My Friend, The Ventilator

Who says the Wild West is dead? Nonsense! We moderns just need know where to look for it. Take Lincoln, New Mexico, for instance. To a tourist from France, Ontario or Horsechester, Lincoln must seem like just a wide spot in the road where Billy the Kid made some noise away back when. To those of us in the know, however?

Take, for example, the following front page article in yesterday's Ruidoso (NM) News:

Noted Historian Exchanges Gunfire With Strangers

They still pack pistols here in the West and every now and then, one might be needed.

Drew Gomber, local Western historian and Lincoln resident, found need of his last week when he was shot at by a stranger in the dark of Thursday night.

According to Gomber, he was watching television between 9 and 9:30 p.m. when someone knocked at the door of his home just east of Lincoln. He said the volume on the TV kept both him and his dogs from hearing anyone drive in.

He cautiously opened the door to find what he described as very inebriated Hispanic male.

"He was so drunk he could barely stand. He couldn't speak English and I can't speak Spanish and he was not able to talk very well even in Spanish, so I couldn't tell what he wanted," said Gomber.

"Finally I told him to 'vamonos' and he went back to the pickup and I heard him talking to whoever was with him."

Gomber stood at his door and watched as the pickup pulled onto the highway. At that point he said he saw the flash of a gun being fired and heard the bullet go past his head. He pulled a .38 caliber pistol from the back of his jeans and returned fire at the pickup as it drove away.

It was only a matter of a couple minutes from the time of the knock on the door until the shooter drove away. Gomber said he was sure he'd seen two muzzle flashes come from the pickup and he returned four shots into the pickup.

Gomber (right) described the man at his door as in his early 30s with dark eyes and dark hair and average build. The pickup was a gray or white full size king cab pickup. It left heading East on Highway 380.

Lincoln County Sheriff's Office chief deputy Patrick O'Brien said with so little information and evidence to go by, the case would likely end with the report. "Unless a body shop somewhere happens to report a pickup with bullet holes or the like, we don't have much to go on."

A Be On the Look Out (BOLO) was issued by the department.


I have written about Drew in the past. Have interviewed him in this blog. Have been a talkin' noggin' with Drew in several Wild West docs. Look it up: In all the entire United States there is only ONE Drew Gomber. And that, among those who know him, is just right, proper, fitting, and as it should be. Drew never seeks trouble . . . but like Clint in the "Dollar" movies, trouble seems to seek Drew.

"A Fistful of Gombers" . . . . "For a Few Drews More". . . . "The Lone Gomber Rides Again". . . . "Quick Draw McDrew" . . . . "Billy the Gomber" . . . . . . I can almost hear the comments now in the cafes and cantinas of old New Mexico.

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Got a minute? Take a break! Test your knowledge at "History Quizzes."


http://www.historynet.com/history_quizzes


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Photo of the Day

Is someone up there trying to tell us something?

History Hulk

My love of history certainly did not spring from the courses I had in high school. Not only was I a scholastic no-show during those four wasted years, but the football coaches-parading-as-history-instructors wouldn't have been any help even had I wanted to learn. How dumb were these characters? Pretty dumb. It took two of 'em to turn a car around--one on the front bumper and one on the back.

Without a doubt the dumbest teacher I ever had in high school, or anywhere else, was one of these above cited characters. He was a former lineman or something from a college noted for its football teams and little else. This guy had it all. He was big, dumb, mean, aggressive . . . and did I mention "dumb?"

One day in class this "teacher" asked a rather dim student: "Okay *Simpson, where's Tokyo?"

Simpson seemed a bit surprised by the question, then, with a stupid look on his face, he replied, "Tokyo!"

"No," said the ox-like buzz-cut who was himself half asleep. "I mean where's Tokyo."

"Tokyo!" said simple Simpson simply.

By now, the hulk was fully aroused. He stared for a second or two in angry amazement.

"SIMPSON . . . WHERE'S TOKYO?"

"Tokyo!" answered Simpson with the same stupid grin on his face.

"TOKYO'S IN TOKYO?" asked the ox incredulously.

"Yes," said Simpson. "Tokyo, Tokyo."

"Well, for your information stupid," the teacher mocked, "Tokyo's NOT in Tokyo. It's in China! TOKYO, TOKYO! Ha!"

True story!

No, my historical awakening had to await for that fine day when I first ventured into a college classroom. There, I found that not only were the professors wide awake, but they definitely knew where Tokyo was. Worse, they were more than eager to hand out "F's" to the deserving, one of which I promptly proceeded to "earn."

