DINNER AT THE PONDEROSA
The
television western series Bonanza ran for 430 episodes from 1959 – 1973. From the age of 5, this Belfast kid was
hooked.
Following Hoss Cartwright’s lead, I tucked the
napkin into my shirt,
Just under the top button and waited for Hop Sing to
appear
With a feast of Ponderosa beef and a cauldron of
potatoes and gravy.
Ben, the head of the house, said grace in a solid,
authoritarian tone,
Joined by sons, Adam, Joe, Hoss (nee Eric), and me,
heads bowed: “Amen”,
The cue for chief cook, waiter and dishwasher, Hop,
to start serving.
The Cartwrights raised a glass to the prize draw
winner in their midst,
Guest star in their grand house on their grand ranch
eating grand food,
Their Ponderosa where horses, cows, waifs, strays,
vagabonds and villains
Traipsed in and out of hundreds of episodes. I was in none of them
But I was in all of them, on the horse-arm of a
chair, riding their range,
Now here, with this my extended family via the time
tunnel of a TV set.
In between chews and slurps, trips down memory lane,
so many tales
From a rose for Lotta to a death at dawn to a
showdown with Sam Hill,
Smiling
gunslingers, miracle makers and an earthquake called Callahan.
I looked at the four who had been shot, stabbed,
punched, kicked, run over
By wagons, thrown from horses, abandoned in deserts
and down mineshafts,
Kidnapped, arrested, robbed, tied-up, called out for
fast-draw duels, spurned.
Little Joe remembered loves at first sight, kisses,
hugs and hands he held:
“She walks in beauty,” he sighed to himself, looking
hurt, then embarrassed
As his table audience stared, smiled, laughed and
remembered with him.
Adam mused: “We are what we are and where we are,
fortunate sons,
Different pines but the same winds, matters of
circumstance, patchwork men
Woven into the fabric of the West, this
boot-on-its-back shaped Ponderosa.”
Ponderosa, a chunk of land surrounded by Reno,
Virginia City, Carson City,
Lake Tahoe and pines, lots and lots of pines,
straight, ready for any season,
To interrupt breezes, to slice up sunrays, to stand
in beauty, model sentries.
Hoss, prompted by my Irish lilt, recalled his
adventures with leprechauns.
“I’m from the north,” I said but he waved his hand
and carried on with a burp
And a wheeze or two, breaking off to laugh with
those heaving shoulders:
“That’s the truth of it. Really happened, the little
guys, the gold, the magic,
It really did happen. Made me lose that granddaddy
fish though, scallywags.”
The delight on his face changed to sadness, cured by
a third helping of beef.
Ben Cartwright filled his glass, stood up and
boomed: “A toast, gentlemen.
To you Adam, Hoss, to you Little Joe, to our new
friend, to this ranch’s
Heart and soul, to the goodness in all of us, our
absent friends and family,
To loyalty, to agreements and disagreements, to
forgiveness and compassion,
To strangers welcomed warmly, the abandoned, the
wounded, the helpless,
To those who overestimated and underestimated us, to
odds and justice.”
Ben shook my hand, Adam put his arm around me, Little
Joe patted my back
And Hoss hugged me as only a giant could. I gave Hop Sing the thumbs up.
Much as I loved this family feast of fine food, tall
tales and cowboy wisdom,
Come sunrise, I had to leave, to get home to the
wildness of my own west.
No comments:
Post a Comment