Tag: cowboy

The Great Florida Cattle Drive

Vick Blackstone would have loved participating in the Great Florida Cattle Drives. Unfortunately, he passed away in 1987, eight years before the first of the three reenactments of Floridian cattle drives that the Florida Cow Culture Preservation Committee under the auspices of the Florida Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services and the Florida Agricultural Museum coordinated. The first Great Florida Cattle Drive was organized in 1995 to commemorate the 150th anniversary of Florida statehood and the second was in 2006. Vick was named Man of the Year in 1970 by the Rodeo Hall of Fame, and, in 1985, the Florida Senate and House passed joint resolutions citing Vick Blackstone for Outstanding Service to Florida Agriculture. Celebrating the Cracker cowboy heritage is always done with a tip of the hat to men and women like Vick and Faye Blackstone.

On July 22, an evening spent taking a look at 2016 Great Florida Cattle Drive: Unbroken Circles was offered at the Hideaway Cafe in St. Petersburg by father/son filmmakers Elam and Nic Stoltzfus with music by J Robert Houghtaling as he performed some of his original songs that are featured on the film. The documentary, narrated by Baxter Black, tells the story of the Great Florida Cattle Drive 2016, the history of Florida’s scrub cattle breed, and how they almost went extinct. A DVD, a CD, and a coffee table book were produced and are available for anyone who does not have the opportunity to see a live presentation of this Floridian historical event.

Carlton Ward, a photographer who participated in the drives, wrote “A lot has changed since the first Great Florida Cattle Drive in 1995. Florida’s population has grown from 14 million to 20 million and more than 2 million acres (more than 3,000 square miles) of natural and agricultural lands have been lost to development.

That trend was apparent as I headed south down Canoe Creek Road to the starting point of the drive. New developments sprawled out from Kissimmee and St. Cloud, covering what had been ranch country just a few years before. I learned from the trail bosses that it had been increasingly difficult to find enough connected land for a cattle drive from one decade to the next and that the prospect of being able to do it again is very much in question.

It’s when I think about the landscape of the cattle drive that my concern shifts from nostalgia for the heritage to fear for the future of Florida. Four years ago, I hiked across this cattle drive route on Day 53 of the Florida Wildlife Corridor Expedition, a 1000-mile, 100-day trek from the Everglades to Georgia tracing the best remaining wildlife corridor through the Florida peninsula. Our team’s mission was to show that a statewide wildlife corridor still existed and could still be saved.”

The cattle drives have been widely cover in newspapers and periodicals like the Los Angles Times and Western Horseman.  Mike Cleary wrote in the LATimes that “Most of the Great Florida Cattle Drive ’95 runs over private land, including hunting preserves where wild boar, deer and alligators thrive. But on Saturday morning, at trail’s end, the cattle will be herded across busy U.S. 192, a main road into a better-known symbol of Florida: Walt Disney World.

The cow hunters driving the cattle are expert riders nominated by the cattlemen’s associations in each of Florida’s 67 counties. The journey averages 10 miles a day, and at night the cows are penned in prearranged locations, where the cow hunters set up camp. Trailing the herd is a mile-long retinue of more than 30 wagons and about 400 horseback riders.”

Susan L. Ebert wrote in Cowgirl magazine that, “Last year’s Great Florida Cattle Drive, featuring the state’s famed cow hunters, delivered an unexpected surprise: women outnumbered the men!” She concluded with, “As momentum builds and the urgency to preserve Florida’s ranching legacy and wilderness increases, planning is already underway for the fourth Great Florida Cattle Drive, to be held in 2021 to mark 500 years of Florida Cracker tradition.” So, if anyone wants to participate in the next celebration of the cattle drive, start planning now.

Brahma Fear

Even before the Manatee County school bus slowed to a stop in front of the dirt road leading over the railroad rail cattleguard at the entrance to the Quarter Circle A ranch on State Road 62, my brother, Smokey, and I looked out the opened windows and scanned the small four-acre pasture in front of the tree line for cattle. What we didn’t want to see were the Brahman cows.

