace, as we watch our children grow.
It’s something that the tourists may never really know.
And so they pass on by us with a stumped and longing gaze
Never understanding what it is they really praise.
© 2007, Cathy Brian
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Cathy comments: Have you ever looked at a picture of a farm scene and been drawn in by how perfect the picture is? There are children in their Sunday best holding little farm animals, which lay peacefully in their laps. They are sitting under perfectly pruned trees near weedless flower beds with no dead flowers anywhere in sight. The cottage or barn in the picture is in perfect repair and nowhere can you see any sign of anything out of order. I wrote this poem early one morning as I turned toward the east and enjoyed the "halo of life." realizing that though our little farming community is not nearly as perfect as those pictures are, that the tourists who come through here over and over again, because of the beauty, are feeling that peace.
I wonder, unless you understand and participate in the amount of labor that goes into making something beautiful, can you experience the real peace, the peace that comes from participating in that labor and then watching your children grow through their own participation? In this poem I wanted to point out that unless you understand the hard labor and back-breaking work that is put into anything beautiful, especially raising children, you won't experience the real peace.
About Cathy Brian:
I live in Loa, Utah, My husband, Roger, is and has been, his whole life, a cattle and sheep rancher. I was raised in the city, but felt misplaced my whole life. I would often escape into a Louis L'Amour book and dream of my own cowboy not realizing that that was, indeed, exactly what my future held.
So, for ten years I have rode the range beside my husband and, in time, my two sons, Braden and Caib, and my little cowgirl, Aubree, all of whom have recited cowboy poetry on stage for the last three years. Each have tried their hand at writing about their own cowboy dreams.
2007 photo by Jo Lynne Kirkwood
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