Dempsey: By the Man Himself

By Jack Dempsey and Bob Considine

“To millions there has never a fighter like Jack Dempsey, and there never will be again.”

Originally published in 1960, this is the autobiography from boxing heavyweight champion Jack Dempsey himself, as told to U.S. sports writers Bob Considine and Bill Slocum.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Papamoa Press
• Release date: Jun 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781787204751

Jack Dempsey

Jack Dempsey is author of the 2012 Michigan Notable Book "Michigan and the Civil War: A Great and Bloody Sacrifice" and co-author of the 2013 Michigan Notable Book "Ink Trails: Michigan's Famous and Forgotten Authors." He is a two-term president of the Michigan Historical Commission, former chair of its Civil War Sesquicentennial Committee and member of the Abraham Lincoln Civil War Round Table.

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Text originally published in 1960 under the same title.

© Papamoa Press 2017, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

DEMPSEY

BY THE MAN HIMSELF

BY

JACK DEMPSEY

As Told to Bob Considine and Bill Slocum

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

DEDICATION 6

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 7

INTRODUCTION 8

1 — THE MOVE WEST 10

2 — MANASSA’S MY HOME 13

3 — OUR GYM IS A CHICKEN COOP 17

4 — EARLY YEARS IN THE MINES 22

5 — FIGHTING ON THE MOVE 24

6 — KID BLACKIE NO MORE 30

7 — ENTER MAXINE 33

8 — NEW YORK—THAT WONDERFUL TOWN 38

9 — I SHOULD HAVE WARMED UP 46

10 — A LETTER FROM JACK KEARNS 52

11 — OFF AND RUNNING AT LAST 56

12 — THE BALLYHOO BEGINS 60

13 — FINALLY, A FOLLOWING 65

14 — OF TEX RICKARD AND JESS WILLARD 70

15 — SIGNING FOR THE BIG FIGHT 76

16 — TRAINING IN TOLEDO 80

17 — I DID IT! I’M THE CHAMP! 87

18 — DAREDEVIL JACK AND THE SLACKER TRIAL 102

19 — THE FIRST MILLION-DOLLAR GATE 111

20 — DAPPER GEORGES CARPENTIER 127

21 — THE WILD BULL OF THE PAMPAS 131

22 — ESTELLE TAYLOR VS. DOC KEARNS 140

23 — WE BOMB IN NEW HAVEN 151

24 — TUNNEY, THE NEW CHAMP 158

25 — THE LONG COUNT 170

26 — A FRIEND DIES—A MARRIAGE ENDS 181

27 — HANNAH WILLIAMS 190

28 — IN COAST GUARD UNIFORM 210

29 — DEANNA 224

30 — JACK KEARNS STRIKES AGAIN 238

31 — BIRTHDAY PARTY 242

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 251

DEDICATION

To Deanna

Number Four should have been Number One...

Thanks, honey

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We, the authors, both major and minor, would like to thank the following for their help, consideration and time: The Associated Press Wide World Photos; Jack Fletcher and United Press International; New York Daily News and Bill Gallo, who cheerfully put up with our ifs, ands and buts; Culver Pictures; Lester Bromberg, who was most helpful post-midnight; Robert Whiteman, who refreshed certain recollections through my old associations with Liberty magazine; John O’Neil, Vice President of Mills College for Women, who introduced us to Charlene Ing, who took valuable time out from her studies to diligently sort out the befores and afters of the Slacker Trial indictments; Harry Brand of Twentieth Century Fox, who as publicist and friend provided laughs and fond memories; Will Fowler, a chip off Gene’s old block helped with many recollections; Paul Gallico, for his version of our story; Teddy Hayes, who not only was the best trainer a man could have had but proved to be a good friend; Hank Greenspun, publisher of the Las Vegas Sun, who refocused the late forties; Jim Jacobs, for allowing us to view the film footage we sometimes lacked; Steve Grundstein, for his patience, time and legal eye; and Elena McGah, for typing what was many times a scramble of a manuscript.

Our sincere gratitude to our editor, Joe Vergara, who, luckily for us, hardly ever shook his head from side to side.

Last, but certainly not least, a special thanks to Joe Durso, who because of a midnight stroll, turned out to be a pretty special friend.

INTRODUCTION

When Johnny came marching home from World War I, he marched straight into the era of wonderful nonsense that came to be known as the Roaring Twenties. It was a time of hoopla, hootch, heroes and heavyweights—all spotlighted before a war-weary public on a tumultuous stage.