The Colvin ranch of 10,000 acres was the home range of several hundred head of Florida scrub cattle and several breeds of purebred cattle that the Colvins bought at auctions in whatever parts of the country they happen to visit. A champion Angus Bull arrived from a Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo visit one day, got out of the cattle truck, and walked right into a barbed wire he had never encountered before, requiring a local veterinarian triage visit. A few Hereford cows brought in from Nebraska required veterinarian attention several times during their first few months in the Florida heat and humidity. However, the purebred Brahman herd of about 40 cows required the least amount of veterinarian care, but were rotated through different sections of pasture land to give the cattle the best grazing the ranch could afford them. When the rotation schedule brought the Brahmans into the small entrance field leading onto the ranch or the wider pasture area around the four houses and barn of the ranch headquarters, my brother and I had to devise strategies for dealing with the herd.

The cows with their calves were usually skittish, dashed into a close-packed herd a couple hundred feet away from anyone who approached on horseback or on a tractor, and turned to stare at the intruder until they determined whether or not danger really existed for their offspring. When two small boys coming home from school began walking down the 300 yards of dusty, dirt road that disappeared into the tree line harboring Gamble Creek, the cows looked up from grazing, sometimes snorted, and, most often, went right back to grazing. A few of the 1,200 pound cows with wide-eyed curious calves on either side of the road would raise heavy heads adorned with short, very pointed horns and stare. We would freeze in place. After the closest cow lowered her head to graze, we quietly crept forward again. This cow and boy dance usually worked until we came within the last 200 feet from the tree line; then, we ran as if our lives depended on the few seconds we needed to reach the safety of the trees.

The first time we encounter the herd on the way home, we had no strategy in place and spoke nervously about running all the way to the trees or just walking like the cattle were not even there. Our chatter must have irritated the cow closest to the road. She ran several strides forward, lowered her head, and swung pointed horns at our rear ends as we screeched and stumbled in our awkward school shoes toward the lone pine 75 yards from the road in the middle of the eastern half of the pasture. The cow could not have been serious about wanting to reach us, because she halted after those first few strides and watched us scramble behind the pine. The rest of the herd gathered on the western side of the pasture to watch us exit the open field by keeping the tree between us and the Brahmans, going all the way to the barbed wire fence on the eastern edge, and climbing under the fence into the Palmetto scrub on the other side. Our journey home took three times the usual duration as we navigated palmettos, watched for rattlesnakes, and twisted through the trees along the creek to get back to the road. Smokey and I talked about strategy on the way home and decided being quiet while walking slowly after taking off our shoes would be the best plan, agreeing that we ran much faster without shoes. We had quite a few more dances through the herd over the next few years and a few barefoot races to the trees when we heard an aggressive snort or strides coming in the grass toward us that, a couple of times, left school shoes lying in the dust.

When we heard Tex Ritter sing “Bad Brahma Bull” on the car radio a few times during those mid 1950’s, my brother and I agreed that we were happy never seeing any of the several Brahman bulls, a couple of them retired rodeo bulls, mixed in with the herd of cows. They were put together once or twice a year in outer pastures removed from the area of the ranch where we typically travelled on foot.

Years later in 1974, the lines from “Brahma Fear” on Jimmy Buffett’s album, Living And Dying In 3/4 Time, “I’d like to ride the rodeo/But I’ve got Brahma fear/So I’ll just stick to airplanes/Gently pop my ears,” reminded me of my childhood moments with Brahman cattle. I, too, thought about rodeo possibilities, but I figured pain from football injuries probably paled in ctomparison to that inflicted by bulls and broncs in a rodeo arena.

