Presenting Jerry Schleicher..... Blue Ribbon Poet and Down Home Humorist
 

 

       The photo above, "Country Store On Dirt Road", is by renowned Depression photographer, Dorothea Lange for the Farm Security Administration, 1939.  Regarding the poem below, "Catchin' The Local News", Jerry Schleicher said this about the story behind it: 
 

The Stegall Store was built in the early 1900's, a red-and-white painted frame building standing alone beside a county road about 20 miles west of Scottsbluff, Nebraska. It was a true general store, selling canned goods, flour, sugar, salt and other necessities, as well as shovels and hand tools, rough work clothes,  shotgun shells and chewing tobacco, with a single gas pump out front. It also served as a gathering place for local farmers and cattle ranchers to sit around the propane stove and swap gossip. There was also a small back room where some of the locals would hold a "secret" poker game that everyone knew about. Every spring my dad would take me to the store to buy a new straw hat, where we'd enjoy a cold bottle of RC Cola or Orange Nehi from the chest-style cooler. They tore down the old store about 35 years ago, and now the only remaining memory of it is the "Stegall Road," a two-lane blacktop that runs south over the Wildcat Hills into ranch country.
                                                                          Jerry
 

 

CATCHIN' THE LOCAL NEWS

Folks today can get news 'round the clock, if they got cable or a satellite dish
And see what's happenin' in Baghdad or London, if that's the news they wish.
They can tune to C-SPAN to see the guv'ment in action ever minute of the day.
But if I had my druthers, I'd get my news face-to-face, the old-fashioned way.

There used 'ta be a little country store, about five miles from the Wyoming line
Where local folks would go to buy the things they'd need from time to time.
But that gen'ral store served a whole lot more than savin' a trip to town.
It's where farmers and ranchers got their news. It's why they came around.

The news wuz delivered from battered old chairs near a propane stove by the door.
Where the coffee pot wuz always hot, and there wuz butt cans on the floor.
Fellers would pull out a chaw, or light up a smoke, and the news report would start.
It was localized, untelevised news, and delivered in multiple parts.

Each newscast started with a weather report, it wuz always too hot or too dry.
If a drought hadn't wiped the crops out yet, the heat would surely make 'em fry.
It wuz a damned poor climate fer crops or stock, some philosopher would opine
And ever one in the county would surely go broke, somwhars down the line.

The farmers would moan about crop diseases, and the bugs in their wheat and hay.
About the cost of buyin' equipment, and how they couldn't get a hired man to stay.
Ever one of 'em figgered the more ground they farmed, the faster they'd go broke.
And the guv'ment programs intended to help? Hell, most of 'em wuz just a joke.

Then the ranchers would chime in, and start gripin' about the sad price of beef
And how the property taxes on their grazin' land would bring 'em all to grief.
They'd bitch about their stock wells goin' dry, and about their poor calvin' rates
And how them damned trespassers from town wuz always leavin' down the gates.

When the bitchin' wuz done, it wuz time fer reports on local and regional affairs.
They'd start in on how the county commissioners had fouled up the road repairs.
And chew on game wardens and brand inspectors, and officials left and right
Then criticize the poor showin' the high school team had made on Friday night.

After the sports and weather reports, the entertainment news would commence.
The mud that wuz slung in that country store wuz better'n gossipin' over a fence.
They'd jaw about who wuz losin' the farm fer not keepin' the bank payments up
And who wuz sellin' out, or movin' to town, or who'd bought a new huntin' pup.

Sometimes thar wuz idle speculation about whose wife had been slippin' around.
Or who'd been seen comin' drunk out of a bar, last time they'd been to town.
As one newscaster left, another arrived, there seemed to be a reg'lar rotation
Of news correspondents in that country store and news reportin' station.

It must be near thirty years or more, since they tore that old store down.
I reckon the fellers who hung around then must now get their news in town.
At the Stockmen's Cafe, where they still bitch about squeezin' a livin' from the land
When your pasture's full'a thistles, and the stock well's clogged with sand.
Jerry Schleicher © 2005

 

Jerry Schleicher writes:

    Three years ago, I was invited to perform my cowboy poetry at the "Running of the Bull" Festival in Eldorado, Texas. In large part because my last name is Schleicher, and Eldorado is the county seat for Schleicher County, named after an 1800's German settler who'd run supplies up from Mexico to the Confederate Army.

    I don't know if you've ever been to Eldorado, but it's a dinky little town with one part-time Mexican restaurant, two convenience store/gas stations, a school, a clinic, an insurance agency, a county agent office, a rodeo arena, the county courthouse, maybe a population of 500 or 600, and precious else. Except for a 1950's era motor lodge, which is where Pam and I were put up.  The motel room hadn't been cleaned for some time, there were cockroaches scurrying around, the bed linens were suspect at best, and I had to go to the office to beg for soap and towels. And to top things off, the room adjacent to ours had been rented for the night by about six or seven rodeo cowboys and their girlfriends, in town for a rodeo and determined to party all night. After we returned home, I wrote this poem, which I hope you enjoy.
                                                                              . . . .
  ...[T]here's a funny side to almost anything. While lots of  serious cowboy poetry is written about beloved horses, cattle stampedes, good dogs, beautiful western scenery and lost cowboy loves, the majority of cowboy poetry performed on stage is humorous and meant to make the audience laugh. And I get my greatest satisfaction from leaving the audience laughing.

                                                       Jerry Schleicher

 

The Headquarters Motel

We'd driven clear across three states, on our way to a cowboy poetry affair.
I was worn down to a frazzle, just glad to get from here to there.
We found the event organizer, then went to check into our motel.
I thought I'd pull my boots off, lie down and rest a spell.

"I won't stay there!" said my missus, as she eyed the dingy place.
There was hostility in her attitude, and defiance on her face.
"But it's just for two nights, sweetheart. How tough can two nights be
And look on the bright side. You'll be spendin' time ... with me!"

"That old worn-out carpeting," she said, "reeks of a thousand dirty feet.
And I can hear the noise from here, from that bar just down the street.
The bathroom's too small to turn around, and the matress has a sag.
And these threadbare sheets and towels are just one step short of rags!"

"But consider the location, hon.  We're just a block from the antique mall.
And the decor is kind'a homey. Why, they got a jackalope on the lobby wall.
We're right across from the town cafe, where they serve a great buffet.
Heck, it's the finest motel in town. Cause there ain't no place else to stay!"

(c) 2007 Jerry Schleicher

 


 

                                                                          

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