Part of the people’s runaway appetite for action was emotional: the world had been riding a rollercoaster and was not ready to level off. Part was mechanical: great new inventions like the airplane, the motorcar, the motion picture and the radio were bringing events closer together and dramatizing them at the same instant. The results were probably predictable: for a decade or so, until the bottom fell out, life tended to be—well, roaring.

It was a time when society railed at things like the Bolshevik threat in Russia, issued ultimatums to the Germans to pay their war reparations, issued warnings that the Allies would occupy the Ruhr Valley if Berlin ignored the ultimatums. Then, having made the world safe again for democracy, people often would rush to get their bets down on a prizefight staged on a river barge because fighting was illegal in the states surrounding the river.

But if people were rushing to embrace causes and crusades, they also were stampeding to break loose from them—especially after the Volstead Act had saddled American society with the experiment of Prohibition. As a result, the busiest places in town became the rum courts, created to hear bootleg cases, and the speakeasies, created to pour the drinks that made life bearable after the courts had recessed for the day.

It was, in fact, a time of style and speed, and passion. When Actors Equity produced an all-star revue at the Metropolitan Opera House in 1921, Alexander Woollcott termed it a show of strength and portrayed it in The New York Times in these words:

Here, for instance, was John Barrymore, a pallid, rose-clad Romeo, looking unutterably romantic to the last as the ruthless elevator withdrew him from sight. Here was Laurette Taylor, all loveliness as Ophelia, and Lionel Atwill, looking twice as melancholy and several times as Danish as the usual Hamlet.

It was, in a sense, a night of reunions, for here was Lillian Russell resplendent as Queen Katherine and such old favorites as James T. Powers and Rose Coghlan to show that Equity was no mere enthusiasm of the youngsters. But between those old-timers and such stars of tomorrow as the Duncan sisters, the audience was all affable impartiality. When these frivolous youngsters did their turn, there was wild applause.

Wild applause. It was the thing that fed the public passion for heroes and heroines in the era of wonderful nonsense, and most of it was lavished on the stars in the cast—whether the cast performed on the Broadway stage or in the arenas and stadiums where the passion could run loose. And if the wild applause of the Roaring Twenties lingers in echoes today, it lingers over the sporting titans who symbolized the whole mood.

Babe Ruth, joining the New York Yankees and hitting the ball out of sight while attendance doubled in one summer. John McGraw, strutting and goading his New York Giants to four straight pennants. Bill Tilden dominating the men’s singles championships six straight years. The Four Horsemen of Notre Dame winning ten straight under Knute Rockne in 1924. Red Grange going from the University of Illinois to the Chicago Bears during his senior year, and then establishing professional football by leading the Bears through twenty games before 360,000 customers from coast to coast. And Man O’ War finishing first in twenty of the twenty-one races that he ran.

But the performer who captured the public’s fancy in the most basic way was Jack Dempsey. He started to capture it on the Fourth of July, 1919, when he destroyed Jess Willard and won the heavyweight title—while Johnny came marching home. Tough, hell-bent, savage—the right man at the right place at the right time.

To my father, raising three sons and a daughter in the Adirondacks in the years that followed, there was no taller hero and no greater fighter. It was a judgment that was drummed into our minds during story-telling sessions at his knee, and it was nourished by his old prizefight programs and memories of men named Firpo, Carpentier and Tunney and of awesome moments in world history like the long count.

The judgment had long since become fantasy when an unspeakable event overtook my brother and me one October day in the late 1930s as we were trudging home from a kid football scrimmage on the playground of Hudson Falls, New York. It was almost dinner time, already dusk and wintry as we paused in front of the Public Library to watch a line of big, black limousines pull to the curb. That alone might have been an event. But nothing in our lives had prepared us for what followed: Out of the lead limousine in the caravan, directly before us, stepped the biggest and strongest and most improbable man we had ever seen. And, as he stooped to shake our hands, we chorused in total disbelief: Jack Dempsey.

He was touring the upstate towns campaigning for Franklin D. Roosevelt, but we were stunned that our legend had come to life right there on Main Street. And that’s what Jack Dempsey essentially was—a legend on Main Street. Years later, the legend is still flourishing.

Now, reflective and gentle, my fantasy has become my friend, and flanked by his vivacious wife Deanna and his stepdaughter and collaborator Barbara, far from the wild days and the wild applause, Jack Dempsey remembers what it was like—what America was like—in those roaring days when he was king of the hill.