In 1977, Chris LaDoux’s album, Sing Me a Song, Mr. Rodeo Man, offered an upbeat version of “Bad Brahma Bull,” and led me to find that the song was originally written by cowboy poet Curley Fletcher in 1915 as the poem, “Strawberry Roan,” and transformed into a song by Fred Howard and Nat Vincent (The Happy Chappies).  Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Rex Allen and Buddy Essen, Marty Robbins, and the Sons of the Pioneers recorded versions of “Strawberry Roan.” Fletcher rewrote the bronc riding song into a parody as the bull riding song in 1942.

From the 5th chapter, “Cowboy Hat,” of Growing Up Floridian:

As we started to the barn, I noticed Vick was bow-legged, and his stride was an awkward mix between a slight limp and an exaggerated right leg extension.

“Why do you walk like that?”

“Son, if you had been thrown from as many horses and bulls as I have, you might have a hitch in your giddyup too. Too many rodeos. Too many eight second rides.”

He wore a silver belt buckle adorned with a cowboy on a bucking horse that read Saddle Bronc Champion 1942, one of many I saw over the years. I learned that Vick Blackstone was a well-respected rodeo performer when he was young and still had to ride once in a while in competitions despite being almost 50, an age when most riders had retired from all rodeo events. Vick did not talk much about himself to us, but we overheard conversations or his responses to questions about where he earned the championship belt buckle he wore on any given day. He was respected as a five-event cowboy, a competitor riding bulls, riding broncs bareback, riding broncs with a saddle, roping calves, and bulldogging. For twenty-five years, he won championships on the rodeo circuit across the country from when he was seventeen in 1930 until he was well into his forties. Once, a truck driver delivering feed to the ranch asked him about “that Largo rodeo when you won all five main events.”

 

Summer time is rodeo time across the country…

The current edition of Rodeo News features the article,   “Back When They Bucked with Pat Ommert” with her picture from a performance years ago, which, in turn, reminded me of the years spent on the Quarter Circle A ranch in Manatee County, Florida with Faye and Vic Blackstone, who are both in the Cowboy and Cowgirl Halls of Fame.

Faye was one of Pat Ommert’s contemporaries and was credited with inventing some of the trick riding maneuvers rodeo performers still use today.

 

I noticed in both pictures that the women used white trick riding saddles, and I found a picture of Faye’s favorite saddle in Florida Cattle Ranching online.

 

 

 

 

 

Many of the cowgirls of that era were photogenic, and the camera liked Faye.

      

 

 

 

From the 7th chapter of Growing Up Floridian

Until Smokey and I were invited into the Blackstone’s house one afternoon for freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies by Faye, Vick’s wife, we really didn’t know how famous they were in the cowboy world. They had been managing the Quarter Circle A Ranch since the early 1940’s, and we knew they both still performed in some local rodeos. A couple of pictures hanging on the wall in the kitchen of Vick as a young bronc rider caught my eye, and, as I walked closer I recognized a much younger Vick.

“Wander through the house, boys, and look at all the pictures if you want,” Faye suggested.

The entire house was almost an art gallery or photo exhibit dedicated largely to the cowboy and his cowgirl. Vick and Faye had been photographed on horseback in many well-know rodeo arenas, standing beside beautiful horses, performing all kinds of rope tricks, and standing with many famous people. Action photos caught them as young rodeo performers at the top of their profession.

 

1924 Silver Dollars…

 

 

Until I went through my mother’s keepsakes after she passed away in April of 2013, I had not realized she kept the first silver dollars I earned when I was seven years old. She told my brother and me that she would put the money in a bank account for us, but she put the value of the earnings in the account and kept the actual silver dollars as mementoes for us. How do I know? When I brought the first dollar home, she examined the heavy coin and remarked that the dollar was minted in 1924, the year before she was born…and the next one I gave her, also dated 1924, elicited an explanation that all silver dollars were not made in 1924. For comparison, she used one of my brother’s minted in 1878. Those coins nestled in an old leather coin purse were among her treasured possessions.

