KIP SORLIE
Viborg, South Dakota
About Kip Sorlie
Recognized as one of
for his poem, "Rope"
WHERE TIMBER MEETS THE SAGE
A SHACK AND SHED GROW OLD,
MUTE PROPS, STILL ON A STAGE,
THAT WATCHED THIS TALE UNFOLD.
He finished building camp,
Then wagoned up his gear.
Cold weather turning damp
Said snow was nearly here.
He stopped and thought awhile,
Then, hung the rope inside.
He rode off with a smile,
"That rope will save his hide!"
Someday his son would need,
For purposes unknown,
A good rope and a steed,
Long after he had grown.
The son, now grown and gray
Had laid his dad to rest,
But Bob would tend each stray,
Till his son fledged the nest
A cold chill on his neck
Bespoke the first alarm.
Bob watched each little speck
That settled on his arm.
As the flakes descended,
Like tiny flecks of sand,
Lightly they portended
Seduction of the land.
A calm disguised the cold,
Suggesting it was warm.
It was deception bold
That gave no hint of storm.
His old horse, Toby, knew
Before they reached the camp
And apprehension grew,
When Bob set match to lamp.
The light would show the way
Through snow to shack and bed.
Sleep would conclude his day,
Once Toby had been fed.
Disturbed from sleep he grinned,
Then staggered to the door,
Blown open by the wind
That woke him with a roar.
It blew and grew for days
And still it had no end.
He had no hope for strays.
The dead, his dad would tend.
The stove burned branch and bow,
That gave scant heat or light,
But hay forked from a mow
Warmed Toby day and night.
The long rope to the shed
Was anchored to the shack.
It took Bob where it led.
It took him there and back.
Erected by his dad,
Out where the cattle ranged,
The camp still found Bob glad
Whenever seasons changed.
Fresh chinking every Fall
Held back the wind and rain.
When snowflakes raked a wall,
All efforts proved but vain.
In through the smallest crack,
They mounded on the floor,
With little drifts in back
And more inside the door.
Eleven days the gale
Had battered shack and shed.
The twelfth, born calm and pale,
Cleared as the gray clouds fled.
Just bitter cold remained,
Each flake reflecting sun,
But nature seemed restrained,
Now that the storm had run.
Bob's son, from far below,
Left home before daylight,
To challenge fallen snow
And brave a world turned white.
The taxing trek was slow,
With powder to his knees.
As sweat began to flow
He felt his mustache freeze.
They told of his advance,
The skis deep tracks of course,
But little was the chance
Of finding dad or horse.
He found stove ashes cold,
The wood box empty, too.
His boot tracks, looking old,
Did not provide a clue.
The frayed rope, white with frost,
Sagged loosely to the shed.
He feared, "If dad was lost,
Then Toby, too, was dead!"
Out to the shed he strode,
Resigned to withered hope.
Out to the horse abode,
He followed weathered rope.
The young man, in despair,
Saw Toby on the ground.
In the hay, lying there,
His father, too, he found.
He stood there with bowed head,
In overwhelming grief.
Then, Toby stood, not dead,
A sight beyond belief!
His father, slow to rise,
Before the son dismayed,
Appeased his son's surprise
With the smile he displayed.
Bob leaned across the rail
Embracing a grown lad,
Who traveled up a trail
That led him to his dad.
The storm, so long and cold,
Had kept them far apart,
But in their thoughts, untold,
Each knew the other's heart.
Downing snow-melt coffee
Bob told of his ordeal.
Listening intently,
His son prepared a meal.
"The blow came slowly on!
It woke me in the night.
I thought it would be gone
When dark gave way to light!"
"That first night as I slept,
A vivid dream I had
About the snow, wind-swept,
A rope and your granddad."
"The storm intensified
As feeble daylight grew.
I woke to find, outside,
An old rope that I knew."
"Off through the blowing snow
I glimpsed a fading form.
With a rope to follow,
It vanished in the storm!"
"I did not string that line!
It was another's deed!
Did grandpa pull that twine?
Had he foreseen the need?"
"It bound the shed and shack
And Toby needed care,
But with the storm's attack
I'd not have gotten there!"
"My dad said long ago,
An old rope held my fate,
But little did I know
It led to Toby's gate!"
"For when the stove died out
I stoked the horse instead!
