Scorup Cabin

Scorup Cabin

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Tennessee Stud

This song is another great one.  I mean a horse the color of the sun And with green eyes?  Love it!  Many folks have sung this song over the years, Chris LeDoux, Johnny Cash, Doc Watson and Eddy Arnold.  Although the song was originally written by Jimmy Driftwood in the 60's.  I'm most accustomed to listening to Doc Watson's version, however, it was Eddy Arnold's version that made it famous.  So since I'm into showcasing the originals I'm going to share with you the original version HERE.  In my mind it's best to give credit where credit is truly due.  He may not have been a headliner in his day but he did become a member of the Grand Ol Opry in the 1950's.  Another little interesting fact, he actually wrote Johnny Horton's famous song "Battle of New Orleans".  He wrote it in 1936 in an effort to get the high school class he was teaching interested in the event.  So here it is, I hope you enjoy!

Tennessee Stud by Jimmy Driftwood

Along about eighteen twenty-five,
I left Tennessee very much alive.
I never would have got through the Arkansas mud
If I hadn't been a-ridin' on the Tennessee Stud.
I had some trouble with my sweetheart's pa,
And one of her brothers was a bad outlaw.
I sent her a letter by my Uncle Bud,
And I rode away on the Tennessee Stud.

The Tennessee Stud was long and lean,
The color of the sun, and his eyes were green.
He had the nerve and he had the blood,
And there never was a horse like the Tennessee Stud.
One day I was riding in a beautiful land
I run smack into an Indian band
They jumped their nags with a whoop and a yell
And away we rode like a bat out of hell.
I circled their camp for a time or two,
Just to show what a Tennessee horse can do.
The redskin boys couldn't get my blood,
'Cause I was a-riding on the Tennessee Stud.

We drifted on down into no man's land,
We crossed that river called the Rio Grande.
I raced my horse with the Spaniard's foal
'Til I got me a skin full of silver and gold.

Me and a gambler, we couldn't agree,
We got in a fight over Tennessee.
We jerked our guns, and he fell with a thud,
And I got away on the Tennessee Stud.

I got just as lonesome as a man can be,
Dreamin' of my girl in Tennessee.
The Tennessee Stud's green eyes turned blue
'Cause he was a-dreamin' of a sweetheart, too,

We loped right back across Arkansas;
I whupped her brother and I whupped her pa.
I found that girl with the golden hair,
And she was a-riding on the Tennessee Mare.

Stirrup to stirrup and side by side,
We crossed the mountains and the valleys wide.
We came to Big Muddy, then we forded the flood
On the Tennessee Mare and the Tennessee Stud.

A pretty little baby on the cabin floor,
A little horse colt playing 'round the door,
I love that girl with the golden hair,
And the Tennessee Stud loves the Tennessee Mare.

XO Loves,


Sunday, September 14, 2014

When the Fog Rolls In

Most people hate fog.  You can't see in it, it's cold, it's wet and damp, it's a nuisance.  But to me it's so much more.  It's my momma telling me stories about vampires and that when I see fog at night I shouldn't walk through it.  It's long road trips home through freezing fog making the trip all the more memorable.  It's cool, windy mornings hunting with my poppa. 

There's something unearthly about being above the fog when the sun rises.  A heavy gray layer that looks so dense you think you can walk on it.  Fog pretty much always reminds me of hunting season.  I remember one hunt in particular.  I had just turned 12 that summer, so this was my first trip hunting deer where I actually got to carry a rifle.  My poppa and I headed up the mountain long before the sun began to lighten the sky.  As black slowly turned into gray we were already headed to a bluff to wait for sunrise.  The fog was so thick you could only see about 6 feet around you.  It was just my poppa, me and our big dog.  The wind was howling and I was terribly cold.  My poppa tucked me down amongst some rocks and placed our dog and himself in front of me blocking most of the wind.  We couldn't see the sunrise, but it did eventually get light.  It was probably another hour before the fog finally lifted.  Only what it revealed wasn't what we expected at all.  Unbeknownst to us there were in fact several other hunters scattered around us.  Realizing that hunting there was futile we went searching elsewhere.  Cold weather and fog always bring those images to mind and I love it. 