 

From the 6th chapter, “First Paying Job,” of Growing Up Floridian:

 

The ranch foreman, Vick Blackstone, told my brother and me that he would pay us a silver dollar a day to walk along beside a flatbed truck and toss saw palmetto roots and trunk pieces up on to the truck bed. Vick’s enticement, shiny new silver dollars, produced a visible bulge in his Levi’s right front pocket. He pulled out a few to enhance his sales pitch.

“You can earn a handful of these by the end of the week,” he chuckled as he winked at us.

My brother and I were sold. Of course, we did not have anything on which to spend the money, nor any place to go anywhere near the ranch, but our parents had already taught us the value of saving money. We just were not sure of the reason behind saving “for a rainy day.”

Soundtrack of my life…

                                                                              

Creating a “Soundtrack of My Life” can be a self-reflective exercise to explore one’s self through connections to specific pieces of music or songs that symbolize moments in a person’s life with an explanation of the connections. A person could just cobble together a list of songs that were memorable over the course of his or her life, but why were the songs significant? One way to begin is to create a timeline of one’s life by identifying each major event, important event, or just memorable event with a brief written description of that moment. Then, remember or find a song’s lyrics that connect to the event and explain the connection. I used this exercise in both middle school and high school classrooms. The results were often quite remarkable, particularly when young students found that contemporary, popular songs they liked did not connect to their important moments in their lives. The students had to explore older songs and a variety of genres to make the connections they felt were important. When I introduced the idea to adult friends, a frequent response was, “That’s a lot of work.” I agree there is some thought involved, but using a computer and iTunes makes the task enjoyable and fairly easy.  The result can be a playlist that is enjoyable to hear once in a while when nostalgia tugs on one’s brain. I offer here a PowerPoint version of my soundtrack followed by the written version.

Soundtrack Taylor2b

 

Although I was born in Boston, and was considered a Yankee during most of my early years, I spent my formative childhood on a ranch in rural, central Florida. So, the cowboy image has significance in that I grew up in an environment that celebrated the rodeo-Florida Cracker Cowboy way of life about which many present-day Floridians know little. The cowboy persona blurred and merged with a Gulf coast sailing/fishing “salt-water cowboy” mentality when I moved to Pinellas County and spent my teen-age years and young adulthood surrounded by a marine environment. The violence of the Vietnam War, the deaths by assignation of John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, and Bobby Kennedy, and the civil unrest of the entire country vividly colored my thoughts about who I was becoming and what I wanted to do with my life. Blue skies, clear water, and sailing adventures dominated several years spent wandering the country, going to college, and rocketing about listening to Elton John, James Taylor, and much great music of the 60’s and 70’s. While I explored paths open to me and thought few people really knew me, I have always concluded that the years spent with important people in my life was enjoyable, offered opportunities to grow, and foretold of more good years to come.

According to Robert Frost, “a poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom,” and I think life and responses to songs should follow a similar course. Nature has delighted me from my formative years on a ranch in Manatee County through decades of exploring what Florida has to offer from the Keys to Pensacola, and, more recently, on a morning runs along Boca Ciega Bay in Gulfport that offered views of dolphins breaching, ospreys snatching fish, pelicans diving, and Great Blue Herons patiently waiting for a baitfish swirl. My life has been influenced by turbulent events in the Sixties, intellectual explorations in the Seventies, loving relationships through the years, and a focused career in teaching that ties many of the moments together. Music always presents a score for my most significant moments no matter whether the sounds come from live concerts, vinyl records, eight-track tapes, cassette tapes, cds, or Ipods. As the years have rolled by, singular songs or performances etch echoes that resonate and pull smiles on my lips, release sighs into the air, and coalesce memories into momentary consciousness that delight the senses and offer reflections to ponder.

