My First Rodeo

by Stoney Stamper

  It’s important to me to teach my girls some of the finer points of cowboy logic that I had hammered into my little freckled noggin. They are things that will stick with me all my life. They’ve made me a better person. Here are a few of the more interesting pearls of wisdom straight from the old timers’ mouths that I try to recite to myself often:

  “Life ain’t given to you.” (Simple enough.)

  “Don’t squat with yer spurs on, but if you do, just get your legs out in front of you a little bit.”

  “Never miss a good chance to shut up.” (You’ll likely never get better advice than that.)

  “Always take a good look at what you are getting ready to eat. It’s not so important to know what it is, but it’s critical to know what it was.” (Food don’t just ‘happen,’ people.)

  “Good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.” (I’d say most of mine comes from bad judgment.)

  “If you find yourself down in a hole, why dontcha quit digging?” (I still haven’t quite figured this one out yet.)

  And last, but not least, my favorite:

  “Good luck tends to look a whole lot like hard work.”

  I think if we all spent a little time giving a little more tough, grandfatherly love to our kids instead of buying them every blasted thing they want and catering to them hand and foot, without making them work for it, we would likely be doing a service to everyone they come into contact with in their lives.

  And, well, back in my day, that was just how it was done.

  Murphy Church of God

  “May the Lord richly bless you and keep you safely in his arms. Shake hands and be friendly. You’re dismissed.” How many times have I heard these words in my life? Thousands of times, no doubt. These were the words my grandfather, my mother’s father, Brother Eugene Grace, used at the end of every sermon he preached. He was the pastor of Murphy Church of God in Murphy, Oklahoma, for the better part of fifty years. He moved to a few different churches across the state during that half century of work in the service of the Lord, but most of my life, he stood at the pulpit in that little country church in our tiny community of Murphy that consisted of no more than half a dozen families. The Welcome to Murphy sign boasted a population of ninety-eight citizens, although as hard as I try, I cannot come up with more than half of that. Maybe if we included dogs, cats, sheep, and horses, but still, that’s pushing it.

  The attendance on a Sunday morning at our little church was generally more than the population on the sign. In fact, when I was younger, I remember the congregation being so big that you’d have a hard time finding an open spot on a pew. Church isn’t normally considered a fun place for a child, but I admit that a Sunday morning service at our church had a certain amount of excitement to it. It was like a huge family reunion every single Sunday.

  Both sides of my family, the Stampers and the Graces, attended Murphy Church of God. My uncle Rick was the leader of the youth group, a group that both my future wife, April, and I attended together as kids. My cousin Terry played the piano and led the music along with my mom and my aunt Marilyn. And my other grandpa, Papa Stamper, was the Sunday school superintendent. At the end of Sunday school every week, he would jerk the door open on each classroom, undoubtedly wearing one of his eternally cool and colorful blazers, and he’d call “Time!” letting us know it was time to move to the auditorium for the sermon. My brother, sister, cousins, and friends would talk and laugh as we made our way out into the sanctuary to find our seats as the old folks shook hands and chitchatted in the lobby. Inevitably, my grandmother, Sister Grace, would hunt me down to give me hugs and kisses, no matter how big or old I had gotten. She’d then take her place on the second row on the left side of the pews, with her arms spread out on the back of the bench and her eyes pointed to the heavens, and she’d sing every word to every song. All through the sermon she’d keep her eyes closed and repeat over and over again, “Praise God, praise God, praise God. Thank you, Jesus, thank you, Jesus, thank you, Jesus.” She’d never stop saying it, and more importantly, you didn’t want her to, because you knew she meant it. I always felt like maybe God listened to her just a little bit closer than he did anyone else. I always felt like if she was praying for me, nothing could ever go wrong.

  On the other side of the sanctuary sat R. L. Stamper, my great-grandfather (Granhappy). Born in 1896 and hard as nails, he was a semifamous evangelist in northeast Oklahoma and western Arkansas. His silver hair combed straight back, a starched white shirt with the initials RLS stitched on the cuffs and collar, and either a blue or red sport coat and a tie to match. He left his cowboy hat on the hat rack by the front door. He was the definition of the fire-and-brimstone preacher you see on television. He was generous to a fault, always kind to everyone he met, but he could definitely scare you to death with his stories of the End of Days that he was certain were upon us. He would often have his own sermon, all by himself in the corner. His voice was loud and hoarse, and if you listened closely, you would often hear your own name in his prayers. Between his prayers and my granny’s, there was no doubt in any of our minds that we were covered in God’s blessings and protection. Oftentimes, during testimony, his testimony would turn into the sermon. Once the old man got rolling, he was like a freight train, and it took a while to slow him down. On extra-special Sundays, he and his wife, Dorothy, whom he married after my great-grandmother died, would get up in front of the church and sing the old gospel song “Come and Dine.” “ ‘Come and dine,’ the Master calleth, ‘come and dine.’ You may feast at Jesus’ table all the time.” They never sang a different song that I recall, but they didn’t need to. The funny thing about it was, neither one of them could sing worth a quarter. They were both off key, and neither of them in the same key. My cousin Terry would keep playing that piano as if he were playing for the Gaithers, and if one of them would hit an unusually flat note, which they would inevitably do, you could hear him giggle over the microphone but never miss a beat on the piano.