*fictitious name

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The Midland County Historical Museum down Texas way has a collection of six death masks, all supposedly those of Western desperadoes. Included in the group are the masks of Wild Bill Hickok, Butch Cassidy and Jesse James (right). My friend, Julia Robb, of Marshall, Texas, has a story coming out Friday on the masks in the next issue of The Texas Observer. Julia casts doubt on the authenticity of the masks. Among those she quotes in the piece is yours truly, the original "Doubting Thomas." But hold your judgement. Read the online story first. Decide for yourself if the masks are real or not. http://www.texasobserver.org/

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Photo of the Day

Sky Giants

Just revving the engine now, gearing up for my daily sweat fest. Yesterday, at the half way point on the trail, I parked the bike and lay meself down on a bench beneath an enormous sycamore. As the perspiration ran down the slots and formed puddles on the ground, I marveled at the beautiful tree spreading above me. Its white and brown splotched trunk and branches went up and up. The thing must have been over a hundred feet tall. As far as beauty, few trees anywhere can compete with an alabaster sycamore.

Just a stone's throw away was a giant cottonwood. Although not nearly so pretty or shady, the cottonwood does something for me that other trees never can. It provides me with a natural air conditioning system; a coolness, of body and mind. The tree itself is not much for shade. The leaves are small compared to the sycamore and a typical cottonwood trunk rises straight up 15-20 feet before it branches out. And even then, cottonwood branches are few and far between which means, of course, much less shade. But the cottonwood leaves have something in common with the aspen; they have long stems that allow the leaf itself to flutter or 'tumble' in even the slightest breeze. This is a wonderful thing. In only a hush of wind, the cottonwood turns all silvery and the rustle of a thousand leaves mimics the sound of a thousand drops of water; the overall effect is akin to a tumbling brook. Psychologically, it cools my soul by ten degrees. Next chance, find a cottonwood on a hot day and lay beneath it. It's one of life's simple pleasures.

The cottonwood is the official tree of Kansas. We have a surfeit of these towering giants for a very simple reason: They are almost worthless as building material. Back in the old days, pioneers tried using the tree. Didn't work. When the planed wood began to dry, it twisted and cracked and created "see through" walls. Nice in summer; bad in winter. Floors were impossible to walk on. About the only thing a cottonwood floor was good for was to allow rats, roaches, spiders, and other unwelcome guests to come and go as they pleased.

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Think I'm joking about Kansas weather? After only two months of operation, Wild West World in Wichita has closed its doors. Reason given: Weather. Although every point on the compass catches its share or bad weather, Kansas seems to have a superabundance of really, really, rotten, rotten weather. Rain, floods, tornadoes, frogs, and pestilence, over the past two months have been beyond anything. Out of 105 counties here in the Weather State, all but two this year have been declared disaster areas. Now, we enter the furnace months--July, August, September--of dust, drought, locusts, sparrows, and yet more pestilence. That's no way to run a business. People simply could not get to the Wichita theme park.

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Donald Stephens, former mayor of Rosemont, Illinois, died recently. Some residents say they see the mayor's image in the bark of a sycamore he fought to save.

Shootouts & Sweat Fests

Doctor Drencho here, just back from my daily sweat fest, aka bike ride. I must now do my thing before 9:30 AM, or 85 degrees, whichever comes first; if not, it is a death warrant for an old coot like me. Shoot, it is a death warrant for young coots too; everyone on the trail is biking, jogging, blading, dog-dawdling, and lolly-gagging ever-so-slowly. Even so, the sweat just pours off people.

Really rotten "sleeps" these past few nights. Why? In a word: Heat. No. In two words: Heat and Sparrows. Until we get a window unit in our bedroom, I will have to seek slumber each simmering summer night by slopping around in my own slimy sweat. Just about the time that this sought-out slumber is secured (dawn) the sparrows stir and any chance of deep sleep is dashed. What a racket! Like a sack full of squeaky wheels. Tonight, after dark, I am paying this particular pear tree a visit and with rake in hand I will break up the roost of these flying rats.

Have a most interesting message on my voice mail now:

Hey Tom..........Drew Gomber here..............Just checking in to see what's up......Wanted to know if you and Deb are still headed this way this autumn........By the way: Got into a gun fight the other night.....out here in the yard........These Mexican dudes pull up in a pickup, piss on my lawn, then start blazing away at me......So I open up with my pistol.....Put four rounds into their truck....That was all I had. Think I hit one, maybe both.........Give me a buzz when you get a chance.......See Ya.

If the above wasn't so funny, it might be scary. From experience, I know that there is NO good place to start a gunfight in the West. Everyone is armed to the teeth and everyone knows how to use those arms. But picking a fight at Drew Gomber's house near Lincoln, New Mexico, is about the last place on earth I would do so. Drew had a very interesting career in Vietnam (and I will leave it at that); Drew (right) is an expert in firearms; Drew has the eyes and mental make-up of "Jack Wilson" in the movie, Shane. In a word, messing with Mister Gomber might get you a ticket right out of this world. Drew is one of the more familiar faces on TV for he is seemingly ALWAYS on the Discovery or History Channels.

Check out the details of Drew's shootout in this Wednesday's weekly Ruidoso (NM) newspaper. See if he added any notches to his pistol: http://www.ruidosonews.com/

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Drop by Debbie Duck's windy website. . .

Mason-Dixon Wild West

Give the lass a pass. . .
Give the girl a twirl. . .
Give the broad a nod. . .

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Cartoon of the Day