We'd both have died, no doubt,
With Toby left unfed!"
Once again together,
The two sat down to eat.
Old rope was the tether
That made the day complete.
A new rope on a nail,
Where once an old one hung
Is there above a rail,
Just waiting to be strung.
A rope, the snow and shed
Are truly intertwined,
For they bind those ahead
To those not far behind!© 2009, Kip Sorlie
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
When we asked Kip about the poem's inspiration, he provided this comment and an epilogue: My earliest memories contain vivid pictures of a long rope tied to the house for the barn. It was a long rope and strung every winter. Storms were frequent, intense and could last for many days at a time. I grew to depend on it, but took it for granted. Though not in use any more, it still hangs in a barn away from the weather, retired. I'm sure it would perform once again, if asked too.
Epilogue
I swear this tale is true!
But I've embellished it,
As storytellers do
To make the pieces fit!
Of men who lived this tale,
Two have long departed.
The third awaits a trail,
The fourth has not started.
A son may sometimes spurn
A dad, too proud to hope,
But in the end they learn
From withered, weathered rope.
The first rope wagoned in
Was fated on to me.
It's tied to where I've been
And where I hope to be.
We asked Kip why he writes cowboy poetry and why he thinks it is important and he commented:
My life's purpose was raising five children to stand on their own two feet and deal with whatever life would toss at them. I was partially successful. When they left home, my purpose disappeared.
My life requires purpose, something more important than myself. With my children gone, I found purpose once again in cowboy verse. It is an honest, straight-forward handshake with honest, straight-forward people who, even if they do not live the life style, carry the values with great pride. It is for them that I hope to be, at least partially, successful.
You can email Kip Sorlie: marilynsorlie@msn.com
Kip Sorlie was recognized previously as one of
for his poem, "In Living Memory"
In Living Memory
The ones to admire
Still sit by the fire
Of a camp, a days ride from town.
In the snapping blaze
They recall old days
In stories, to be written down.
No smell of burnt hair
Remains in the air,
Branding done by late afternoon.
The ropes are all slack
And hang with the tack,
As irons are chilled by the moon.
With camp chatter gone,
An infrequent yawn
Lightly stirs the quiet that grows.
The sounds of the night
Are always polite
And partner with men as they doze.
From the shrinking fire
Shadows rise higher,
Silhouetting each sleeping hand.
There is little doubt,
When the flame dies out,
These cowboys will still ride the land.
With grub before dawn
And coffee all gone,
The horses are saddled to ride.
Stubborn coals glow red
In a fire not dead,
Fueled by the memories inside.
If I had my way
I would sit all day
Gazing intently at embers,
Recalling the tale
We lived on the trail,
Hoping that each man remembers.
One day there will be
A written memory
Of life that we lived with the herd,
To spark the desire
Of boys by a fire,
From a man who lived every word.
© 2006, Kip Sorlie
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Kip told us about his inspiration for the poem:
Kip told us about the inspiration of this poem: Look into the eyes of an old trail hand, as he tells a story by a campfire's light. Look into the eyes of a young boy listening to the story being told. What can be more inspiring than witnessing the connection of the past to the future?
We asked Kip why he writes Cowboy Poetry:
How do I interpret the expression in the eyes of a 4-year-old riding with grandpa, to find the herd and bring it home? How do I equate that expression to the seeds of honor, trust, respect and perseverance that are being planted? Who, if not an old cowboy, can nurture the sprout that grows? I will continue to plant and nurture! It is an imperative worth pursuing and preserving.
Choosing the right words, the words that reach down into your chest and rip your heart out, is a difficult task. I can splice a bunch of words together and rhyme the lines of verse, but if they do not trigger an emotion, heat up your blood or prompt a tear, then I will have failed in my efforts. More often than not, I fall short of my goals. Fortunately, there are many who will fulfill this calling far better than I. THEY are my hero's! They will interpret the expression seen in another's eyes.
You can email Kip Sorlie.
Not Yet
Sitting on the porch,
Shaded from the sun,
He thought to himself,
"Round-up has begun".
Off in the distance
Rolling hills well grassed
Would tomorrow roar,
As the cattle passed.
He was getting old,
There was little doubt,
But he found it hard
Sitting round-up out.
Summing up his life,
He missed only five,
When he was to young
To ride on the drive.
