The Story of Fiddlin’ Doc and his Red Gate Ranch Hands- Chapter 2
“When The Golden Leaves Begin To Fall, that’s a good number, one of my favorites,” Doc said, seated at the bar. Alex scooted a beer into Doc’s hands.
Alex: “Well, Doc, you seem to have a song for every season and occasion,” the bartender chuckled. “I’m looking forward to hearing the Ranch Hands again. What’s it been? Seven months or so?””
Doc: “Yeah, I can’t get down here with them boys too much. Hard work in the summer and everyone goin’ which-a-way.”
Doc listened quietly to the murmur of conversations emanating from various tables and bar stools around the restaurant. He’d begun to feel more at home here at the Lumberyard, and he would come in from time to time. Cindy Nelson would almost always be there to greet him; he’d tip his Stetson hat to her and then stride over to the quiet corner of the bar. The light was just right, and there was usually some music playing in the background. The menu parchment was turned to the small plates. He had a particular craving for the crispy Brussel sprouts.
Alex strolled back to the end of the bar to check on the old cowboy.
Alex: “So, how are you feeling after the election?”
Doc leaned back, breathed in slowly, exhaled and rested up against the bar counter.
Doc: “I think that Trump feller is worth less than a spoiled ham. Looks like one too. Craziest election I’ve ever seen. Remember what Will Rogers said? ‘A fool and his money are soon elected.’ Will was arguably the smartest man to ever throw a lariat– and good at it too. Well, you know, it’s all put me of a mind to bring out a new song. But the Ranch Hands like to play the classics, you know.”
Alex: “Well, Doc, there’s no crime against doing your own song. At least, not yet. What’s it about?”
Doc: “Did you hear about them Bundys out in Oregon? Well, they may be ranchers, but I don’t see how that means they shouldn’t pay no taxes or have all that federal range land for themselves. I don’t abide by that. So I wrote a song about Cliven Bundy. Damn fool,” Doc snorted.
Alex: “Wow! I can’t wait to hear that one.”
Doc: “Well, I might try it once if the boys want to. It’ll swing and have a good beat to it, some good changes.”
Doc: “I think we might do Don’t Fence Me In. That’s one of my favorites that the Sons of the Pioneers used to do. I always liked the message in that one.”
Alex: “Seems like that story really connected to you.”
Doc: “I’ve been raising livestock for a long time. I know what fences are for. But that land out there with no fences on it is where any cowboy leaves his heart. That is the country as it should be, and it belongs to everyone.”
“One more…” Doc continued, looking sadly through his tired, hazel eyes…. “that suggests itself to me.” Rubbing his chin pensively, in a slow, ruminating voice: “Somewhere Between…There’s a wall so high, it reaches the sky, somewhere between me and you. That’s a Merle song. And it seems to fit somehow. Right now. I think it is a song I need to sing.”
The bartender walked back over to the beer tap and carefully poured another glass of fall amber. He parked the glass in front of the Fiddlin’ Doc.
Alex: “Doc, this one is on the house.”
Fiddlin’ Doc and his Red Gate Ranch Hands
At the Lumberyard
Saturday, November 19, 7:00 p.m.