Lore of the Wyoming Outback

By Charles Jesse Yates

A collection of 35 short stories gleaned from a lifetime of living, working and exploring Wyoming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781678124731

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Lore of the Wyoming Outback

LORE OF THE WYOMING OUTBACK

By CHARLES JESSE YATES

Copyright

Copyright © 2020 Charles Jesse Yates

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means-whether auditory, graphic, mechanical or electronic-without written permission of the publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews.  Unauthorized reproduction of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

The stories in this book are fictional.  The names, characters, places, incidents, and chronologies are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, institutions, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental;

ISBN 978-1-67812-169-3 (sc)

ISBN 978-1-67812-473-1 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.  The views expressed in this book are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the view of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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FORWARD

It is a bond, an imprint, every bit as certain as dialect, or accent, or mannerisms, or subtle customs, or colloquial phrasing.  It is indelibly embossed upon one’s very soul during the formative years, which linger well into young adulthood.  One cannot identify its presence with any great certainty until one leaves their childhood patchwork quilt of sounds and sights and smells and tastes and touches of the environment that cradles one from birth to adulthood.  It is an attachment to a place that defies concrete and convincing description, or even justification, for the feeling of belonging that comes with place of origin.  People leave their place of origin for logical and influential reasons:  they vary from career to wealth to climate to political safety to religious safety.  People return to their place of origin for illogical reasons:  their ancestors are buried there, they want their children to experience their embossment, they miss their friends and they miss the mountains….or the desert….or the humidity…..or the smell of crops in the field.  No matter how kind their new reality, they pine for the land that owns them, body and soul.  Refugees will return from their land of salvation to the land of their ancestors, long before it is safe or wise.

DEDICATION

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO MY WIFE, ANITA, WHO ENCOURAGED, PARTICIPATED, EDITED AND HELPED IN SO MANY WAYS IN BRINGING THIS BOOK OF SHORT STORIES TO THE PRINTED PAGE;  ANITA HAS LISTENED TO THESE STORIES SO MANY TIMES OVER THE YEARS THAT SHE HAS THEM MEMORIZED.

TO ALL OF MY STUDENTS AT COAL RIDGE HIGH SCHOOL IN COLORADO WHO LISTENED TO MY STORIES AND ENCOURAGED ME TO WRITE THIS BOOK, WHITH SPECIAL THANKS TO GUNNAR PAGNI WHO ASKED ME AT LEAST TWICE PER YEAR AS TO WHEN I WOULD FINISH MY BOOK.

TO MY FRIENDS JACK KASPER AND CHERYL GREEN AND KERRY RAGAZZI AND GINGER RAGAZZI, WHO READ AND COMMENTED ON MY ROUGH DRAFTS.

BIG  JOHN

SPECKERMAN

I was unpacking new appliances and shuffling them into nice neat rows among the existing inventory with what is called a refrigerator dolly.  All of the new appliances were in the front of the store with a bank of floor to ceiling windows over the sidewalk.  It was an old building that had its glory days when it was the Lovejoy Automatic Door Opener Factory, the same Lovejoy who invented the steering gears used on most vehicles dating back to the Great Depression.  It was good indoor work for a college student on this Saturday morning in Laramie, Wyoming.

I glanced out the window and saw him coming down the street.  Every Saturday morning John Speckerman stopped by the store to visit with me.  I did not expect to see him this Saturday as the wind whipped the snow at 40 mph down Second Street creating sculpted windrows behind parked cars and bike racks and meter posts.  John pushed open the door and ushered in an Arctic blast of snow delivered directly from the plains of Canada.  He closed the door and straightened up to his full 6 ft 6 in skeleton and shook the snow from his Fedora and his long wool overcoat.

John was an impressive man, even at the age of 89, with a mantle of silver hair and spectacles that appeared to be fashioned from the bottoms of two RC Cola bottles.  As always, John was wearing a Herringbone wool dress suit with a broad colorful tie and wing tip shoes, all from another era.  John had an enormous head and a dignified smile that invited polite conversation, never treading on religion or politics or common gossip.  I think he stopped to talk to me for a simple reason, I took time to listen to his stories from the distant past, originating with his birth in 1878.

I asked John why he was taking his two mile round trip walk from his home on such a miserable day.  John informed me that he walks every day, but that our schedules only cross on Saturday mornings; and that he had learned by experience that a daily walk missed delivered two days of arthritic misery in a chair or in bed.  His wife never joined him on his daily adventure and I have never had the privilege of making her acquaintance.

As John settled onto a stool in the midst of the black and white TVs and the only color TV on the floor, I pointed out that he was an hour earlier than usual.  John normally showed up around 10:00 when I took my coffee break next door at Sally’s Café.

John’s normal smile broadened into a wide grin and he told me that today is my 65th Wedding Anniversary and described that there would be a special lunch for their anniversary at the Pillar of Fire Church, where he was a part time minister.  A minister that read from a New Testament created in Braille; since his reading abilities were only a memory from the past.

I thought about John’s age and a 65 year marriage and I ask him if this was his first love from high school.  He looked in the direction of the storm and his face transformed into an expression deep in remembrance and he simply said Charlie, my wife is my second love.  I pondered this for a few slow breaths and then braved the question what happened with your first love?

John started slowly and deliberately into the memory of his high school sweetheart and their commitment to each other to marry upon graduation.  Both were members of the Baptist Church and his fiancé found herself led by God to go on a mission to Africa before marrying and starting a family.  John was sympathetic to her calling and encouraged her mental and physical journey to the mission fields of Africa.  She travelled with a mission team to Kenya with a two year commitment to help save souls on a continent that was far different from the Africa of the 1960's.  After two years, John received his monthly letter from his betrothed and she simply asked him to allow her to stay another year as her work was important and that she was feeling great fulfillment in her mission.  John agreed to wait for her.  At the end of three years, John received an almost identical letter.  Once again, John agreed to wait for her, they were young with their whole lives yet to be lived.

At the end of John’s lonely sojourn, four years in the making, he literally received a Dear John Letter.  His first love told him that she was ever so sorry, but that during her four year mission, she had fallen in love with the Director of Missions for Northeast Africa and that she was terribly sorry for the four years he had waited in vain for her return.  After pages of heartfelt self-recrimination and misery, his now ex-fiancé told John that she and the Director of Missions were to be married later that year in Cairo, Egypt.

Then with great trepidation and hesitancy, she asked if John could see past his great disappointment and send her $200 for a full set of false teeth; her teeth had simply rotted from neglect and poor living conditions.  His first love said that she would like to get married with a full set of teeth, but would certainly understand if his love and generosity did not extend that far.

With the impertinence of youth, I blurted out in simple empathy for John’s plight how long did it take you to write a letter to tell her to go fly a kite?  John looked at me with the wisdom of an 89 year old and softly said I didn’t tell her to go fly a kite.  I sent her the money, I LOVED HER"! 

It was a life lesson on love and forgiveness that I have never forgotten.  I still shed several tears when I tell John Speckerman’s story!

John Speckerman’s life cannot be reduced to this one story.  And lest you think that he was a soft hearted fool without all of the backbone a man should have, you would be mistaken!

You can already visualize a very large man with a very large head.  Try and imagine a 6ft 6in giant at the turn of the last century, with broad shoulders and hands the size of a Samoan NFL Player of the 21st Century. 

John was born in 1878 on a poor dirt farm in Idaho, which he abandoned at the age of 16 to go work in the gold mines in the mountains of Northern Idaho and Western