He had ridden drag
For many a year
And learned every cow,
By sight, from the rear.
With his great-grandson
Saddled up and gone,
He would miss the drive
That would start at dawn.
Two generations
Would work with the herd,
Each one with the task
To break in a third.
Rounded up for night,
After beans and bread,
One would ride the watch,
The rest, find a bed.
Morning sun would break
On the bedroll camp.
Grumbles would be heard
In the cold and damp.
To ribs of a boy
The nudge of a toe
Told a great-grandson
It was time to go.
"I am passed my prime,
But I have to see
How you handle dust
Riding drag with me!"
They rode by the house
As the night drew near,
Four generations,
The porch to the rear.
© 2006, Kip Sorlie
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Kip told us the story behind the poem: "Bob Woodruff and his son, Rick, have a ranch near the small Montana town of Charlo, South of Flathead Lake. Rick has occupied top friend position with me for a lot of years. His dad has ridden drag through most of them. No disrespect is intended here and this poem is a tribute to him. In his 80's, with all his productive years seemingly relegated to fond memory status, he found more time to sit on the porch and let the 'young men' take over. However, Bob's undying determination and resilience provided the fodder for this story. The porch will have to wait. Great Grandpa still has a purpose." He dedicates the poem, "To Bob with respect."
Remembering Fathers
A squeak in the saddle,
Morning sun in his eyes,
The path twisted and turned
Toward the crest of the rise.
His granddad and father
Had each treasured the spot
And resided there still,
In the old family plot.
A ritual joining,
In a place close to God,
His ride neared completion,
On the path that he trod.
To share time with fathers,
He could never repay
And recall fond memories
On this, their special day.
As he gained to the ridge,
In the crisp morning air,
He saw in the distance
That somebody was there.
He rode up in silence,
Quite surprised by the sight.
A horse was unsaddled.
Someone had spent the night.
A campfire still burning,
An old bedroll laid out,
And smell of hot coffee
Had removed any doubt.
From behind an old mare
Appeared a face, smile clad.
A young lady spoke out,
"Happy Father's Day.....Dad!"
© 2007, Kip Sorlie
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Kip told us about his inspiration for this poem:
In the spring of 1996 I had the opportunity to visit a large ranch in eastern Montana. The ranch had prospered and grown under the ownership of a rancher who was, also, a successful banker. The small homesteads surrounding the young ranch were acquired over many years. In time, the holdings would total nearly 80 sections. I was privileged to be allowed access to the 1,000's of acres that comprised the ranch.
Spending some time exploring the land, I discovered several of the old homesteads, in various stages of decay. Each special place demanded investigation. Each place laid its history at my feet. Each place spread its story for my eyes to survey. I hoped that my curiosity could be satisfied by my imagination. Unfortunately, Imagination is not a substitute for the real stories that played out in each special place.
One homestead dated to 1971, by a calendar still hanging in the kitchen. Some distance from the house stood a gnarled old cottonwood tree, which shaded a family plot. The site was enclosed by a white picket fence, freshly painted. The ground within the enclosure had been tended and some
bright red flowers, recently planted, added a touch of color to the fence on each side of the wooden gate. I was surprised by the condition of the small patch of ground. A sense of mystery evolved when I noted the most recent marker was, also, dated 1971.
After 25 years someone still visited the site. Someone still tended the memories of times and family long passed. I felt a deep sense of admiration for the stranger who still bound this family together, past to the present and on into the future.
That afternoon I returned to the ranch headquarters. Approaching the barn and corral area I encountered A lady in her thirties with a boy in his teens, perhaps a son. They had unloaded horses from a small trailer and were about to ride off as I arrived. We nodded and exchanged greetings as we
passed. Each saddle carried a bed roll. One carried a shovel, the other, a bundle of bright red flowers.
"Remembering Fathers" was an attempt to recapture the intensity of the feeling that flooded through my veins from that extraordinary experience. I hope that I have been, at least partially, successful.
Who We Are
All across our country
From town and ranch and farm
We come for the feeling
And good old fashioned charm.
With our friends and neighbors,
Our families all converge,
As light-hearted laughter
And cheerful grins all merge.
At the sight of our flag,
None hesitate to stand.
Respect it is given
With cowboy hats in hand.
Singing of the anthem,
Our tribute finds a voice,
Giving thanks for freedom
That was our parents choice.