  And then back to the pulpit stood my papa Grace. Small in stature, quiet in person, but behind the pulpit he was, and still is, a warrior. A warrior for God. I can honestly say that in my nearly forty years on this earth, there is not a preacher I’d rather hear deliver the Word of God than my papa. Sure, I know I am biased. But I also know good preaching when I hear it. And I have heard a lot of it. Twice on Sunday and every Wednesday night for eighteen years. Less often than that as an adult, but I still go and “get fed,” as the old folks like to call it, every chance I get.

  In fact, we made the six-hour trip back to Murphy not too long ago. The church is smaller now. The building is the same size, of course, but it seems smaller. And the congregation isn’t nearly what it once was, but that doesn’t mean they won’t get the same message delivered to them as they would have if the crowd were bigger. It’s funny how certain things, no matter how much time passes, never change, though. The distinct smell of the lobby and sanctuary, a mixture of cleaning supplies and thirty-year-old carpet. My cousin Terry’s loud and flamboyant laugh echoing through the auditorium. The sound the doors make when my papa would lock them as everyone was leaving to go have lunch with the family. Those little details seemed pretty inconsequential, but it’s pretty crazy just how important they are to me now that I’m a little older.

  April and I raise our kids to believe just as we were taught to believe. We read the Bible, we say our prayers, and we do our best to spread goodness and kindness and generosity to all those who cross our path. We take them to church, but I have never been able to find a church I’ve felt the fondness for that I have for Murphy Church of God. That church has been a part of my family for more than ninety years. Our families were built there, many of us were married there, a few have nursed themselves back from divorce there. And many—more than I care to remember—have said goodbye there after they passed from this life int
o the next. And sadly, that number is growing. But no matter how many of the older generations we lose, still she stands—Murphy Church of God. It makes me sad that Murphy church is not a part of my weekly routine any longer. But one thing is for certain, just as my grandfather prayed over me each week from its pulpit and promised me he would, the Lord has richly blessed me.

  Granny’s Letter

  After a long and difficult fight against Alzheimer’s disease, my papa Stamper finally went home to be with the Lord and my sweet granny. They had been apart for twenty-two years, since her death in 1992. We were very sad, of course. He was our rock. He led our family through thick and thin, and now he’s gone. I had the privilege of reading a story I had written for him at his funeral. It was a celebration of a good man and a good life.

  After the funeral service, we all made our way to his house. I felt closer to him just sitting in his dining room. He was always a snappy dresser, and he had some amazingly cool old vintage sport coats in his closet, and I was the only one in the family who would dare wear them. So I went into his closet and grabbed a few of my favorites. While we were standing there, we began sifting through some of the stuff scattered on his desk. April found this handwritten letter, presumably written right after Granny found out she had been diagnosed with ALS, which would ultimately take her life. The paper is weathered and yellowed, and it’s written in her perfect cursive writing. What a neat thing to find. And what a wonderful person, searching herself for strength so she could live for her boys. The thought of her sitting right at this same desk so many years ago, writing something so inspirational, gave me goose bumps. It had likely been right in that same spot for more than twenty years. And on this day, God chose to show it to me. On this difficult day, when we were wondering how life would go on without Papa in it, Granny showed us.

  The letter reads,

  I must not worry! I must not feel sorry for myself. I must not let these things destroy me. I must trust in the Lord and let him lead me and guide me. I must take my burdens to the Lord and leave them there; and not take them back up and worry. If I do, I will surely destroy myself.

  I have so much to be thankful for and I must let my mind dwell on these things. I have a home, a fine home. And I have four of the finest sons that God ever created. I am so proud of them. I must live for them. They are reason enough for me to straighten my shoulders and lift my chin and look up.

  I am not going to call back this incident in my life to look at it again. It is water under the bridge—gone on down to join a million, trillion other incidents until it loses its identity. It is no use to chase that which has disappeared. I must love and work with what I have at hand, and find peace and fulfillment of life.

  What an amazing thing to find and read on that day. But what I could never have known at the time is how much it would help me at a later date. A few years after finding this note, I was in a terrible car wreck. I was injured very badly, and I still haven’t fully recovered. But one day I again came across this note. And that final sentence continues to push me to be better, to get stronger, to not let the devil win this battle that he hurled at our family. I must love and work with what I have at hand, and find peace and fulfillment of life. Perfect words from my sweet grandmother, some twenty-five years later. As long as I live, I know I will never receive a more blessed gift than this note of strength and courage from her.

  The Old Man and Strawberry Jelly

  “Rise and shine, Stone! Coffee’s hot; biscuits are on!” I can still hear my grandfather’s loud, boisterous voice bellowing through his big house. Every morning, just like clockwork, he’d wake me up at 6:00 a.m. with these words. It was actually fairly generous of him to allow me to sleep until six, because he’d already been up for an hour or so by that time. But he liked that first hour by himself each morning. He’d put the coffee on, take a shower, and get dressed, with the exception of his starched dress shirt that had the initials CWS stitched into the cuff. He’d wait to put that on until he’d finished with his breakfast. So each day, when I first saw him after waking up, he’d be wearing a tight white undershirt, his legs crossed, drinking his coffee from a cup and matching saucer, and reading the Bible. Every day.

