DAVID L. CARLTON
Texas
About David L. Carlton

 

 

 

 

Nagging Old Wife

A old worn out saddle
A rope that is frayed
A horse that's too old
He's seen better days

A dog eared old Stetson
With boots broken down
A rusty old truck
With one road to town

An old cowboy's possessions
Are not silver or gold
But his trappings of life
That could never be sold

His possessions are simple
And so is his life
But he'd give it all up
For a nagging old wife

He's rode for the brand
For too many years
He's worn out and old
And he is facing his fears

Afraid to go on
Into the twilight of life
Never having a family
Or nagging old wife

© 2006, David L. Carlton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

David told us: The poem, "Nagging Old Wife," is based it upon an old cowboy who once worked at the Institute of Texan Cultures. He had left his home in east Texas as a 12 year old, and had gone west to find a job as a cowboy. He had never married, and  had no family that he knew of.

When I met him, he was a stove-up old hide, whose joints squeaked when he walked. Nothing was wrong with his voice or mind, and his job was to entertain visitors around
the old chuckwagon on the exhibit floor. I was a part-time security guard at the time, and we talked about how our cowboy lives were the same in a lot of ways, and different in others. He once told me that the only thing he felt like he really missed was a family and a "nagging old wife."

(Note: The ITC staff later traced down a sister he hadn't seen or communicated with since he left home as a kid.)

Mr. Bell

I was ridin one time, for a foreman named Bell
I was doing my best, but was still catchin HELL

We started at daylight, and we ended at night
We were ridin and ropin, with no time to fight

I was a youngster then, and I didn't know quit
But Mr Bell's cussin, was sure givin me fits

Things continued this way, for a solid two weeks
I was gettin so mad, it was too hard to speak

I was a  fair cowboy, or so I had been told
But Mr. Bell's standards, they were sure gettin old

It seemed like forever, for certain a year
When those two weeks were up, I just wanted to cheer

The pay was pretty good, and the food it was swell
But when I work for Mr. Bell again, it'll be a cold day in HELL

© 2006, David L. Carlton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

David told us: "Mr. Bell" is based upon a couple of weeks I spent in 1966. I was hired as a day working cowboy, to help gather and work cattle on a large ranch in south Florida. Mr. Bell was the foreman. He had a reputation as a very demanding boss, who wanted things done a certain way. Any time something didn't go the way he expected, he would immediately begin cussing and throwing a fit. He would go from zero to fist fight in about three seconds. I was raised to be a respectful young man, and spent a lot of time biting my tongue during that two weeks. I learned a lot that summer, and Mr. Bell was one of my teachers. To this day, I have never quit a job and have always lived up to verbal agreements. When Mr. Bell handed me my pay check, he also paid me a pretty good compliment. He said that if I ever needed a job, all I had to do was look him up. As I climbed into my vehicle to leave, I couldn't help but think, when I work for Mr. Bell again, it'll be cold day in Hell. I kept my work.
 

 

Hard Times

When I was young
And times were hard
Daddy's life was never slow

He'd load his horse
On Sunday morning
And down the road he'd go

A lariat rope
A well trained horse
And the skill to get it done

He worked so hard
From dawn to dusk
In the blazing Florida sun

He'd doctor calves
On the open range
When screw worms were really bad

To see calves die
From maggot worms
It was enough to make you sad

Times have changed
And Science has spoken
Screw worms are no longer a threat

But I'll always remember
My boyhood Hero
And a time I can never forget

© 2007, David L. Carlton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

David told us: This poem is based upon my childhood memories. Growing up in the Florida cattle industry in the 1950's was an impressionable time in this young cowboy's life. At that time, screw worms infested most ranches in the United States, and especially  those in Florida and Texas. This infestation cost the cattle industry millions of dollars each year. My dad worked his daily ranch job from Monday morning until Saturday noon. He rested on Saturday afternoon, but when Sunday morning rolled around, he'd help  other local ranchers, friends and family treat their sick animals. I was lucky enough to spend some time with him on these Sunday jobs, and as a result, got to know him a little better. Though times were hard for a ranch hand with five little mouths to feed, I didn't
consider them hard at all. I was learning the things I cared about most from my personal hero. The experiences of those times had a lasting effect on the memories I have of my dad. If someone couldn't afford to pay him, he'd do it, just because it needed to be done.

 

Cook

Old Tom was in the chicken yard 
He was looking for some eggs
To cook for the sleepy cowpokes
As they stretched their gimpy legs

Taters were in the frying pan
They were washed and chopped real fine 
To brown and feed hungry hands
As they moseyed in to dine 

A little patch of blooming weeds
Was growing against the shed  
Where many pans of water flung
Made a prickly flower bed

Every day was just like the last
The menu was always plain
An old camp cook did what he could
With a life that was filled with pain

He never planned to be a cook
Just a cowboy filled with dreams
Stiff old joints and aching bones
From the elements extreme
 
Now he cooks and does his best
Even though it wasn’t planned
He’s filled with pride and memories
Of his time riding for the brand 

© 2007, David L. Carlton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

David told us: As often happens, a young cowboy becomes an old cowboy. Some are lucky enough to find a female companion before they get old and crippled. If this companion is strong enough willed, she might teach her cowboy not to take so many risks. Instead of jumping off of a running horse onto a wild cow's head, he learns to stay in the saddle a little more often, and let the young ones handle the ground work. Instead of always riding the rough string, he keeps a few more gentle well-broke horses around. Instead of sleeping on the cold hard ground, he’s found the comfort of clean sheets, three meals a day, and a warm body to ward off the chill of a cold winter’s night.

