A Moment of Her Time

"We were almost chased by some buffalo when we were riding through Wind Cave. We know they are dangerous."

The three bikers were from Texas, enjoying our Black Hills while consciously avoiding the high traffic and prices of the Sturgis Rally.

As we were standing outside Shopko, chatting about the beauty of our Hills and the warmth of the people in Hot Springs, a short, dark-haired lady interrupted.

"Excuse me. Are you Mary GGGG?"

She was trying to say my last name so I quickly responded that I was Mary Goulet.

"I thought I recognized you. You are the author that wrote that book."

"Which one of my books are you referring to?"

"The one about the Cascade fire. My father read that book and he wants to come here to Hot Springs to see all of the places you wrote about. He loves your book. I just wanted you to know that."

With that she walked off before I had time to even say my thanks properly. Her interruption was so sudden and unexpected that I stuttered something, not sure what.

In hindsight I regret not talking with her more. She went out of her way to tell me about her father and my book. This was one of those times, a moment of her time, to show appreciation for my work, and I blew it. So wherever this woman is, hopefully through this blog, she will know that I do appreciate her words, and because of this brief interruption, I will not be so casual in my words of thanks to those who have touched my life in some way.

Life is too short. Words are too special to waste.

A Story from the Sauna

He greeted me cheerily when I entered the sauna after my workout. He was small and of a wiry build. His wife, an attractive blond, sat quietly next to him. He was immediately talkative, telling me that he and his wife came to Evans Plunge every year on their vacation to the Black Hills. After a bit of chit chat, without any prompting on my part, he eagerly shared his story.

I was born in Poland. In 1974, when I was twenty, the Russians were in control of Poland and I wanted to escape the oppression. All that was on TV were stories of Russia and the bad things about America. There was one exception. We watched Bonanza. We loved that show and I wanted to go to America to see the cowboys. My friend, who was nineteen, and I went to a festival in France with a group. We jumped from the train in West Berlin looking for asylum. Since I had a trade as a tool and die maker I could get work with the English army until I could get papers to go to another country. the Poles had worked with the British and there were many of them that had stayed on in West Berlin after the war. That was good for me since I could communicate with them. I only wanted to go to America, but in order to be accepted then I needed three things: 1. to be healthy 2. to have a trade so I could support myself and 3. I had to serve in the American army and go to Vietnam.

I was so eager to go to American that I accepted those conditions, including military service in Vietnam. The war ended in 1975 so I did not have to go in the service, but I had been willing to do my part in order to get to America. At that time we immigrants got no health insurance or welfare. I met my wife in Chicago and when she went to the hospital to have our baby, I paid all the bills from my work. I never asked for any help. Today my son is a successful businessman.

In time I traveled throughout the States, and after working and living in New York and Chicago we settled in Wisconsin. I could not go back to see my family in Poland until 1990, but then I brought my mother and siblings to America.

"I want to write your story", I said to him as I got up to leave the sauna, sweating profusely. I had stayed too long, fascinated by his story and his enthusiasm. "I won't use your name."

"My name is Stanley", he said as I left.

Food for thought: it is because of a TV western that our country has been enriched by a Polish immigrant and his family.

Chicken Snatching

"Stop the car!" I yelled to Bob. "I see a chicken loose by the street. I bet she belongs to the neighbor across the alley. She looks like the photo the teen-agers showed me last week when they rang our door asking if we had lost a chicken,"

Bob hesitated but kept on driving. "If the chicken is still there we will stop on our way back from the store."

On our way back the lone chicken was no where in sight and we continued on our way home.

A week later my daughter and granddaughter were in my car driving down the same street. There was the chicken in the same spot near the curb! This time I was determined to rescue that loose hen that was picking industriously along the sidewalk near a garbage can, dangerously close to frequent traffic!

I stopped the car. My daughter and granddaughter declined to accompany me and cringed in the car, certain that that chicken belonged to that house. As I pursued the chicken, who managed to stay just inches out of reach, I looked up at the house and thought, "Maybe this chicken belongs to this house. It seems like a chicken house somehow."

I stopped the chase and went back to the car. I saw a gentleman in his yard a short distance away. I drove up to him, rolled down the window and asked him about the chicken.

"You don't want to tamper with Miss Chicky", he said solemnly. "She belongs to the lady in that house. We all like her 'cause she eats all the bugs around our houses."

Who would have thought? A chicken who roams the yard, avoiding the street with all the passing traffic, eats the pesky bugs and is quite contented with her lot! Somehow she has managed to avoid all the predators that roam the nearby woods, while a few blocks away other chicken owners have lost their entire penned flocks to a wily, hungry, mother fox.

Meanwhile, back in the car my family were in hysterics. I was called a "chicken snatcher", a "chicken thief" and other unpleasant names. My daughter delighted in sharing the story with all my friends in town.

"What if my mother had caught that chicken and brought her to the man she thought it belonged to? The man would have said, "It's not my chicken." "Then what? My mother would be a chicken snatcher!"

Summer is a time for visits from old friends and family. We share memories and stories, and during the visit new stories are created to share again and again with friends and family new and old. One that will remain into future generations, if my daughter has her way, will undoubtedly be My Mother, the Chicken Rustler.

A Gift Revived

It must have been over 10 years ago when I bought Bob a birthday gift that I knew he would treasure. Over the years it gathered dust in our pole barn, the one structure that did not burn in the Alabaugh Fire. Times and circumstances change. The saying is that the only thing you can count on in this life (besides taxes and death) is change.

Our former home has turned to ashes, but a new venture has opened up in town. This almost forgotten gift now has a new home in Bob's store in town. It is on display at his Wild West Wheels store. As the store nears completion it will be lit for all to see.

It may advertise a motorcycle/bike business, but to me it will always shine as a memento of my love for this thoughtful, careful man of detail, who simply wants to provide a service locally, doing what he does best.....fixing, supplying, restoring and helping others to enjoy life.

                                                 RESTORING                                                                              TA DA!



                                                                          THANK YOU, TOM!