(Editor's note:  In our continuing effort to bring the flavor and news of Nevada to you through the pages of the Nevada Observer, we are pleased to announce a new column with some interesting word play.  A Brush With An Old Sage will appear from time to time featuring the wit and wisdom of cowboy poet Hal Swift.  With more than two-thirds of a century of journalism behind him along with numerous awards and honors for his cowboy poetry, Hal is a welcome addition to these pages.  For a good look at his cowboy poetry, go to http://www.cowboypoetry.com/halswift.htm.)

A Brush With An Old Sage

by Hal Swift

Settin’ in Shorty’s Place one summer evenin’, and in walks this ol’ boy who looks to be about four-hundred years old.  I get up and pull out a chair for ‘im at the table where me and my niece, Sioux, was just passin’ the time of day, and the old boy nods ‘is head, pulls a green bandana out of ‘is hip pocket, wipes the sweat off ‘is forehead and sets down.

“You new around here?” I asks.

“I ain’t new around anywheres,” he says.  “I just ain’t never been here before.”

Now, Sioux is only about thirty years old, but she takes to this ol’ boy like he’s a long lost relative.  She gives ‘im a big smile and asks what he’s drinkin’.

“Sasparilla,” he says, “if y’think they got any left.”

Well, of course they do, because this is where cowboys hang out.  And ever’body knows that cowboys’ favorite libation is sasparilla.  You run outta that, and you’re in big trouble.

So, when the old man has his frosty glass of sasparilla in ‘is hands,

Sioux asks ‘im what ‘is name is.

“Charley Walker,” he says.  “I’m from over in Drytown.”

Sioux looks puzzled, so I explains, “That’s what they used t’call Wadsworth--up until Nevada became a state in 1864.”

“Far as I’m concerned,” says Charley, “It’s still Drytown.  They changed the name of it when the railroaders came through.  You know how them railroaders are—ain’t a ‘dry’ one among ‘em.”

“So, Charley,” I says, “How old are you, anyway?”

“Ain’t nice t’ask a stranger ‘is age,” says Charley.

Sioux eases in and says, “Well, I can tell you’ve been around, Charley.  I bet there’s a lot of things you could tell the young folks of today.”

Charley smiles a big smile, and it shows his mouth has more gums than teeth in it.  He notices my noticin’ that, and he says. “I lost my choppers due to poor judgement.”

I says, “Now, Charley, I can’t imagine a man of your years havin’ poor judgement.”

“Well,” he says, “I wasn’t always as wise as I am now.  Took me a while, but I got it all down pat now.  You might start out life bein’ stupid, but you don’t get old by stayin’ that way.”

I says, “I bet you could tell us a thing or two.”  And Sioux says, “If you had the time, that is.”

After we agreed to keep the sasparilla comin’ as long as Charley wanted, he agreed to share some of the things he’s learned in this life--“so far,” he says.  “Well, for one thing,” he begins, “never carry your pet gila monster inside your shirt.  Never try to ride a horse named Buttercup.  Never stop to talk with a woman who wants you to step into the alley with ‘er so’s you can have some privacy.”

Sioux and I both nodded at the wisdom of all these statements.  And Charley continued.

“Never bet on anything with a man who’s seven feet tall, weighs four-hundred-and-fifty pounds, and ever’body calls Crusher.  Never get smart-alecky with a man holdin’ a double-barreled shotgun that has both hammers pulled back.  Never get into a fist fight with a man who’s smilin’.  He probably knows somethin’ you don’t.”

By this time, a dozen of Shorty’s guests had pulled their chairs up alongside our table.  Charley acknowledged their presence, and continued.  “On the off chance your wife should ever ask you if her new dress makes ‘er look fat, pertend like you’re havin’ a heart attack.”

Now, if you know Sioux like I do, what followed wouldn’t surprise you  at all.  She bristles somewhat and says, “Mister Walker!  That doesn’t give a very nice impression of your opinion of womenfolks.”

Charley grins.  “I just wanted t’see if you was payin’ attention.”

Sioux tosses her long auburn hair back and gives ‘im her special smile--the one that says, “All right, you got me once.  The next time, the joke’s on you.”

Like most men, Charley is totally disarmed by this move of Sioux’s, and she knows it.

“Well,” says Charley, I’ve knowed a woman or two, and I can tell you, there are some things a man’d be well advised to keep in mind when dealin’ with ‘em.”

Sioux leans forward, both elbows on the table, and says, “Like what, Charley?”

“Well,” he says, “A man should always remember t’wipe off ‘is boots before he comes into the house.  When ‘is wife says, wash your hands and come to supper, he oughta go do it now, instedda finishing what he’s readin’ in the newspaper.  While he’s about it, he oughta warsh off his face before he gives ‘is wife a kiss. And, always, he’d oughta remember his woman’s birthday, but never the year she was born in.”

“Oh,” Sioux says, “You are good, Charley!”

Charley gives ‘er that toothless grin and says, “So are you, ma’am.  So are you.”

Shorty’s been listenin’ to all this, and he says, “By golly, Mister Walker, you are a regular font of wisdom!”

“Well,” says Charley, “True wisdom is knowin’ just how long y’can talk and not wear out your welcome.  So, if ya don’t mind, I think I’ll be gettin’ on back to the place.”

“Where is that?” I asks.

And Charley says, “A wise man never tells strangers where he sleeps. He’s liable to wake up and find ‘imself someplace else.”

With that, Charley bows to Sioux, shakes my hand, waves at Shorty and his guests, and walks through the butterfly doors into the summer darkness.  The place is so quiet you can hear the crickets back of the bar.

Shorty uses a Paiute word that’s one of his favorites.  “Watay!”  And for anyone that doesn’t speak Paiute,” he says, “that means, “Cool!”

All the folks in the room are noddin’ their heads and murmerin’ their agreement.  And Sioux says, “Yep, you got that right.”

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