Heavy fog at night or in the cold gray light of morning I can't help but remember the tales my momma used to spin.  She's a fantastic story teller, seriously the brother's Grimm have nothing on her.  Tales so ridiculous they were never believable, but told with such conviction that you had to wonder.  "Don't worry" she'd say, "I'll protect you".  Those pesky vamps, just wandering around in the fog looking for their next victim.

So as you can see I have fond memories circling fog.  I also find it quite peaceful.  There's something to be said for being blind to most of your surroundings. It's as though all of your senses kick into overdrive and you're more aware than ever.  It's rather pleasant if not a touch frightening as well.  What can I say though, I always did like a good thrill.

XO Loves,


Saturday, September 6, 2014

Does he?

Does he remember her name?
Does he know the innocence he stole?
Does he ever think about the pain and fear he caused a girl that night?
It seems as though he's gone about his life without atoning for his greatest sin.
Every weekend it's a new rush in that arena, does he know what true fear feels like?
Does he ever wonder what happened to her, whether she was able to overcome the evil she faced that night?
Is she happy?
He paints a smile on his face for the big show, but does that mirth reach his soul?
Looking at his face on the computer, reading his name, the girls says, NO!
He didn't and still doesn't care.
He acted in the moment, going after what he wanted.
He's never apologized, never tried to make it right.
Maybe someday she'll be able to carry on as he does.
But she'll forever wonder if he remembers, if he feels, if he's sorry...

XO Loves,


Wednesday, August 20, 2014


I left the office mid-morning to do some range checks in the mountains.  My second day working solo and my first time to this allotment.  Little did I know I was in for a real treat.

I work in the forest everyday, but this wasn't typical country.  I was up over 10,000 feet and very near treeline.  Gamble Oak ceased to be the main vegetation cover and more and more fir's lined the road.  It was cool and the wind was blowing a fierce storm towards the peaks.  I had made a couple stops when I explored around a spring some.  I knew I was close to the point I needed to find, but I couldn't see it anywhere.  During said search I didn't feel like I was at work at all.  I wandered silently along a cow trail and spied a deer, I wasn't obtrusive in any way and even though it's bow season she didn't give a care.  I came upon a meadow, the grass was still wet with morning dew and it was wonderfully quiet.  Quiet in the way lonely mountains are.  There was no incessant babbling, no clomp of others footsteps, no roar of an engine.  There was just me in this calm and serene place, the only sound coming from the whispering of the wind through the quakies.  It did wonders for my soul!

I continued to climb into avalanche territory, which is just phenomenal to me.  There were several hunting camps along the way but the feel was just different.  The weather played a big role in this as well.  There's something fantastic about the calm before the storm.  The last place I checked was another meadow sloping down into a spring.  If I didn't turn around and look at the bald peak behind me I could almost imagine I was back home.  Walking around in country as familiar to me as any.  It was beautiful and the grass, oh the grass!  Who knew so much grass could grow in the South West?!

As I headed to my next point I came across a rancher on a big buckskin paint, his little Border Collie Pug right behind him.  I'd only met him once before but we had a nice chat, we left each other with well wishes and a hope of staying dry.  Less than 10 minutes later it started to sprinkle, followed by flashes of lightning.  I headed back to my pickup with no wish of being struck. My next route was a rough one, barely good enough to drive a pickup.  By the time I arrived the rain was coming down in torrents.  With my windows up the thunder still crashed with incredible sound.  I've never been that close to the sky when it broke open.  A part of me wished I didn't have such great cover, that I was out in the open and could really watch the show above.  It was magnificent and with wipers on high I reluctantly turned around and left.  I didn't feel confident enough to try and risk the road that appeared to be little more than a trail in such a storm. I can't wait to go back and finish.  Next time though I hope to check the last section a horseback.  To be able to ride in country such as that is a dream.

XO Loves,


Tuesday, August 12, 2014

The Ballad of Ira Hays

This is one of Johnny Cash's songs from his album Bitter Tears that was released in 1964.  I've always really liked it, but it's not one you hear very often if at all.  Which is just my kind of song.  Ira Hays was one of five Marines and a Navy Corpsman who raised the flag on Mount Suribachi in WWII, only three of these men left that hill.  When I was 13 I had the fortune of seeing this bronze statue in Washington D.C.  Here's a great VIDEO of the song that also gives more information.