As a boy growing up in a rural Florida cowboy environment, I knew more names of rodeo champions than those of Major League Baseball’s homerun hitters or the NFL’s leading quarterbacks. Although I did not hear Michael Martin Murphy’s voice until the early Seventies singing romantic ballads like “Wildfire” and “Carolina in the Pines,” his 1990 song, “Cowboy Logic,” captured a philosophy that I was not so much taught as shown though the actions of the everyday cowboys in my day-to-day boyhood life and though stories of the Western television shows and movies I watched and the paperback Westerns I read. When Murphy sang,

“If it’s a job, do it. Put your back in to it.
‘Cause a little bit of dirt’s gonna wash off in the rain.
If it’s a horse, ride it. If it hurts, hide it.
Dust yourself off and get back on again,”

I knew he telling the truth as both he and I saw the world. I fell off my share of horses, bicycles, and slippery decks, but I always got back up and tried again. My parents, coaches, and teachers grew up in an era of “if you’re hurt, just walk it off.” That cliché applied to many aspects of my life, including sports, education, and romance.

When he sang that a cowboy has “…got a simple solution to just about anything,” he captured a core philosophical note I have most often lived by: life should not be that complicated. He also argues

“If it’s a fence, mend it; If it’s a dollar bill, spend it
Before if burns a hole down in them jeans
If it’s a load, truck it. If it’s a punch, duck it.
If she’s a lady, treat her like a queen.”

I did actually learn to mend fences (literally) as a boy, but have not been so efficient at mending fences metaphorically with people in my life, as I tend to let people who cause problems drift from my life. I have also never been one to accumulate much in terms of monetary wealth and so have never had a pair of jeans that burned. I have driven pickup trucks most of my life; my favorite, a ’49 Ford, I drove until I tired of having only a hood vent for air conditioning. I have successfully ducked most punches thrown my way, but a couple have landed that delivered lessons both physical and emotional. And most of the women in my life I have tried to treat royally with varying degrees of success; those romantic actions call to mind a voice and a song I have listened to since I was a teenager.

In 1968, Lou Rawls released Soulin’, a recording I wore out after a few years, and after replacing the first record, I later replaced that one with tapes, both 8-track and then cassette. The song I most listened to that caught a romantic teenage mind was “It Was a Very Good Year.” In the song, images of a lifetime of romance is offered in simple vignettes for ages seventeen, twenty-one, thirty-five, and the autumn of one’s years. “When I was seventeen…small town girls…And soft summer nights” were my romantic focus, with those soft summer nights often spent on St. Pete Beach with a background chorus of waves rolling on the sand. Before “I was twenty-one,” I saw and heard Lou Rawls in person on a nightclub stage in Denver, Colorado. The melody came to life in a number of ways because there were plenty of “…city girls/Who lived up the stair” during the time I spent in the west and then wandered back east. Years later, “…girls/Of independent means” came and went “when I was thirty-five” or so, bringing this song sung by both Rawls and Frank Sinatra to life again and again.

Now that one could argue “I’m in the autumn of the year,” I do think most of my years have been “very good” and will continue to be so. Each year I have viewed as an example of “…vintage wine/From fine old kegs” which have been enjoyed “from the brim to the dregs.” Life should be lived in this way: savoring each moment one can while accepting tasty sips along with the bitter lessons that do seem to have to come from time to time. Some of those moments can be personal, while others are shared within the culture or nation.

Too many shared bitter moments happened in the 1960’s, and three of them were captured in a historical retrospective through Dion’s 1968 “Abraham, Martin And John” written by Richard Holler that reached number four on the Billboard hits list. When I first heard him sing,

“Anybody here seen my old friend John?
Can you tell me where he’s gone?
He freed a lot of people,
But it seems the good they die young.
I just looked around and he’s gone,”

I felt a palpable wave move through me as I vividly recalled the events of John F. Kennedy’s assignation five years earlier, his funeral, his three-year old son’s salute as his father’s coffin passed, and the effects on the entire nation. I, like many others, thought Kennedy, the first national figure I admired, would lead this nation in positive directions.

