He Catered to Riff Raff

Preface: Many years ago my friend Marcia and I decided that instead of giving gifts for our birthdays, the birthday person would give a picture to the other on which a story must be based.  The idea was to write a tale that was engaging, odd, and if possible included shared experiences. Then on the day of the birthday the story would be read.  This is one of those stories.

He Catered to Riff Raff

 

                                    

She sat on the old bentwood rocker, slowly moving to and fro, small dark eyes peering out of her deeply wrinkled face.  The setting sun cast shadows across that craggy visage giving testament to her 90 plus years.  Mrs. Pearl Coleman had lived in Willow Creek Junction all her life.  Everything about the town and everyone in it was filed away in her encyclopedic mind.  She was indeed a pearl — a gem of knowledge about my great-grandfather William Stone.

I came to know Mrs. Coleman while on an unusual (at least for me) vacation to Colorado.  I had been dabbling in genealogy since I was a teenager.  In the course of my research, I reached back in time to my great-grandparents and discovered William Stone, my father’s enate grandfather.  At the National Archives there was little I could discover other than his death recorded in Durango County, Colorado.  In the fall of 1980 I decided that a vacation out West would be a pleasant break from work and give me a chance to look into the life of this person who family members only knew as a “character.”

Records at the Durango County seat told me that William Stone was born in 1868, his parents having arrived at Willow Creek Junction from St. Louis that very year.  His marriage at 17 to Esther Price (a woman 11 years his senior) is also duly recorded.  A deed of trust to property on Main St. and his death certificate dated December 17, 1926 were the only other scraps of information I could find there.  My curiosity was piqued.  Who was this man?  A trip to Willow Creek Junction seemed to be in order.

My first stop in Willow Creek Junction was the local church cemetery.  There among the leaves and debris in the old section of the cemetery I found a white slab of marble resting flat on the ground acting as a frame for a weathered black marker lying atop it.  It read: “STONE William (Bill) Aug 1868 Dec 1926.  He catered to Riff Raff.”  Hmmm, I thought, I wonder what that means.  I really had no idea what this mysterious epitaph meant but decided to find out.

A stroll along Main Street in Willow Creek Junction takes about 15 minutes if you walk slowly.  It’s a small town having seen its glory days during the time of the great cattle drives of the 1880’s.  Now it is more like many other sleepy western towns.  Dusty pickups line the street along the curb, each with its gun rack prominently displayed in the rear window.  I immediately notice that I am the only male not wearing a cowboy hat and boots.  People are friendly but instantly mark me for a stranger with my bare head, Member’s Only jacket and white running shoes adorning my feet.

Whitey’s restaurant reminded me of the many diners I have sampled across the country.  Its screen door announces new customers with screeching springs like a cat whose tail has been stepped on.  Its Formica table tops and the smell of greasy food made me feel right at home.  It was late morning and the rush was over, a time for gossiping among the few stragglers who were in no hurry to be anywhere.

Sally, the waitress, seemed genuinely interested in my story, “Well hon, if you want to know anything about old timers in this town you gotta go see Miz Coleman.  She’s as old as the hills but she still got all her wits!”

A short while later I was sitting on Mrs. Coleman’s porch, a cup of tea perched precariously on my knee.

“So you’re Bill Stone’s great-grandson, huh?” the wizened crone peered at me curiously.

“Yes, Ma’am.  No one in my family is still alive who could tell me much other than that he was a “character’.”

She bobbed her head and chuckled, “Oh, he certainly was that!”

“Can you, I mean will you tell me about him?”

“Oh lordy son, I don’t know where to start.”

An hour or so later I had gleaned some of the story of my great-grandfather.

Bill Stone grew up in Willow Creek Junction after the Civil War when many folks moved West to start a new life.  He married at a young age, taking an older woman for his wife.  Esther died 9 years later in childbirth but not before giving him three children of whom one was my grandmother. (The children were sent “Back East” to live with Esther’s sister Myrtle.)

Bill was the local saloon keeper.  Those were the days of the real Wild West, which was only a little like you see in the movies.  Cowboys, real cowboys, would flood the town after a long cattle drive.  Every kind of person you can imagine was there and they all eventually ended up at the saloon.  Bill had a few rooms upstairs where a couple of ‘girls’ who worked for Bill lived.  Bill didn’t run a whorehouse, but he knew how to take care of customer’s needs.  If the girls invited men to their rooms and made a little money out of it, it was no concern of his.

Mrs. Coleman’s story telling was spellbinding.  I never realized that the old West was not like in the movies.  It was a hard life.  Cowboys would spend weeks together on the trail.  Having no women with them they often turned to each other.  I was surprised to find out that one of every five cowboys was black.  After the war, many sought their fortunes in the west.  Some were even Indians.

By the turn of the century, things were slowing down in the old West.  The cattle drives were largely over.  A large migration of people from the East headed toward California and other western territories.  However, Bill’s Saloon was still the place to meet.

By and by Bill took on a partner; a young man named Ukiah Ford, half black, half Indian.  Ukiah must have been 16 or 17 at the time.  They became inseparable friends.  They lived together and worked together for nearly 20 years before Bill died in 1926.

“Many people wondered about Bill and Ukiah,” mused Mrs. Coleman, “including me.  Bill just doted on Ukiah, doing anything Ukiah asked.  Bill left everything he had to Ukiah when he died, including the saloon.”

“What happened to Ukiah?”  I asked.

“Oh, he’s still around.  He’s my age and we’re the two oldest folks in town.  He lives up in a little house on Friar’s ridge.  He ain’t all there all the time, but he ain’t totally senile either.”

“Mrs. Coleman, you have been very gracious to take the time to tell me about my great grandfather.  I will never forget you.  Do you think I could go see Mr. Ford?”

“Oh sure honey.  Just ask anyone in town how to get up to Friar’s Ridge,” she replied rising from her rocker.  “It’s getting late.  You best wait 'til morning to go up there though.  You gotta place to stay?”

“Yes ma’am, I do.  Thank you so much for your time.”

The next morning found me in Whitey’s restaurant.  After a hearty breakfast, I chatted with Sally who gave me directions to Friar’s Ridge.

I found Mr. Ford’s home and was surprised at how well kept this log home was.  A pretty young girl answered the door.

“Hello.  Mrs. Coleman told me I could find Ukiah Ford here.  Is he home?  May I speak with him?”  I asked her.  “I’m the great grandson of an old friend of his.”

“Yes, he’s here.  Come on in,” she replied.

She ushered me into the parlor that was bright with morning sun.  Sitting in a worn stuffed chair was a quite handsome man despite the many wrinkles of age.  He was coppery in color with high cheek bones and curly white hair.  I could only imagine what he must have looked like in his younger days.

I introduced myself and told him why I had come to visit.

“So, you’re Bill’s great grandson?  I nearly forgot he had kids.  Well, welcome to my home.  Any relative of Bill’s is welcome here,” he said with a broad smile.

“Your great granddaddy was one of the best people god ever put on earth.  He was good to everybody no matter what.  He took in a wild young half-breed and gave him a life.  That was me.  Bill and I were partners in everything.  Lord yes...”  I could tell he was beginning to drift away from me lost in so many memories.

“Mr. Ford.  Mr. Ford!”  I said firmly trying to bring him back to the present.  I was only able to bring him back briefly, but what he had to say before slipping back to the past resolved the mystery I found here.

“Oh quit bein’ so formal.  You’re sort of a relative.  You can call me what Bill always called me.........Riff Raff,” whereupon he slipped back to his gentle dreams.