There is snow upon the ground as I write this, and it reminds me that winter is my favorite time to look back at what has been a wonderful life.
One of the best things is the fact that I was born with a mother and father who were writers, and a wife who patiently endured my constant pecking at the typewriter. That pecking started when I was in school, grew with me into adulthood as I married and raised two children — I could never stop pecking out stories.
People sometimes ask, “But what is there to write about?”
I can only answer, “What isn’t there to write about?”
Today, I chose to write about my memory of an event that occurred 50 years ago, and that is as bright in my memory as yesterday.
I had just returned from a trip to Roswell, N.M., where I went to write about the last of the sheep ranchers, T.J. (Judd) McKnight.
But today’s story is not about Judd. It is the story of a friend, man and events, that occurred as a result of my trip to get the McKnight story.
You see, in my younger days, I was a sheepman, too. When I returned from my McKnight trip, I told my best friend, Rountree McMehen, of Walnut Grove, about the McKnights. And that, since Rountree and I both liked sheep, we should go to New Mexico and buy a carload of breeding ewes and rams.
Very well. We would do so. But we would also stop in Neosho, Mo., on our way, to visit a retired executive editor of “Life Magazine.” When Daniel Longwell learned my destination, he said, “I want you to meet a famous friend of mine, an painter named Peter Hurd, and his wife, the daughter of Andrew Wyeth, who illustrated the famous novel, “Treasure Island.”
And so these two Ozarks hicks went to Roswell, bought 200 fine ewes, got them rolling toward home on the train, and drifted a few miles west of Roswell to the home of Peter Hurd and wife.
As you should know, New Mexico was once part of Old Mexico, until the US Army took it away and made it part of the United States. Many of the ancient buildings Mexicans had built were still standing in that day (1957) and one was home of Peter and “On-ree-ett” (Henriette) Hurd. Their home sat long, low and guarded by a front gate with a great, hanging bell to announce the arrival of guests.
In Missouri, when we want to announce our arrival, we had the door bells to ring, or we just knocked on the door itself.
I walked inside the gate without realizing I had done a no-no – until a very stone-faced lady stepped out, flanked by three husky Mexican servants. I stopped, retreated a few steps and said, “Daniel Longwell sent me. I am Frank Farmer.”
The tension eased quickly and I explained my ignorance, and mission.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I am sorry Peattie is not here at the moment, but he is expecting you.”
“I see some horses at the barn. We will wait there,” I said.
About then a man recognized as Peter Hurd pulled into the yard and stopped by us and I told him my name.
“Oh, yes. You are the young man Mr. Longwell said would visit us. Mr. Longwell used to buy my paintings for his magazines.”
We moved inside, relaxing an hour in the studio, talking about things I have long ago forgotten, but talking just as easy as if we were back home with people we had known forever. Rountree, sudden royalty to me, became the county entertainer and kept them roaring with laughter. The more Henriette laughed, the more she drank, and the more she drank, the more Rountree kept up with her.
Suddenly, Peter Hurd got up – he was dressed in cowboy clothing, wearing cowboy boots and hat. He grabbed a pair of spurs, rang a bell for a servant and when she appeared, told her to have his vaquero saddle three horses. “You ride, of course?” he said. Then, without waiting for an answer, continued. “Every evening at this time, I ride into the mountains to watch the lights change. I make sketches of light and shadow and then I use the various scenes in my paintings.”
And so, within a half hour, he was leading us off into the rugged mountains of his ranch. God awful rough land. But as the sun dropped lower and lower into the western sky, he pointed out the places light and shadow met and created scenes and illusions that changed each second. He drew paper and pencil form his saddle bags and made quick sketches.
An hour of this and we headed back to the ranch house. We went back to the studio and Henriette put down her paints and there was more drinking for Rountree and more of his stories, and finally the lead house girl came up and quietly whispered to Peter, and he got up and said, “Our steaks are ready.” And we went into the dining room to find dozens of candles illuminating the long adobe walls. We ate juicy steaks from Peter Hurd’s own stock and laughed and talked until nearly midnight.
And when we were finally headed back to Roswell in my Canary yellow 1956 Plymouth, Rountree said, “That gal just about drank me under the table. And I ate pinion nuts until I about busted.”
… Rountree McMehen was our best friend ever. He lived until 1980. When he died I preached his funeral and helped carry him to his grave. Every year he would come to our house, and he would tell the story of his visit with celebrities. And every time he told the story, he drank more and ate more pinion nuts. The truth is, he was only intoxicated by the good time he had when, for a few short hours, we had the honor of being the house guests of two great artists.