—JOSEPH DURSO

The New York Times

1 — THE MOVE WEST

The Dempseys go back a long way. Just how far is hard to say, since very few of my ancestors could read or write and births and deaths were not generally recorded.

My father, Hyrum Dempsey, was a descendant of Irish immigrants from County Kildare. He lived in Logan County, West Virginia, widely known as feud country because of the pistol-packing, trouble-shooting Hatfields and McCoys. Hyrum was the nephew of Devil Anse Hatfield, whose motto, Boys, never kick a cripple or go to bed with a fool, was passed on to his favorite nephew. Very little else was passed on.

The Hatfields and McCoys were just about the stubbornest feuding families in the history of Kentucky and West Virginia. Apparently they were so mistrustful of each other that they wore their boots and guns to bed—and probably slept with one eye open as well. Whenever a member of either family died, the next in line would assume the legacy, which was the slogan, Shoot quick and straight!

My paternal grandfather, Big Andrew Dempsey, was for a time sheriff of Logan County, as well as county surveyor. Somehow he managed to acquire several hundred acres of timberland while siring five strapping sons, of which my father was the oldest.

Logan County in those days was rugged country with a population of mainly Irish and Anglo-Saxon descendants. It was in rugged Logan County that tall, skinny Hyrum Dempsey met a petite, black-haired and very independent young lady who somehow prevented his getting to sleep at night. She had nerve, pride and a strong temper which, if provoked, knew no bounds. There was a special magic about this attractive, clear-eyed girl that made Hyrum think in terms of settling down. She was strong and quick of mind, and he wanted her. He knew deep down that she would turn out to be the type of woman who would be good for him. Unfortunately for Hyrum, she didn’t want him. In time, however, he managed to ingratiate himself with her father, who put in a good word.

Mary Celia Smoot, known simply as Celia to her family and friends, was Scotch Irish and, like Hyrum, a native of West Virginia. While she couldn’t boast of the hard-headed Hatfields as relatives, she was the cousin of a U.S. senator, Reed Smoot from Utah. Celia had a strain of Cherokee Indian on her mother’s side, which enabled her to see and hear things the rest of us couldn’t. At least that’s what we thought when we were children; later we realized she was just smart.

The marriage of Mary Celia Smoot to Hyrum Dempsey took place on a Sunday afternoon, about 1868, in Logan County, after what seemed to Hyrum ten years of courting. Many showed up that day knowing they would get a good meal since Celia’s father owned a small store.

It was, from the very beginning, not the best of marriages. The first years were hard and there was no money. Hyrum, the possessor of a roving spirit as well as a roving eye, was always scheming to get rich quick. He didn’t like to stick with the same job for long because he figured the mind would get stale. Variety was a virus in my father’s blood, and this caused a great deal of wrangling between my parents.

My father drank when he had it and sometimes he managed to when he didn’t. Money? Same thing. When he had it, it burned such a hole in his pocket that he threw it away. And he loved to play the fiddle. We all heard Turkey in the Straw so many times, it seemed to us like the national anthem.

When my father and mother settled down in West Virginia, he had a job teaching reading and writing at a local schoolhouse. He prided himself on having studied the formal usage, as he called it, of the 4 R’s.

He disliked his job intensely.

All a teacher needs to know is something you don’t. If one is smart enough, he’ll learn to ask lots of questions and notice things around him. Observation—that’s all it is—observation.

By the end of his fourth year of teaching, he’d had it. He was thinking about escaping from the classroom when notices were tacked up all over town telling of the imminent arrival of a traveling Mormon missionary preacher who was coming all the way from Salt Lake City. By the time the preacher pulled into town, he had quite an audience waiting for him—a poor audience, but a receptive one; Hyrum and Celia included.

Friends, there’s a new life out West, a new opportunity to start afresh...

Hyrum Dempsey tuned in to himself, having just heard what he wanted to hear. This was the green light he had been waiting for. Celia, on the other hand, saw and heard things differently. Leaning forward, she listened to each word that flowed out of the preacher’s mouth and was impressed and touched by the fresh concepts of this new Mormon religion. The more she listened, the more she liked what she heard. She was convinced that this faith was tailor-made for her as well as for Hyrum. Both converted to the Mormon faith, each for completely different reasons.

