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“Dad passed away this morning!” A friend gave me the message we were waiting to hear. He was 93 and very ill while her mother had to push bravely through the care he needed.
“He died at the ranch. It took the medical people an hour to get out there.” My friend was choking back her tears. “We are having a short grave side service at the cemetery in Sedan, Kansas and Mother wants my poem, “Daddy’s Saddle,” read.
“Sure, I can do that.” I had already volunteered to read it for her some days earlier.
Never is the drive over the grass lands tiresome. The miles and spaces can stretch out in an endless panorama where clouds billow up and then kiss the azure, lavender and purple hills. Small ranches with building and lawns look to be surrounded with a park like green in these early spring days. Some of the homes are close to the road others nestle up against a wide hillside.
As we drove up to the cemetery I was amazed at the size of the grounds..
“My, my! This is as big as Ponca City’s cemetery and I thought Sedan, Kansas was a small town. Rows and rows of head stones were clean and carefully organized. A rather large pavilion was at the crest of one of the hills.
“The town is older than Ponca City,” Rodney noted.
The cold of the prairie winds tugged and pulled at our coats. Yes, coats, It was cold enough to have to wear a coat, I was so glad my daughter had thrown mine into the car as we were leaving.
My friend’s Daddy’s saddle rested at the head of his grave his grave where he had been buried that morning. I placed a vase of flowers beneath the well polished saddle and the small splash of color softened and give life to the moment.
“We didn’t want folks to have to stand out in the cold for a burial,” she said, and I was thankful for her loving ways putting living persons ahead of tradition. A western song, “Empty Saddles,” played ob a C D player softly beneath the saddle.
As the winds whipped around us they seem to be angry and tried to rip the papers out of my hand so that I worried the dignity of my reading would be lost. Finally my granddaughter reached over and separated the pages for me.
The best part of the time in Sedan, Kansas was our visit to the Red Bison Gift Shop, downtown. All the loneliness of my heart was suddenly erased. Here on every shelf, every western piece of furniture, every space downstairs and up, held a piece of lovely western memorabilia from hunks of turquoise to small brands, t-shirts, western literature of cookbooks and poetry. My granddaughter picked up an absolutely enthralling book of poetry called New Beginnings. The poems across from lovely photography spoke clearly of new beginnings.
Our sadness brought on us by the funeral was wiped away as we browsed through the shop and visited with the owner while she told us of her Father, who owned the Red Buffalo Ranch, Sedan, Kansas Google that, you will enjoy the beauty of the terrain.
http://www.kansastravel.org/redbuffaloranch.htm
“He died at the ranch. It took the medical people an hour to get out there.” My friend was choking back her tears. “We are having a short grave side service at the cemetery in Sedan, Kansas and Mother wants my poem, “Daddy’s Saddle,” read.
“Sure, I can do that.” I had already volunteered to read it for her some days earlier.
Never is the drive over the grass lands tiresome. The miles and spaces can stretch out in an endless panorama where clouds billow up and then kiss the azure, lavender and purple hills. Small ranches with building and lawns look to be surrounded with a park like green in these early spring days. Some of the homes are close to the road others nestle up against a wide hillside.
As we drove up to the cemetery I was amazed at the size of the grounds..
“My, my! This is as big as Ponca City’s cemetery and I thought Sedan, Kansas was a small town. Rows and rows of head stones were clean and carefully organized. A rather large pavilion was at the crest of one of the hills.
“The town is older than Ponca City,” Rodney noted.
The cold of the prairie winds tugged and pulled at our coats. Yes, coats, It was cold enough to have to wear a coat, I was so glad my daughter had thrown mine into the car as we were leaving.
My friend’s Daddy’s saddle rested at the head of his grave his grave where he had been buried that morning. I placed a vase of flowers beneath the well polished saddle and the small splash of color softened and give life to the moment.
“We didn’t want folks to have to stand out in the cold for a burial,” she said, and I was thankful for her loving ways putting living persons ahead of tradition. A western song, “Empty Saddles,” played ob a C D player softly beneath the saddle.
As the winds whipped around us they seem to be angry and tried to rip the papers out of my hand so that I worried the dignity of my reading would be lost. Finally my granddaughter reached over and separated the pages for me.
The best part of the time in Sedan, Kansas was our visit to the Red Bison Gift Shop, downtown. All the loneliness of my heart was suddenly erased. Here on every shelf, every western piece of furniture, every space downstairs and up, held a piece of lovely western memorabilia from hunks of turquoise to small brands, t-shirts, western literature of cookbooks and poetry. My granddaughter picked up an absolutely enthralling book of poetry called New Beginnings. The poems across from lovely photography spoke clearly of new beginnings.
Our sadness brought on us by the funeral was wiped away as we browsed through the shop and visited with the owner while she told us of her Father, who owned the Red Buffalo Ranch, Sedan, Kansas Google that, you will enjoy the beauty of the terrain.
http://www.kansastravel.org/redbuffaloranch.htm