"The Ballad Of Ira Hayes"

Ira Hayes,
Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Gather round me people there's a story I would tell
About a brave young Indian you should remember well
From the land of the Pima Indian
A proud and noble band
Who farmed the Phoenix valley in Arizona land

Down the ditches for a thousand years
The water grew Ira's peoples' crops
'Till the white man stole the water rights
And the sparklin' water stopped

Now Ira's folks were hungry
And their land grew crops of weeds
When war came, Ira volunteered
And forgot the white man's greed

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

There they battled up Iwo Jima's hill,
Two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again

And when the fight was over
And when Old Glory raised
Among the men who held it high
Was the Indian, Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Ira returned a hero
Celebrated through the land
He was wined and speeched and honored; Everybody shook his hand

But he was just a Pima Indian
No water, no crops, no chance
At home nobody cared what Ira'd done
And when did the Indians dance

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Then Ira started drinkin' hard;
Jail was often his home
They'd let him raise the flag and lower it
like you'd throw a dog a bone!

He died drunk one mornin'
Alone in the land he fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch
Was a grave for Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes
But his land is just as dry
And his ghost is lyin' thirsty
In the ditch where Ira died

XO Loves,


Sunday, August 3, 2014

Running Away

In the last couple of years I've gone through some major life changes.  I've hit rock bottom and thought for the longest time that I'd never rise above it all.  Somewhere along the line though I grew up and before I knew it I'd changed.  I found myself again and with strong determination I found my path as well.  I haven't looked back and I can honestly say that there's very little in life I've ever regretted. 
I've worked hard to overcome my demons.  I'm much stronger and self assured than I was even two years ago.  I tried to forget, I tried crying it out, tried drinking the pain away, talked with a counselor and even tried outrunning the memories.  But here I am, 1,000 miles away from all the pain that I've ever endured and I'm forced to face it all again. 
Facebook is a gift and a curse.  I have very little cell service at my house and during the day I usually have none at all.  Thankfully I'm not on Facebook very often.  However, the last couple of weeks I've come face to face with names through friends that cause an immediate unwanted reaction.  It doesn't matter how many years have gone by,  even the simple mention of their names causes my heart to race and I falter between being angry and deeply sad.  It's worse at night because then my subconscious is left to deal with the heartache and pain, which usually leaves me exhausted and totally unsettled the next morning. 
I wish I was stronger.  I wish I could hear their names and see their pictures and feel nothing.  I wish I could be a cold hearted, uncaring, unemotional woman who has completely left her past behind her.  Try as I may I'll always be too emotional.  I'll always care too much and I'll always end up hurt.  Hiding out here in the desert where the deer population outnumbers the human sounds better and better.  They say time heals all wounds, but even the oldest of my wounds still slows me down. 
I'd have to say my favorite flower is cactus.  They are the true beauties of the desert, growing in otherwise impossible conditions.  They hold out until they have all they need then they grow the most beautiful flower.  Something so beautiful you wouldn't think you'd see it growing in sand where very little rain falls.  They're almost inspiring.  They make me feel like no matter how impossible life gets or how I feel that at some point I'll have all I'll need.  Someday I can grow into that beautiful flower and all will be right within my soul.  I dream and pray for that day.

XO Loves,


Tuesday, July 29, 2014

The Cremation of Sam McGee

This is one of my favorite poems by Robert Service.  He's one of my papa's favorite authors and we grew up listening to him read some of his favorites.  Just about every winter we get a storm that wipes out our power and after chores there's very little left to do but read and enjoy family time.  Often times during these cold, blustery evenings my papa would pull out a book and we always asked him to read The Cremation of Sam McGee.  I thought I'd share this little story with all of you just in case you've never had the pleasure.  If you don't feel like reading it, click HERE to listen to Hank Snow read it.  I got off work early today and it seems as though monsoon season has finally arrived.  The sound of pounding rain and the crack of thunder made me think of this story.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

The Cremation of Sam McGee

By Robert W. Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
      By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
      That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
      But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
      I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
      By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
      That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
      But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
      I cremated Sam McGee.

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XO Loves,