A prayer is often said
As every head is bowed,
Contestants standing tall
In blessings from the crowd.
Then erupts the cheering,
As multitudes await,
The first of all the brave
To explode from the gate.
Traditions that we hold
Are really why we go.
They tell us who we are,
At every rodeo.
© 2007, Kip Sorlie
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Kip commented on his inspiration for this poem:
Rodeo is a demonstration of the values of a people. In the heart of our land beats the traditions and customs that provide us our strength. Rodeo stands for all the subjective qualities that we feel inside; Our love of family, of country, of God, and a competitive spirit. Rodeo turns these qualities into an objective, tangible display, almost like fireworks on the 4th. of July. The celebration of Rodeo confirms the existence of a people who, with humble, or not so humble pride, show no inhibitions in acknowledging who they are.
And Still the Story Grows
The boy imagined tales
That would not come again,
But stubbornly he clung
To stories from old men.
"Ben! Do you remember
When Cookie beat his pan?
The herd went sraight to Belle,
Instead of to Cheyenne!"
Ben nodded that he did
And countered, with a grin,
"Or when we made him walk,
Cause he got sick on gin!"
"I did deserve to walk,
But you were mean recruits!
The lesson that I learned,
I learned without my boots!"
"But I did get even!
Before the morning dawn
I said I burned two boots.
Wear one! The other's gone!"
"Thrown into the wagon,
You never took a peak,
But learned to cope quite well
And both survived a week!"
Whiskered up and balding,
Wrinkled hands and faces,
Each spoke of adventures,
Death alone erases.
The boy had listened close
To old men tell their tales,
But fell asleep, forlorn,
To dream about THEIR trails.
He awoke to shadows
And breakfast almost done.
He scrambled for his boots,
But he found only one!
© 2008, Kip Sorlie
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Kip told us, "My grandfather was a gifted story teller. On cold winter evenings, after the chores were done, He would ensnare me in the tales of his youth. He'd build a loop, of words, and pull me in as his catch. He reconstructed places and events, with words, that would become as real as any that I would ever see with my eyes. He would pull me into those scenes and make me feel as if I were a part of each story. 'And Still the Story Grows' is an attempt at recapturing that childhood connection. I hope he would approve."
Along the meadow's edge
The green grass rings appear.
They tell of olden times,
When cowboys gathered here.
They would collect the fuel
From dead and fallen trees,
To ready evening camp
Against a sudden freeze.
Their bedrolls on the ground,
Their horses tended too,
They'd quickly fall asleep,
Expecting crystal dew.
As they awoke to stars,
All fading with the night,
The sky off to the East
Would glow in gentle light.
A frosty morning calm
Would grip their aging bones.
Perked ears of the horses
Would hear their murmured moans.
To a nest of tinder,
A striking flint and steel
Would offer up in birth
A spark that would anneal.
Old eyes would see inside
The smoldering within
And in a quiet puff
They'd see the flame begin.
A helpless babe at first,
But slowly it would grow,
Igniting twig and branch,
To set the camp aglow.
Creation of a child
From mating steel and stone
Portended tender care
For a flame, not yet grown.
Spreading through the kindling,
Both arrogant and proud,
A youthful blaze, enticed,
Would pop and snap aloud.
Heat it generated
Would defend from the cold
And warm the wrinkled hands
Of cowboys growing old.
Towards larger logs they'd watch
The adolescent race,
Bigger chunks resisting
A growing fire's embrace.
They'd drink steaming coffee,
Poured from a boiling pot,
As flames turned wood to coal,
With embers glowing hot.
Replaced by steady heat,
More comforting and tame,
The arrogance and pride
Would decrease with the flame.
In time, each hand would pause
To silently admire
How much like life it was,
The slowly dying fire.
From dead and fallen trees
A homage had been made,
Assuring next year's green,
Where once just ashes laid.
This ritual unplanned
Was once performed each Spring.
The birth and death they found
Were both bound to a ring.
The cowboys, old, are gone.
Their blazing flames have died,
But somewhere in their young
The stone and steel reside.
Along the meadows edge
The green grass rings appear.
They tell of recent times,
As cowboys gather here.
© 2008, Kip Sorlie
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Kip Sorlie comments on his inspiration for this poem:
The memories of my father are strong.