The losses of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy in subsequent years, emotional body punches to the nation and to those of us who perceived the renewed hope they offered, profoundly altered my view of the world. Dion struck powerful notes when he linked Abraham Lincoln, King, and the Kennedys, described them as friends, and painted the image of seeing Bobby “walk up over the hill,/With Abraham, Martin and John.” In a seventeen-year old’s mind, Dion’s soulful, doo-wop voice became very reverent in this song and expressed a shared veneration of those leaders that so many felt.

One of the ways to recover from tragic events is to look in new directions; often songs can offer inspiration for those directions. In 1969, “Crystal Blue Persuasion” by Tommy James and the Shondells reached number two on the Billboard charts, and although years later Tommy James and co-writers, Eddie Gray and Mike Vale, explained that they wrote a “a sort of semi-religious poetic song,” the message suggested to me, clearly, if someone was open to new ideas, “peace and good brotherhood” could be achieved. Those ideas resonated with me, and, as much as any other single message, got me to examine what I wanted to do with my life, helped inspire me to choose a career in teaching, and look at the world in a more positive light rather than a cynical one the experiences of the 1960’s could have produced. Over the years I have seen that “people are changing,” and, in my limited influential role as a teacher, I have tried to help students understand possibilities of “a new day…coming.”

The beginning of a romance often signifies a metaphorical new day in one’s life; that new love focus gives someone a redefined hope for a positive future that may last. Nat King Cole’s romantic ballad, “Red Sails in the Sunset,” first captured such a possibility for me. Although I am not aware of consciously hearing the song when Cole took the tune up the charts to number twenty-four the year I was born, when I did begin listening to the singer’s ““unforgettable” voice, with its honeyed velvet tones in a rich, easy draw,” I was hooked. Having “Red sails in the sunset,…carry my loved one home safely to me” created an image that sent a young heart racing whenever Cole’s voice floated out of stereo speakers. In St. Croix’s Christiansted Harbor years later with a camera at sunset, I happened to photograph a small sailboat with red sails maneuvering to the dock and knew I had to return to the States to find someone I had left behind. I “went sailing no more” for quite a few years.

Although I never had an interest in becoming an astronaut, a friend in the early 70’s nicknamed me “Rocketman” because I traveled about the country from one end to the other in either a tiny Volkswagen Beetle or by hitchhiking and seemed to be zooming off in some direction for the slightest reason. “Rocket Man (I Think It’s Going to Be a Long Long Time),” a song composed by Elton John and Bernie Taupin, reached number one on the charts in 1972. There were times when, halfway across the continent from friends, I was “lonely out in space,” and was “not the man they think I am at home.”

Many of the Elton John/Bernie Taupin songs like “Your Song,” “I’m Still Standing,” and “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues,” connected to specific moments in my life. In one romantic moment, I can remember saying, “I don’t have much money but boy if I did/I’d buy a big house where we both could live.” Of course, I never did have enough money to buy a big house. In another moment after a relationship breakup that ended badly, I realized I was “still standing better than I ever did/Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid/…Picking up the pieces of my life without you on my mind.” There are times when anyone wonders if he will regain stability to stand on his own again after a major disappointment. After having a number of romances that failed to blossom as desired, singing the blues took on a more realistic meaning, and I could understand “why they call it the blues” because “Time on my hands could be time spent” in more enjoyable ways if I could solve the gender differences dynamic more successfully.

