Jul. 23, 2004 - 19:28 MDT

THE WONDERING JEW

Roamin' The Range

Once my memory wheel starts turning it has a tendency to spin a bit before it gradually slows down. but an occasional kindred soul is interested. Thus it is tonight that the memory wheel still spins a bit.

I was a child in the Great Depression, the Dust Bowl Days. It wasn't as bad in Denver as it was in Arkansas but in the mornings would be a pile of dust blown through the keyhole of the door and dust on the window sill where the window hadn't been tightly closed. Gritty teeth and all.

I knew before that we lived in an arid land, but the green of Denver masked things a bit.

I never saw swine, nor man high corn or any of that kind of stuff here. I saw it all when I went back to Illinois as adult. In our vacant lots in town the Russian Thistle grew in great gobs, but once in a while after the Russian Thistle died and dried my Dad would take us out east of Denver a bit. The Russian Thistle in a dried state was known here as Tumble Weed. Must have been quite shallow rooted as the wind would pick them out of the ground and roll them as far as it was possible, until the weed hit a fence or building and pile up there. What a mess that was. But fun to see them scudding across the prairie as if pursued by the devil himself.

One of my two entries of yesterday was of the scarcity of water in the west and the other the lyrics of Cool Water. Which brings to mind another song of the time, a rather haunting song too:

Tumbling Tumbleweeds

Sung by the Sons Of The Pioneers

I'm a roaming cowboy riding all day long, Tumbleweeds around me sing their lonely song.

Nights underneath the prairie moon, I ride along and sing this tune.

See them tumbling down, pledging their love to the ground. Lonely but free I'll be found,

Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds.

Cares of the past are behind. Nowhere to go but I'll find,

Just where the trail will wind, drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds.

I know when night has gone, that a new world's born at dawn.

I'll keep rolling along,

Deep in my heart is a song,

Here on the range I belong,

Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds.

This song was sung by many other folks also, but the Sons Of The Pioneers were a well loved group around here.

Tumble weeds thrive under most any condition and are a good indication that where it grew wasn't being farmed and that wind could pick up the loose dust and blow it where it wished. Dry, dry, dry. Thirsty, thirsty, thirsty.

We kids in town could go home for a drink, any filling station or most anywhere else, it was easy. But, I always took a bottle of water when I'd hop on my bike to go out Roamin' The Range . . . . . . .

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