Some cowboys have never been lucky in life or love. They continue to abuse their bodis to the point to where they are crippled up and can no longer fork a saddle. Since they have never know anything but to ride for the brand, they never want to leave the ranch. If they are still able to learn to cook, they sometimes end up cooking in a cow camp or bunk house.

Cow camps and bunk houses don't offer many luxuries of life. Hands and faces are washed in an old enamel bowl on the porch, and dirty water is flung from the porch. Sometimes, this little bit of dirty
water  is enough to irrigate a small area, so that a few weeds can grow.

With that in mind, I have composed a short poem in tribute to the cook. I didn't know old Tom, but I knew his kind.

 

 

Longhorn's Tail

The herd was moving easy
Like nothing was wrong
With horns pointed North
They were grazing along

They were spread to eternity
With a breeze in their face
Just drifting along eating
In a slow kind of pace

When off to West
Black clouds came rolling in
It wasn't if it was coming
It was just a matter of when

The trail boss sent word
Up and down the line
"Let the stragglers catch up"
His orders suited fine

Old Cookie parked his wagon
Upon the open plain
He started slinging pots
To get ahead of the rain

The tent fly was anchored
Into deep sandy ground
His helper collected wood
Dragging all that he found

The coffee was brewing
With the beans in a pot
When off to the South
It sounded like a shot

A flash of forked lightning
Came streaking straight down
The cattle started milling
With new energy they found

They were walleyed and nervous
With each thunder clap
They bunched tight together
Not leaving a gap

A little after darkness
The weather died down
The cattle all settled
On soggy wet ground

The men all took turns
To wolf down some food
Then back to the herd
In a quarrelsome mood

They held the herd till midnight
When the cattle bedded down
Then they headed for the wagon
And their bed on the ground

That's how it was
When riding the trail
Navigating a cattle drive
Over a longhorn's tail

© 2007, David L. Carlton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

David comments: This poem is based upon the many cattle drives made by Floridians before and after the Civil War. Florida had so many cattle, that a special Confederate unit was formed called the Cow Calvary. This unit was responsible for moving cattle and protection of the vast Florida cattle herds. There are many stories of their deeds on the web and in history books.

During the long war that blanketed the entire South, the Confederacy became very poor and hungry. Being a little more in control of their state, Florida seemed to fare better than its southern sisters. The Union soon found out that it was not capable of sustaining a lengthy campaign in the interior of Florida and remained in the large coastal cities for the duration of the war. Florida was no different than it sister states, except that it was less developed, had fewer roads, and was recognized a rather tough place to be if the population didn't want you there. Being a member in good standing of the Confederacy, Florida was more than happy to sell some of their vast cattle herds to help feed and arm southern troops.

Through long established markets in Cuba, Florida cattlemen maintained a cash market before, during and after the Civil War. Spanish gold was a preferred currency over Confederate script when purchasing guns and ammunition from European markets. Many cattle were smuggled out of Florida in blockade runner's small ships for the short run down to Havana.

Cattle were driven to the west coast of Florida for the Cuban markets, and north to Georgia, Alabama and South Carolina as meat on the hoof. If the cattle were going to Cuba, it was common to load the cattle on small ships that had skirted Union gun boats and slipped into the rivers along the Gulf Coast. As an example of many such war time loading spots, there is a deep water landing at Old Ft. Hamer on the Manatee River that allowed cattle to be loaded with ease. The timing of the loading had to be coordinated with the right phase of the moon. If there was no moon, it allowed the right conditions for a small ship to slip back in the Gulf waters and dodge the Union gun boats. From there it was a short and easy trip to Cuba.

The weather in Florida has always been rough. From the end of May through the end of September, Florida can be a wet place to be, with occasional hurricanes or daily heavy thunderstorms. Thunder and lightning, mixed with nervous cattle that are far from home, have always been the catalyst for disaster. In that regard, Florida and Texas cattle drives were very similar. Disaster didn't occur with every storm, but often enough to make many a cowboy keep his night horse saddled...just in case. Cold beans, wet biscuits and a muddy bed were very common to Florida cowboys.
 

 

  David L. Carlton shares information and
photos about his family's Florida cowboy roots in Picture the West.

 

 

 

About David L. Carlton:

I was born in Bradenton, Florida on February 29, 1948. After extensive research of the things that also occurred on this date, I'm afraid I was one of the top occurrences nationally. Some football player (Al Clark) was also born on that day. I have met a few people through the years that were also born on the 29th, but not very many. 

I am a native Floridian, and my genealogy line goes back to 1843 in the state.

I spent my early life on cattle ranches. I was raised as a cowboy, with cowboy genes. There are at least seven generations before me that were cowboys, so I came by it naturally.

I joined the US Air Force in 1967, and stayed to make it a career. In 1993, I moved my family to Texas as an employee of Texas A&M University. After telling Aggie jokes for 20 years, it was only fair that I should become one. When I retire from this career, I refuse to seek a third. My retirement plans include a return to my beloved Florida to grow orchids and write.

I have been writing since 1979. I write poetry and short stories, and have been working on my life story for my grandkids. My hobbies include writing, training bird dogs and horses, photography, gardening, and fishing.