Snowflakes sifted through the trees

To land on the grave of Jonas Cree

As the pious townsfolk bowed their heads in prayer,

But not one would give a eulogy

Nor a kindly word for Jonas Cree

Except his crippled brother in his chair,

For it was a drunken bum and convicted thief

Lay silently six feet beneath

That pile of stones and cross bearing his name,

His brother coughed to clear his throat

And wrapped his crippled legs beneath his coat,

Tears welled in his eyes like pools of rain,

He said, “my brother Jonas left the rails,

A while ago and went to jail

And I know some of you are glad he’s not around

But he was the friend to have, out on the track

Because he’d stand your corner and watch your back

When your hand was called and all your chips were down,

He was a churchgoing man, with a faith of steel,

Well as you know that was until,

The fever struck our town a while ago,

Now there was many a homestead lost someone,

But Jonas lost his wife and son,

And that seemed to shake his faith, his heart and soul,

Now I’ve said all that, my friends because,

You might see what kind of man he was

And look on him more kindly now he’s gone,

That he took to stealing, I can’t deny

And found real a strong liking for whiskey rye

But that’s not the trail he started out upon,

Why, old man Taylor, you must recall

How he fixed your roof and barn that fall

Before the fever took his wife and son,

And he never asked for a copper cent

For all the work or time he spent

And that weren’t the only kindly thing he done,

Well mister Webster ain’t  it true

That he ploughed your fields a time a two

That time your leg was broken at the knee,

And he’s pulled my hide out of many a jamb,

He was twice the working man I am

Or ever was, or could ever hope to be,

And he drove widow Watson’s kids to town,

A dozen times or more I’m bound

When their horse was stolen by Arapaho’s,

He spent half his life, it seems to me

In helping this community

But that don’t make no difference, I suppose,

You just judge him for the past few years

Since his world collapsed around his ears

And mighty few were there to lend a hand,

Though old Doc Johnson done his best

To cure his wife and son I guess

Before he laid them both beneath the sand,

Well he started drinking after that

And his homestead suffered, that’s a fact

Because he couldn’t set his mind on doing chores

And though he was grieving so inside

He’d never ask for help, had too much pride,

So he was left there all alone, dammed near ignored,

And when he spoke about his wife and child

Did you stop and comfort him a while?

No, you just got embarrassed when he’d start to cry,

Oh Reverend Baker did of course

He’d sit with him on that old porch,

Once a week and try to sympathize,

But when his homestead fell to disrepair

How many of you rode out there,

To repay the kindnesses that he had shown?

His barn had all but fallen down,

his crops were once the best around

stood in the upper forty overgrown,

And when the bank foreclosed and threw him out

He was like a leper here about

And not one of you would offer him a roof,

He slept in the lower twenty field

And if he hadn’t froze to death he’d still

Be out there all alone and that’s the truth,

Oh I know you found him a quarter mile,

With the gloves he stole from the mercantile,

But it’s winter and his hands were turning blue

And they were old and frayed and the fingers torn

And they itched him more than kept him warm

But I guess you did what you thought you had to do,

You sent him to jail for a week or so,

Then put him back out in the freezing snow,

A fine thank you that for all the help he’d been,

So with the bottle of whiskey he had left

He slowly drank himself to death

On a threadbare blanket in a snowdrift by the stream,

I guess Jonas would tell you, that it’s ok,

Yes I’m pretty sure that’s what he’d say,

Because that’s how he was, never slow to take the blame,

But all your silent prayers and such

Ain’t worth the spit from a miners cuss,

Because it’s you not him, that aught to feel ashamed,

But you stand here now on his last day

To forgive him for his wicked ways

And say God will punish him, as he sees fit,

But I’m sure the lord will realize

That this is where a good man lies

And you’re just a bunch of small town hypocrites,

So raises your faces from the stones,

We don’t want you praying o’re his bones

He’ll make do with just the priest and me,

And I’ll say it loud, not in silent prayer

I thank the lord God he was there,

God bless you Jonas and your family.

By S.E.Ralph

22-8-2005