Art, oh, Art, where art thou?

... so, my grandpa, Earl McConnell, who was a prospector on the Yellowstone River near Gardiner, MT, used to live in a cave at one time. He had a big bull snake that lived in the cave with him. He would tell how it enjoyed him picking it up and holding it, 'cause it liked the warmth of his hands. Well, it kept the mice away, which also kept down the rattlesnake population. (Do pet bull snakes need a litter box for the b.s.?) Anyway, that was the same excuse he had in his last years when he let the cat population at his shack grow to 67. (kept the rattlesnake population down) I have his fiddle. He used to play Soldier's Joy, Money Musk, etc, and sing, When You and I Were Young, Maggie. (My grandma's name was Maggie.) The other night at the Irish session, the young woman who plays upright bass was chatting with me at the end of the evening, and, as it turned out, she was raised in Gardiner. (Aron Strange, are you reading this?) The place on the Yellowstone where my Grandpa McConnell's claim used to be is now where they launch the float boats on the river. She once used to work on the river rafts. She is too young to have known my grandpa, but she had to ask me if all the myths about him were true. As she explains, the river guides have made up lots of BS about my grandpa, and tell tall tails about him to the tourists. Well, she said, you have to think of something to tell them while you're floating the river.
OK, well would you believe...

If I'm not mistaken, Art is being, in something close to his words, "retuned at the Mayo." I sure hope they don't take the sharp edges off!

Isn't it great to hear OTHER people tell stories about your family? I run into that at the lake I go to in Northern Wisconsin. My grandparents lived there for many many, years, and now I often hear tales of a sweet white-haired lady who used to live on the other side of the lake. She used to know all the best fishin' spots, sing hymns while doing the wash (in the lake, in those days) and have all the remedies for what-ails-ya. I get to nod and say, "Yes, I know, she was my grandma".

campfire

funny that I should have made that slip about 'tall tails' instead of 'tales'. I was telling this young musician some true things about my grandpa, so she could dispel the myths. He was able to quote long poems he had memorized. One that I remember was about the monkey (or ape) explaining that they could not be related to man, because they did not treat each other so cruelly. Does anyone recognize this poem, and can you give me the title and reference?

alice

BTW - in the mre BS category....we spotted one of the elusive poodles herds of Wyoming the other night. Itw as pretty bright out because of the full moon; that's also when they are mst likely to run wild and free across the lone prairee. Anyway, this herd looked like ghost riders in the sky. They was all white and about the size of a yearling calf, each one o'em. And, run! I mean ta tell yew, the was running so fast, in theblink of an eye they was clear across the county, which is 65 miles away!

We heard, but couldn't see, a heleecopter following. we was wondering if'n they was rounding them up the way they do them wild broncos? Sure hopes not, cause we's gitting ready to open up are own toureest trap, where them city folk c=kin come pay for a night ride out ta the latest siting. Now, don' be telling inny one, but we done captured ourselfs a couple ofthem wild poodle. Lawd! They's big enough to belong to paul Bunyan. Anyhow, we's gots us a nice little herd breeding up, what we kin run in a enclosed fenced in prairie patch, so's we can guarandamntee them tourists a siting of the rare herds of poodles of Wyomin'. Ain't nobody, nowhere can do tha same. We gonna be rollin in dough, ordering up soem of them tiples from up north and asking Reg, Reg, and Reg ta join us and bring Paw and Cltus, too, if'n they can spring Reg from the Neil Young Center up thar in Montanee.

Watch for them herds,now. 'Member, full moon nights, flashing of silvery white, legs jist ablur o motion, dashing round the sagebrush and leaping o'er the head opf them prairee dawgs, yipping and howling jist like a coytay, BUT LOTS bigger. And, 'member, do not approach them. These here are wild aneemals and we's got to respect their place in tha good lord's scheme of things. So, come on up, we'll leave the light on fer ya and ya gotta keep all camera and lassos at home, but, uh...we DO take credit cards!

The above has been a paid for announcement and is meant strictly for entertainment purposes. Please call 1-888-Wyldawgs for more information; ask for the Kat who's not afraid to herd them dawgs and tell 'er Orly sentcha.

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MMario

Here in Toronto we used to have a chef at a restaurant who sang opera from the kitchen. The diners would applaud from their tables and he'd come out brandishing his chopping knife and bow. He later got a tv show and became quite popular. Still cooked and sang!
rick

You see, the county was dry. so grandpa became a bootlegger, selling liquor out of his car, and running it in from wet counties in Ohio. well, apparently the other gentlemen who were involved in the liquor trade didn't take kindly to competition, so they jumped poor young Floyd and beat him up good. He hightailed it back to Newark (Ahia) and showed up at my grandmother's door with a proposal.

This story was told to me about a year ago by my grandpa. My g-ma was there too, listening while she made lunch, and when he got to the part about leaving Tennessee because he was chased out by hoodlums, she snapped her head up and said accusingly, "Floyd, you said you came back because you missed me!" He only chuckled, but he's been a lot more stingy with the stories...

For people to be able to be in touch with each other around the world, I think it is an encouragement to us, as well as the wealth of information exchange, and makes it easier to continue on the traditions of home made musical entertainment.