Cowboy poet has simple philosophy of life

Smith

A cowboy poet and ranch philosopher told teachers Monday morning his upbringing and his livelihood have taught him to "make the most of the moment and the best of a situation."

R.P. Smith of Broken Bow spoke before nearly 450 Southwest Nebraska teachers gathered for a professional development day sponsored by Educational Service Unit No. 15. Through the stories and poems he shared with the educators, Smith swears it's small children and momentous events that etch the deepest and longest-lasting images and memories.

Smith told teachers the story of "Jim and Clyde," two young brothers whose big draft horse had a bad habit of bursting uncontrollably through the barn doors.

The boys, R.P. said, decided to tie a large rope to the large horse and tie that rope to the center post of the barn. "He had gotten up a good head of steam when he hit the end of that rope," R.P. said dryly. That horse flopped to the ground, seemingly dead, but still alive, he said. "Well," one brother said to the other, "while we've got him down, we might as well trim his feet."

The boys had "made the most of the moment and the best of a situation," R.P. said.

Smith tells the tale of trying to explain to an ag credit manager why he has so many kids -- 6 -- and so many "pleasure horses" -- 9.

After explaining that he uses the horses on the ranch, R.P. said, "They're not pleasure horses, ma'am. My kids don't appear to be having that much fun."

But Smith definitely appreciates his life on horseback, especially when he shares it with one of his children. "The ridin' sure seems to shake a lot of dialogue out of 'em," he mused.

His young daughter listens to the sounds of the horse's hooves on the ice and in the snow. "Listen, Dad," she told him. "He's makin' music with his feet."

His son rides along, in front of his dad in the saddle ... questions popping out every other stride.

"I'm gonna be a cowboy just like you," he tells his dad.

"Hey, Dad," the little one says. "I got a secret."

A couple more strides. "Hey, Dad," he says. "I love you."

A couple more strides. "Well, hang on tight," Dad says. " 'cuz, I love you too."

A memory etched on Smith's heart ... a moment in time frozen forever in a poem.

Smith tells of sending his little brother sailing through Grandpa's barn on the track-and-pully rig used to move hay bales from one end of the hay mow to the other. "Yep ... Good thing that wall was there," R.P. said. "It stopped him. If he'd kept on going, he might have gotten himself hurt."

"We're all gonna hit walls at some times," Smith said. "On Sept. 11, two years ago, our country hit a wall."

Smith said the television image of the Twin Towers tumbling will be forever burned in his brain. As he was discing some farm ground -- "stirring dirt" -- later that afternoon, trying to make sense of it all, he looked up for answers -- and realized the blue sky was missing the vapor trails that normally crisscross it from one horizon to another.

"The best way for me to deal with something is to write," Smith said, and the poem he wrote, he dedicated to his country's heroes, troops and leaders.

In the poem, Smith said, "To hate is the first impulse, but hate is not the right place for healing to begin."

"We will come together," he said, "with no fists raised in anger."

He continued, "We will say it on our knees and standing tall. We are one nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all."