No matter what the relationship dynamic, parts of one’s self can be kept hidden from others. I have been well aware of a reluctance to reveal my innermost self at times or well aware of the consequences that have resulted when I did. The song which best explored that emotional response, “You Don’t Know Me,” a song written by Cindy Walker and Eddy Arnold in 1955 and sung by Arnold that year, reached number 10 on the country charts. Although at age four, I did not likely hear the song, I did hear Arnold’s version on country stations in the car as a child since my parents turned the dial to country music on any trip. A more contemporary version by Kenny Loggins (1977) on his Celebrate Me Home album offers a vibrant soulful version of the moment when

“You give your hand to me
And then you say, “Hello.”
And I can hardly speak,
My heart is beating so.
And anyone can tell
You think you know me well.
Well, you don’t know me.”

My friends and associates today may not see me as “afraid and shy” or someone who would “let my chance go by,” but those moments have occurred and probably will again.

Perhaps a soundtrack to one’s life reveals that inner self that other communication vehicles do not. My foundation in old western or country values has directed a large portion of my life. I know a solution exists for every problem. Each year, even those visited with traumatic events, became a “very good year,” and the years have segued into the beginning of a very enjoyable autumn. Although too many bitter moments through the years have been endured by me and the nation as a whole, I still believe we, as a united population, will walk together “up over the hill” someday. In my hopes lives the idea that in my lifetime a leader will emerge who will persuade the world community that a “new vibration” worth tuning into offers peace and brotherhood. As the days continue to rocket by, I am not so much concerned that people don’t know me as I am that people know themselves and offer themselves the opportunity to sail safely into a sunset with a loved one and make the best of their lives. As I listen to new songs that prompt smiles or tug at the memories born of yesterday’s tunes, logic and love blend to remix notes of delight, tease at the edges of wisdom, and lay the tracks for the continuing soundtrack for my life.

“Soundtrack Found Poem”

When I was seventeen
It was a very good year
A new day…was…coming
People… were…changing

Ain’t it beautiful?

Didn’t you love the things that they stood for?
Didn’t they try to find some good for you and me?

When I was twenty-one,
it was a very good year.
I…packed my bags…
and I think it’s gonna be a long, long time
’til touchdown brings me ’round again.

“Well, there ain’t no way to know.”
“Kid, you’ve still got a ways to go.
When I was thirty-five
it was a very good year.
Look over yonder.
What do you see?
Red sails in the sunset, way out on the sea.

You think you know me well.
Well, you don’t know me.
I’m not the man they think I am at home.

When the times are hard and the chips are down,
I’m just a friend…with…
a simple solution to just about anything.

I think of my life as vintage wine
from fine old kegs,
from the brim to the dregs
… poured sweet and clear…in…a very good year.

1954 Boston Garden Rodeo

                
Jock Mahoney, known only as the Range Rider in the 1951 to 1953 TV western Range Rider, was one of the celebrity attractions of the 1954 Boston Garden Rodeo. He appeared during the 11-day Boston rodeo with Dick Jones, who was his saddle pal in the 79 episodes of the Range Rider. Mahoney also played the lead in Yancy Derringer, the popular but short-lived western in 1958 – 59.

 

From the Harvard Crimson:
“Lest the West” by Edmund H. Harvey, October 23, 1954

A rodeo is something that has to be smelled to be believed. The World’s Championship Rodeo in Boston Garden…All the best broncs are there: Country Butter, Sling Shot, Pig Eye, Drunkard, and the best riders and the prettiest girls. Also, The Range Rider and his Saddle Pal…The Range Rider (who) wears blue suede shoes…after the calf-roping contest,…time for the Range Rider (Jack Mahoney) and his Saddle Pal (Dick West)…The Range Rider jumps on a horse, but he does it three ways under a spotlight. Saddle Pal is a stooge who tries to do all the things that Range rider does but just thumps against the horse’s side. After each mounting he looks around at the crowd, and shouts, “Well, howdya like the Cavalry split-the neck mount? Didya like it HUH?” Everybody yells and claps and the Ranger Rider mounts another way (which I forget what they call). This goes on for a while and the Range Rider and Saddle Pal stage a fight. Then, they ride around the arena and throw their hats to the people that have applauded the most. This is the feature attraction…

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