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No Brag - just fact! (that's a little cowboy kinda talk) Jon Garate is one of the last of the old time cowboys of the American West. In his book, STORIES FROM THE LIVINGROOM, Jon takes you back in time to when cowboys roamed the West. One of the favorite pass-times for families in those days were for a couple of families to get together at one of their homes after a day’s hard work, have supper and then gather in the livingroom for home-made music, and listening to the old timers reminisce, and tell the stories of their lives. His book has been compared to the writings of your very own James Herriot, but is placed in a more primitive place and time - the Old West of America.

Be sure to scroll down and read Jon’s STORY FOR TWO ENGLISH LADIES.

Jon Garate’s Grandfather, Gene Garate, a Basque, came to America in the late 1800s and first herded sheep in the West, and then homesteaded and started his own cattle ranch. Gene’s first son Thomas Jefferson Garate, when of age also took out a homestead to add to the original one. When Tom’s son Jon was born, the homestead act was gone, but the family homestead was still operated in the old way. No electricity, no plumbing in the house, and pretty much no modern conveniences. Work was done by hand, or with horses. If you wanted water, you grabbed a pick and a shovel and dug a hole in the ground.

The scene of this very remote community is called the Madeline Plains which lies about a hundred and forty miles north of Reno Nevada, but lies just across the line in California. Ranches wire miles apart, and the whole of the Madeline Plains had far less people living in it than the number of people employed at the Royal Palace.

As you delve into the pages of STORIES FROM THE LIVINGROOM, you will be certain you have been transported by time machine to the days of yore. You will have the most unusual and authentic experience that is possible to have without actually having been there. You will feel that you are at the feet of the old time cowboys as they tell their stories, with a great deal of tongue in cheek humor. All of the stories are authentic, true representations of live in the Old West.

(Note from the author) I didn’t put this story in my book because in order to do full justice it needs to be told orally in order to convey the accents of the American English of the Old West, and some very specific British accent - two strangely different sounding languages.

I wasn’t quite yet twenty years old. The year was around 1964 or 1965. I and some friends who had access to a cattle truck had hauled some of our animals all the way to San Francisco to exhibit them in a livestock show at the Cow Palace. It was the first trip to the Big City for some of the boys. For myself, I had an aunt that lived in nearby Vallejo, and so I had very briefly a few times been in the humongous, confusing, and frightening city. Frightening but alluring.

We had many wonderful experiences, and some hair raising ones during our week long stay at the Cow Palace, but those are stories for another time.

This story has to do with our trip home. Lefty Laver and myself were driving the cattle truck. There is a little humor among old cowboys and their early automotive trucks. The truck is a tool to get a job done, and the job of being a cowboy is a pretty rough kind of life. So the old trucks were invariably quite beat up. This truck was no exception. That plus a steer or two in the back, some hay, and all our gear tied to the stock racks, and the clothes we wore - Levi’s, cowboy boots and hats - clearly identified us as “wild cowboys”. That’s what we were often called, though we really weren’t as wild as most city folks. In the real West, kids learned survival responsibilities of life real young.

Anyhow, Lefty and I were headed north and east on highway 80, heading from San Francisco towards Reno. This route passes up and over the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and even well into springtime, which this happened to be, it was not unlikely to run into some severe snow storms in the high mountains.

When we reached Donner Pass, so named after the leader of a party of pioneers who had mostly perished there in a snowstorm, we ran into a fairly insignificant snow storm. Significant enough however, we were required to pull over at one of the many towns along the way and install tire chains on the rear tires of the truck. I had spent much of my life in snow country and had a lot of experience at such things, so it was I who crawled down under the bed of the truck, and was lying there in the snow buckling up the chains onto the tires. Pretty soon, I heard a lady’s voice. I couldn’t make out what she was saying but it seemed she was trying to get my attention. I thought maybe some city lady needs some help putting tire chains on her car, and I can help with that.

I crawled up out of the snow, and there stood two nice ladies. One of them said “May I have your photograph, please?”

Now mind you, I had never heard an English accent before, and in cowboy country we didn’t have photographs, we had pictures. So I politely replied “Come again?” That’s cowboy way of saying “I didn’t understand you. Would you please repeat the question?”

“May I have your photograph please? We don’t have cowboys in England, you know.” Well, this time I got the gist of what she was saying. There she stood with camera in hand, and I was pretty sure she wanted to take a picture, so I told her sure, that would be fine.

So she snapped a picture or two, and away the two of them went. I was a shy backward kid from way out in very far away mountains, and I didn’t have the courage or the forethought to ask their names, or where in England they were from. I could have learned a lot about England and they could have learned a lot about the American Cowboy if we’d struck up a conversation, but sadly we didn’t.

Lefty had gone to get something hot to drink from a nearby store, and I don’t remember if he had come back and was in the picture or not. I kind of think he was. But one thing, I believe, somewhere in England, in some parlor, there hangs a picture of a genuine, un-famous American Cowboy.