Religion was one of the few things our family had in common. My mother embraced the faith throughout her life; at home she read and taught us stories from the Bible and made sure we said our prayers and counted our blessings—however few—at night. She was a God-fearing little woman who tried to show us that a good and worthy life is measured just by knowing the difference between right and wrong.

In my later years, I strayed somewhat from religion. If I were to describe myself, I would say I was a Jack Mormon—which wouldn’t have made my mother very proud, but it was better than nothing, and it was certainly better than the personal code my father was practising.

Some have said that I prayed before fights. Nonsense. I was so intense and excited that to stop and pray, with people packed in the dressing room around me, was the farthest thing from my mind.

The only person close to me who could have used a good dose of religion was my father. From the beginning, he didn’t live by any book. He believed in a practical rather than a spiritual approach to life. Even though he was told that just rewards were to be handed out in the next life, my father liked to play it safe day by day, reaping as much as he could in this life, never mind the next.

The words that the Mormon preacher had spoken that day stuck in my father’s mind. He became like a man obsessed with one thought: to move! It was all he could talk about until he finally took hold of himself and decided to take action. He sold some acres of timberland that he had inherited from grandfather Andrew, along with what little else he possessed, and bought horses and a large wagon. Within a few days, after a number of tearful goodbyes, my parents, with their two small children, were ready.

The covered wagon was stocked with provisions that included warm blankets, warm clothes, canteens of drinking water, and books for the long and lonely evenings. But it wasn’t the material things that got them west; it was hope, courage and the pioneer spirit which helped them through the many hardships and God knows how many breakdowns. At times during the tedious journey the children were told to hang over one side of the wagon to help keep it from overturning. They were, I gathered later, very frightened, and seeing the number of dead animals on the road didn’t help. Neither did those times when the water ran out, when they had to stop and dig shallow wells in the hope of finding some. When they found water, they stayed awhile; when they didn’t, they pushed on.

The further west they pushed, crossing the plains and the Sierras, braving the terrible rains and dust storms, the more optimistic my father became, and the more sure he was that he had made the right decision.

The women, my mother among them, were the real pioneers, the backbone of the west, the iron wills which mended the crumpled hopes and egos as well as the occasional bouts of frustration.

After pressing on for what seemed to be years and millions of miles through endless stretches of isolated backlands, Hyrum and Celia decided to settle in the small town of Manassa, Colorado. Manassa had been founded in the late 1870s by a struggling wagon train of seventy-two very tired Mormons. At the time, the Rio Grande Railroad was building a line from the north down through the San Luis Valley in Colorado. The Mormons thought this to be as good a spot as any, so they settled near the Conejos River, in the San Luis Valley.

Every member of this small community was a staunch supporter of the Good Neighbor Policy. Anyone who fell down on his luck would not be down for long, thanks to the helping hands that soon enabled him to stand on his own two feet once more. If there were something to be done for someone else, it was done without the asking.

These pioneers never experienced a real food shortage since there was lots of wild game around. Because of the availability of game, however, there did occur a shortage of ammunition.

To my parents, my older sister and my brother, Manassa seemed a new and promising place. By 1895, my parents were veritable old-timers, completely at home with a small farmhouse filled with children of every size and shape. In the center of town, the settlers had built a great white Mormon church in which I was later christened when I was eight years old. Up to that time, it was the biggest building I had ever seen; its steeple pointed towards the sky.

2 — MANASSA’S MY HOME

On June 24, 1895, I, William Harrison Dempsey, became the ninth of what was to be a grand total of thirteen children. I was named after President William Harrison (naming children after presidents was then the fashion). I remember I had only one toy, a spinning top that my father had whittled out of wood. I didn’t know any other toys existed, nor did I care; when you’re very young you don’t think in terms of how much or how many. I was happy with one thing, which was one more than nothing—and God knows how many owned nothing.

My father for some time insisted I was born on June 23, but my mother felt that she, having been present, should have the last word in the matter. And so it was. I weighed eleven pounds even. The midwife who attended my mother took twenty-five cents for her services, which in time proved to be a pretty good investment.

From the time I was small I realized what kind of people my parents were. My father was a dreamer and an egotist. He always felt he had to come first, no matter what—and then, if anyone wanted to follow....I guess he just couldn’t help it. As he must have figured it, whatever he did would somehow benefit his family. Sometimes it did and other times it didn’t.

My mother, on the other hand, was a staunch realist. In my eyes she could do no wrong. She loved us all fiercely and was prepared to stand by our sides at any cost, just so long as we didn’t disgrace the family. She was unselfish and giving, and she really sacrificed for us in those early years.

