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| Keith Edwards 2/2/1918--12/8/2011 |
Last month my father Keith passed away after a short and
rapid decline. He lived a full life--93
years--and we knew that, even with good health, his passing was imminent. When death comes at the end of a long life,
there is no surprise. He died from
failing systems; the weakening of age; and the exhaustion of the long war
against dying. Still, we were not as
prepared for it as we thought we would be. It seemed that he was more prepared than his
family was. One of the last things he said
to me was that he was crossing a bridge of straw.
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| With his older brother |
He was born in Big Sandy but soon moved with his family back to South Dakota where the land was not as harsh. When they returned to Montana a few years later they made the trip back in a railroad car containing their belongings and their animals. The homestead, located in an area called Lonesome Prairie, was a tough place to survive, but his family, like others equally stubborn, suffered through the bad times and eventually flourished. He once told me the area’s best and brightest had all left, leaving the dumbest and the dimmest.
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| Teaching me to ride |
He suffered through chemotherapy 20 years ago, suffered a horrific
horse accident that broke his neck, and a few years ago cracked his skull. He was accident prone, but tough as
hell. As an adult, I was fortunate to be
able to work with him, and I spent a lot of hours with him. I knew him well--the good and the not so
good. He could have said the same about
me, and probably did. He expected a lot of himself and
those around him. His expectations of
his children were simple: to do the best we could.
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| My brother built this box for Keith's ashes |
It
is frustrating to attempt to sum up his life in a few words. It would take a book to reveal his
nuances. He had a brilliant mind, an
abundance of generosity for the less fortunate, and deep concern for his
family. He was a farmer, a rancher, a poet, and a dreamer. He pushed himself mentally and
physically. He died with regrets--all
great men do--with the knowledge that he made mistakes, and could have done
better. In his last days, he said to me:
"everyone has to start at the beginning." Life's journey ends with a walk across the
bridge of straw.
LEAVING ON A WING AND
A PRAYER
by Keith Edwards
Welcome to the K Bar R. The boss says to show you 'round.
That's a big order, known' it
covers lots of ground.
This old ranch has history,
every part is worth a yarn.
And these old buildings too,
the houses and the barns.
Over there's the main corrals
and then the calvin' pen
That one-room cabin on the
hill, that's where you'd find old Ben.
Ben rode in when the ranch
was young. Must of lived here 50 years--
Long before the rest of us
was dry behind the ears.
Some of the other hands
who've been here quite awhile
Claimed that no one on the
ranch had ever seen Ben smile.
So he was a stern old cuss,
we called him Captain Grim.
And tales we heard from the
distant past said, you didn't mess with him!
At first he rode the rough
string, tamin' the mean ones down,
Got 'em mellowed out enough to
ride with your girl in town.
They say one time he roped a
wolf and hung it in a tree,
and he traded lead with men
now dead, who'd committed larceny.
Ben was foreman here for
years, the boss's right-hand man,
But age got in the game and
dealt Ben a sorry hand.
His bones were a mess of
fractures, from the broncs of years ago,
And he was asked to run
machinery whose quirks he didn't know.
When the ranch was
third-generation, a grandson ran the show.
He says to Ben, "you've
been here, since the buffalo,
That old log shack you're living
in, it's yours for all your days.
But it's time to hang your
saddle up and turn your pony out to graze."
One fall the meadowlarks was
gatherin' to go to Mexico
Or wherever it is they fly, to escape the cold and snow.
Ben was dozin' in his chair
when he heard the window crack--
A meadowlark had struck it
and was lyin' on its back.
Its eyes were wild and red as
it fluttered to be free.
It pecked at Ben in panic as
he held it on his knee.
He studied how to fix the broken, bloody wing.
Then he patched and splinted, with
toothpicks and some string.
The months of winter passed,
the bird no longer wild.
It thrived on seeds and
tallow, as peaceful as a child.
It started making little
trips as it flew from bed to chair
Or landed on Ben's shoulder as
it seemed to like it there.
One day when the snow was
meltin' in a February thaw,
Ben had the shack door open,
even though the wind was raw.
The lark flew out the
doorway, in lopsided crooked flight.
Then came back to the cabin, much
to Ben's delight.
Ben woke early EasterSunday, still dark around the shack.
He heard the chirps and
rustlings, the meadowlarks were back!
They swooped around the cabin, as
dawn came bright and warm.
They settled in the
sagebrush, in the branches, in a swarm.
The larks outside were ready
to build their prairie nests.
Ben's bird heard their
message, it was time to join the rest.
Ben watched from his chair, the
door was open wide.
The lark perched upon Ben's
hand, and then it soared outside.
A ranch hand came riding
past, checking the calving pen.
He stopped at the open door just to
say hello to Ben.
But there was no reply from him, he'd
gone beyond the voice of men.
The ranch hand told the boss,
"It's hard to understand,
There's a smile upon his face,
a little feather in his hand."
And called in the preacher, to say
some words of praise.
Then the little crowd was
silent, as they shoveled in the hole
A meadowlark sat above them,
perched upon a pole.
It swelled its breast and
warbled, its sweet melodious trill,
Do you suppose it was a
farewell song, to the old man on the
hill?