They influence me daily.
He died years ago.
I miss him.
Upon learning of the loss of Rod Nichols, similar thoughts and familiar emotions returned.
A man is little more than what he leaves behind. That said, both men will impact the balance of my years.
The writing of "Rings" was an attempt to honor his passing and the future he left us to extend.
Perhaps he would approve, perhaps not.
Thank you, Rod!
You will be missed at the campfire, but your rings will persist.
(This poem is added to tributes to Rod Nichols, here.)
He sat there on the ground
Anticipating dawn,
But memories would abound
Until the stars were gone.
He camped here every year
Next to the aging pen,
Where bronc's once sensed the fear
Of boys becoming men.
He had been a greenhorn,
A lad who had no tales,
But men would watch one morn
And judge him from the rails.
Into the pen he strode,
To face a beast untamed,
A horse, as yet, unrode,
As all the cowboys claimed.
The youth confronted rage,
Bound by bit and saddle,
Inside a man made cage,
Crazed from recent battle!
A milk stool in his hand,
Three legs were all it had,
But strategy was planned
That might assist the lad.
Anger watched him enter.
It tensed the horse for war.
Stepping towards the center,
He heard the cowboys roar.
"The last milk horse has died!
The saddle cows are gone!
But if we really tried,
Their pictures could be drawn!"
The laughter of the men
Grew quiet to his rear,
When he sat in the pen
And showed no sign of fear.
He showed a strength of will
As crazy eyes grew calm.
Then, with untested skill,
He offered up a palm.
Flared nostrils bravely dared
The steady outreached hand.
The simple offer bared
Was empty of demand.
Then came a soothing word
And calm hand to the nose.
A friendship born, was heard,
As the boy slowly rose.
From where the cowboys sat
They saw the two connect.
Each cowboy tipped a hat,
It spoke of their respect.
He claimed the unbroke stud
And they rode many years,
Through snow and dust and mud.
When he died, there were tears.
All the pain and glory
That bound the two as friend,
Started with this story,
But still it has no end!
A wooden marker made
Is tended every Spring,
A friendship, yet displayed,
That wrinkled hands still bring.
He watched the morning sky,
It's blackness turning gray,
But wanted to deny
The coming of the day.
As he recalled the tale,
He glanced baked to the pen
And there upon the rail
He thought he saw the men.
He claimed the unbroke stud
And they rode many years,
Through prairie dust and mud,
Befriending all their fears.
All the pain and glory
That bound the two as friend,
Started with this story,
But still it has no end.
A wooden marker made
Is tended every Spring,
A friendship, yet displayed,
That wrinkled hands still bring.
He watched the sunset die
As stars began to glow.
Against a darkened sky,
The moon and Mars would show.
As he recalled the tale
He looked back to the pen
And there upon the rail
He thought he saw the men.
© 2008, Kip Sorlie
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Kip comments: Every once in a while I am struck by a notion that should have been obvious from my childhood, or at least my early adulthood.
Children crave acknowledgement and approval from their elders. The coming of age, the earning of the spurs, the bestowal of honor for a job well done will be remembered for a lifetime. The old and wise will always be watching, from where ever the old and wise watch.
"Judgment" is dedicated to all the young and old who have been fortunate enough to have received or given the honor of recognition, and to those who will.
From an Old Wood Chair?
Upon the ranch house porch
There sat an old wood chair.
The greying, sway-backed barn
He contemplated there.
Behind its weathered doors
Laid memories ignored.
To find them once again,
It had to be explored.
Eccentric was its voice.
It spoke of years alone,
From struggles with the breeze
That made its timbers groan.
Beckoned by the calling,
He headed for its doors,
To capture once again
His years of boyhood chores.
He swung them open wide
To hear the barn's lament,
But as he stepped inside
The sounds of sadness went.
The damp and darkness fled
As daylight galloped in
And memories long hid
Were touched by warmth again.
It once was filled with hay
And countless sacks of grain,
Beneath a well shaked roof,
Protected from the rain.
Its pens held doctored foals
And horses trimmed for shoes.
It held half-frozen calves
Dad did not want to lose.
Rough, cobweb covered beams,
Were swept down every spring,
But in a week the cobs
Would reclaim everything.
Mangers all were emptied
By stock that wanted more.
Old musty, matted hay
Still laid upon the floor.