Nevertheless, she too had rare moments when she allowed herself to get carried away. Once a painted gypsy dressed in vividly colored scarves parked her caravan not far from the center of town. My mother, who had never seen anyone quite like her, was naturally intrigued; without telling a soul she approached the gypsy to have her fortune told. The gypsy, seeing live bait, lit up. Finding that my mother had a silver dollar, she borrowed it to put under her tongue to help the spell. Before the spell could be helped, the silver dollar disappeared. My mother, nobody’s fool, demanded her coin back. The gypsy didn’t move, so my furious little mother put her hands around the gypsy’s throat and threatened to choke her either standing up or upside down, unless the money was returned. It was—fast!

Celia Dempsey was a tough, wiry little woman who knew exactly what she wanted; when she smiled, she could melt even the hardest heart. The haphazard, insecure life my father had thrust upon her wasn’t to her liking at all. She had mouths to feed, bodies to clothe and honest citizens to raise. She always put her family first; she wanted us to make it. And she was responsible for instilling the fight in me, for her great hero was the famous old heavyweight boxing champion, John L. Sullivan.

Just before you were born, she told me one day, "an old peddler came to the door and begged me to allow him to warm his feet and hands by the leadbelly stove he had seen glowing through the cracks in the shutters. Said he had traveled a great distance. Lord have mercy, I let him come in. After giving him some warm food and drink, I gave him a blanket near the stove, where he promptly fell asleep.

"Son, I know what it’s like to get so tired your bones ache. I could see this man was on the verge of complete exhaustion. When he awakened, he was so grateful that he didn’t know how to thank me enough, and he insisted I choose whatever I wanted from his sack of dusty wares. At first I told him I didn’t want anything, but he was so eager for me to take something that I couldn’t refuse. Since I had to while away the time, I decided to take a book. He thanked me profusely, God blessed me and then he left. Dusting off the cover I saw that the title was Life of a 19th Century Gladiator by John L. Sullivan himself. I read and reread this book so many times, son, that right there and then, I decided that if you turned out to be a boy, you could be just like him, because I felt you were going to be strong. I just knew it."

We were just about settled in Manassa, thinking of this little town as home, when my father lost his farming job. He decided to uproot the family and move on.

We headed for Creede and Uncompahgre, Colorado. We were among some of the highest mountains when things started going wrong near Leadville, one of the highest cities, if not the highest city, in the west.

One of the wagon horses who had pushed too hard up a hill quietly lay down on its side, heaved a great big sigh and died. Worse, and terribly frightening for us, my mother began feeling dizzy and then fainted a few times while experiencing shooting pains in her stomach.

Don’t worry, my father reassured us feebly. Your ma will be all right. I’ve got a suspicion it’s due to the high altitude.

His words were hollow ones. They meant absolutely nothing to us who were young, in strange unknown country and terrified. It had snowed, and for miles nothing was to be seen under the white blanket. It was icy cold, and our faces, especially our noses, were covered for protection against frostbite. My sisters cried and cried, clinging to each other. I tried to comfort them as best I could while my own insides trembled. My father realized he would have to get my mother out of the mountains at once.

He carefully counted and recounted all the money on hand and found that there was just enough to get my mother to my sister Florence, who was living in Denver.

It was decided that my mother would take the youngest ones, meaning me, my brother Bruce and my sister Elsie, while my father and the older children would stay behind and wait for our return. We left them waving sad good-byes and managed to hitch a ride to a branch of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, where we mistakenly installed ourselves in one of the passenger cars.

After we had been on the train a while, I sensed someone standing over me. I looked up and stared smack into a brass button that was part of a navy blue uniform belonging to the train conductor, a big, burly, red-faced man with a thick neck and a scowl on his face. He demanded to see our tickets. My mother produced her single ticket and I froze. He overlooked Brucie, who was very small, and for some reason Elsie, who ignored him altogether by staring out of the window. He focused on me, his scowl worsening.

I’ll have to collect a half-fare for this boy, or you’re all off my train. I’ve had enough of your kind.

My mother attempted in vain to win him over. She clutched his sleeve and tearfully told him of our meager circumstances and her illness; she showed him her almost empty homemade purse containing small change and frayed bits of paper. He was unmoved.

She tried again. How can you think of putting us off the train in the middle of nowhere? Let us be and I promise, I’ll make sure you get the fare somehow.