  I’d take a quick shower and get dressed, then join him in the dining room by 6:15, because when you are a thirteen-year-old boy, it doesn’t take too long to get ready. We had our timing so precise that when I came into the dining room each day, the biscuits would be ready to come out of the oven. I’d tell him, “Good morning,” and he’d answer, “Good mornin’, honey.” I’d pour my own cup of coffee and then take the biscuits out and set them on top of the stove. Then I’d get out the butter and strawberry jelly. I loved our mornings together. We had our routine down pat. But it wasn’t always that way. Let me back up a tad.

  When I was eleven years old, my grandmother, Clarice June, began having trouble with her leg. At first, the doctors thought she had a pinched nerve, but after some more testing, we discovered that it was much more serious. She had ALS, more commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. The disease was swift. In just two years it had taken over her body. On December 28, 1992, after spending the Christmas holiday in Saint Francis Hospital in Tulsa, her suffering finally ended. Our family was lost, but it was much harder on my grandfather. They had been married for forty-four years, and together since high school. Even though we had all known this day was coming, we really didn’t seem as prepared for her being gone as we should have been. That night we went to Papa’s house to sit with him. The whole family was there. My loud family was eerily silent. It seemed that all the air had been taken out of us. Later, as everyone began to pack up and leave, I asked Papa if he’d want me to stay with him. He smiled for the first time in days and said, “Well, sure!” I told my mom and dad I was going to stay with him, and they said that was fine.

  The next morning, I heard him toiling around in the kitchen. I heard cabinet doors slamming and pots and pans rattling and banging together. I walked in to find him opening a can of biscuits. The coffee was already made. I asked, “Do you need any help?” He said, “Good mornin’, honey! Nope, I got it under control. Go get you a shower, and I’ll have it ready when you’re done.” I did as I was told, but when I came back into the kitchen, there was a cloud of smoke hovering near the ceiling, and on the stove sat a pan of burnt black biscuits. He said, “Mighta left ’em in a minute or two too long.” I laughed at him and said, “You reckon?” He said, “Ain’t nothing that some butter and strawberry jelly can’t fix,” and then we sat down at the table to have one of the more memorable breakfasts I’ve ever had. An old man, a young boy, a plate of burnt biscuits, and a conspicuously empty chair where only a few days ago my grandmother had sat. Neither of us really knew what to say, which was an uncommon issue for both of us. As I watched my papa slather his burnt biscuit with butter and strawberry jelly, he quietly said, “Lord, I miss her.” I tried to say something, but I knew if I even opened my mouth the slightest bit, I wouldn’t be able to control the crying that just bubbled near the surface. So instead, I nodded my head while staring blankly down at my plate. I fought back those tears with all my might and ate that burnt biscuit and strawberry jelly.

  Over the next few weeks, I gradually moved more of my clothes and other needed items to Papa’s house from my family’s house, which was only a couple hundred yards across the pasture from us. I stayed with him every night. He needed me there, and it made me feel useful. On most nights, we’d go get dinner at a restaurant in town. My mom or my aunt or my cousin would come by a few times each week and do our laundry or clean around the house, and I did the dishes every night before bed. And then each morning, of course, we had our biscuits and jelly.

  It always tickled me how much he enjoyed his jelly in the mornings. It wasn’t some special brand. As a matter of fact, it didn’t even really matter what brand it was, he’d eat it and act like it was the best thing he ever ate. Shoot, he’d even eat the l
ittle free packets of it that sat on the tables of the little greasy-spoon diners that he loved so much. It makes me wonder, Did he just like the taste, or was it something else? Was it because the taste or the smell of it took him back to another time? Maybe back to a picnic with my grandmother when they were young, or perhaps to an early-morning breakfast, sitting at his own grandpa’s knee?

  It’s been over twenty-five years now since those mornings. Such a long time ago. But just a few Saturdays ago, I was sitting alone on the front porch, drinking my coffee, when my daughter Emma woke up and came out onto the porch where I sat. She said, “I’m going to cook some biscuits.” About twenty minutes later, she came out onto the porch and said, “The biscuits are ready, if you want one, but I burned them a little bit.” I grinned at her and said, “You know, my grandpa used to tell me, ‘It’s nothing that a little bit of butter and strawberry jelly can’t fix.’ ”

  Forever and Ever, Amen

  The girls and I were driving home from Oklahoma on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. As I was driving, my thoughts kept going straight back to the ranch. To the large den in my grandparents’ home, where we would play pool, watch football, talk about horses or the big buck we saw at the tree stand that morning and that we hoped to see again that evening. Then there was the smell of the food in the oven, and listening to my granny, mom, aunts, and cousins in the kitchen laughing and talking as the meal gets its final preparations. Just before we all pile in on the feast, we would hold hands and say a prayer of thanks, led by my grandpa, for all that we had.