Several broken rungs,
That laddered to the loft,
Could not access the hay,
He still imagined soft.
The pens and stalls below
Had served their purpose well.
They told of past events
That would take years to tell.
Twin cowhide saddle bags
Lay draped across a rail,
Beneath old spurs and chaps,
Still hanging on a nail.
The nearest leather bag,
He opened for a look.
The note he found attached,
He pulled out for a look.
Inked on the yellowed sheet,
In letters plain but bold,
Were words of wisdom won
By someone growing old.
"These words are my journey!
I write them down because
Someday my son should know
The man I hope I was."
A hand-bound leather book
Showed entries through the years.
Some stained by water drops
From rain, or maybe tears.
He sat down in the straw
To read a page or two,
But as the daylight faded,
He'd read the pages through.
Each had been a chapter
Straight from a father's heart.
Most spoke of times recalled
Or grief from years apart.
He closed the book he read
And savored its content,
But he'd reread the words
To seek out what they meant.
He put the book back in
And fastened down the strap.
Tending to the second,
He lifted up the flap.
There laid another book,
With yellowed note attached!
Instructions written down,
His dad had sharply scratched.
"This is for your journey,
For stories you begin!
Empty, unstained pages
Are yours for filling in!"
"The old chair on the porch
Was there for every yarn.
From there I watched my son
Climb rungs inside the barn."
"Your journey brought you home
To pen your journal here.
It may have been my task
To just provide a tear."
"So, sit down on the porch
And write of what you can!
Tell stories of your son
As he grows to a man!"
He walked back to the house
With book and note in tow,
Hoping for the magic
That makes a story grow.
The verse he wrote was short.
It held not many lines,
But he would know, in time,
If practicing refines.
With journal on the chair
He headed off for bed,
Hoping that tomorrow
Held better words instead.
With the dawn came breakfast
And many things to do.
He'd find the chair and write
When all his chores were through.
He hauled out matted hay,
Cleaned cobwebs from the beams
And repaired all the rungs
Up to the loft and dreams.
His work unveiled a charm
Just weighted down by time.
Perhaps the barn could be
Remembered in a rhyme!
Tomorrow they would come,
His wife and baby boy
And stories would evolve,
For his son to enjoy.
When evening came along
He settled in to write,
But found his first verse stained,
From droplets in the night.© 2008, Kip Sorlie
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Kip comments: I write to and for my children. I try to build stories that will entertain, benefit and include them. Frequently, I try to make the stories multigenerational. Connecting the past to the future is a challenge. I hope my attempts are successful. My father did not write a journal. I have. Perhaps my children will read it one day, while sitting on a bale of hay inside the barn. Perhaps it will entice them to write in the blank journal that accompanies it while sitting on an old wood chair out on the porch. Perhaps they will sense the droplets that bless its pages.
About Kip Sorlie:
I am not a cowboy, ranch raised and trail hardened before being able to walk. In my case the condition was entirely adult onset.
More than half of my sixty years were spent on Drummond Island, in the far north of Lake Huron. In the fifties we would boat across to the mainland of the Upper Peninsula twice a year for necessities. We had neither power nor plumbing. We filled our ice house in winter, made maple syrup in the spring and put up next year's firewood in the fall. My father and grandfather taught me to hunt, fish and trap. Surviving 6+ months of snow covered ground required developing multiple techniques for staying alive. It was a hard life, but I did not know that until power and plumbing found our island by the early sixties.
The balance of the sixties and the seventies found the island transformed into a tourist destination. In the early eighties a large corporation created an executive retreat on the island, which destroyed the fabric of our small community. Reluctantly, I packed up my family and headed west. We settled on a ranch in Sanders County, Montana. It was a fine place to raise both kids and cows, without power and plumbing, for a time.
The writing of verse began in high school. It wandered in many directions for a lot of years. I found that writing poems of my experiences to by immensely satisfying. Rural and cowboy ballads just sort of evolved, as my family learned, adjusted and blended into the ranching community of the area.
When our children grew and settled in South Dakota, my wife and I exchanged our ranch for a hay farm near them. Today I write poems and look out over some mighty fine hay ground, with cows off in the distance, waiting for the third cutting to be removed.
I would suggest to anyone that they write down their stories, pass them to their children's' children and watch as the bonding takes place.
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