Sorry, ma’am. Can’t help you. Rules are rules, and I stick to ‘em. You either pay the fare for the boy or he’s put off at the next station. I’ll be back!

He glared at me one more time before moving off. My heart was beating much too loudly in my ears and I could feel the ice-cold trickle of perspiration making its way down my back.

As this scene was taking place there sat across the aisle a cowboy dressed in his entire regalia, including pearl-handled pistols at his side and beautiful boots with fancy spurs. He had been taking in the whole sorry situation. Now that the conductor was out of sight, the cowboy motioned to me.

Tell your ma to stop worrying. If it comes to a showdown, I will pay your fare, sonny. But I don’t think it’ll come to that; I think he’s bluffing. Don’t you worry about a thing, pardner.

I was touched by these words of kindness. My eyes brimmed with tears which I would not allow to fall in front of this magnificent fellow. Humiliation felt like a pitchfork in my belly and it made me realize for the first time how poor we were. When we lived in a town where all the folks were struggling like us, I didn’t pay any attention. We were all clean and scrubbed (water don’t cost nothin’; use it), but here we were the ones who stuck out with our makeshift possessions and paper in our shoes.

I was ashamed. I vowed at that very moment—I was almost nine—that this wouldn’t happen when I grew up. One day I would have enough money to pay for as many fares as I wanted. One day I would be grand, just like the cowboy.

My newfound friend turned out to be right; the conductor had been bluffing. We were mighty relieved when he came back through the compartment and passed us without saying one word, looking straight ahead.

Once in Denver, my mother felt better and pretty soon we were ready to rejoin my father and the others, who had managed in the meantime to get to Wolcott. When we informed him we were ready to travel, he sold the other horse and wired us the money.

We didn’t have any trouble going back; this time we were all paid for. My father, who had had a fright even though he never let on, was extremely pleased to have my mother and us around again.

Stopping for a spell in Steamboat Springs, we hired ourselves out—we boys, that is—as farmers’ helpers so that we could make more money and keep moving on. It was tough putting some money aside with so many mouths to feed, but we managed.

From Steamboat Springs we finally reached Uncompahgre, Colorado, where my father got himself a rancher’s job. It was June, 1904, and I had just passed my ninth birthday. Despite our many moves, my mother always made sure we attended school wherever we were. Some of us did try our hardest to learn something, but it wasn’t easy; the teacher was usually too busy keeping order to have much time for teaching.

It seemed to me that our mornings, before we headed for school, used to be as tiring as the days themselves. I hated getting up in the pre-dawn hours, realizing that before we could even think of getting breakfast the cows had to be milked, the wood chopped, horse manure cleared away and eggs collected. No chores, no food.

Not surprisingly, the kitchen was the most important room in the house. It was just about the only room that wasn’t cramped and overcrowded, and it was warm and smelled good. Women cooked while the boys and men made themselves comfortable around the stove and told stories. Country ballads and gospels were sung and matters of Great Importance were discussed. Sometimes no one talked at all; occasionally thoughts would be interrupted by the sound of someone’s chewed tobacco spit hitting the side of a spittoon.

In time we each acquired a horse, and one of our favorite pastimes was riding into the foothills to chase and rope the wild burros that roamed in small bands. It looked like a second-rate, badly staged rodeo.

We even tried skiing, but this was a very short-lived sport, for the barrel slabs that we used for skis were usually turned into toboggans, which were much more fun—especially when harnessed to the old family jackass. That ass certainly had his uses; my mother once tied one of my loose teeth to his tail and gave him a whack on the rump.

3 — OUR GYM IS A CHICKEN COOP

We were just about getting used to our surroundings and making friends when my father lost the ranching job. We had gotten pretty much attached to the farm and found it very difficult to accept the fact that once more we had to pick up and move. I think this was the first time I ever saw my mother in tears. I didn’t realize that her tears were also being shed for her marriage, which was slowly turning sour.

Our next home was in Montrose. Gun country. Not dangerous, but each and every child was taught to hold a gun from the time he could walk. It was in Montrose that I picked up coyote trapping, laid traps for the bears up in the hills, and relied a great deal on my ten gauge shotgun. I remember its being old and incredibly rusty.

It was in Montrose that my tiny mother decided to take the financial welfare of her family into her own hands. She was tired of making ends meet halfway only to have to drop everything every time my father was out of work. She knew, deep down, that our way of life left much to be desired. She never allowed her worry over money to interfere with our