Home, home on the web…
I’ll never look at a piece of humble A4 photocopier paper in quite the same way again after seeing the range of works by amazing Danish artist Peter Callesen.
Just look at the detail and creativity that must go into his paper scultures:
Cowboy
53 x 40,5 x 7 cm.
Acid Free A4 115 gsm paper, glue, acrylic paint and oak frame
Some days you just hit pay dirt - that was the feeling I had when I came across this fantastic store tucked away in Hakanoa St in trendy Grey Lynn, central Auckland.
The owner Tom is a wild west aficionado with genuine American connections and a passion for all things cowboy themed.
He self-built the store/home in the traditional adobe style of New Mexico - how much more passion for the American south west can you get that that?
Out the front of Trigger Happy is parked Tom’s yank barge and an assortment of selected clothes displayed in a small covered wagon reminiscent of so many settlers’ transport of choice. There’s even room to tie up your horse.
Inside there are racks of old western shirts and jackets, a selection of classic guitars (Tom and his wife play country music in their act Tennessee Sister), native American blankets and cowboy boots galore. More stock arrives regularly from contacts in the US.
If you’re in the area I highly recommend a visit!
If there’s one thing that always upsets me, it’s when the generic term cowboy is used to describe somebody who’s an obvious out and out villian.
You can suffer bad work from a ‘cowboy builder’ and be told to watch out for cowboy mechanics but convicted murderers being described as ‘an old cowboy’?
That was the way lawyer Thomas Phalen described Viva Leroy Nash - “the oldest death row inmate in the United States, who spent most of his life behind bars” - who has just died of natural causes at the age of 94.
Phalen tells the NZ Herald:
“He was born in 1915 and he was sent to prison in 1930,” Phalen said.
“Think about it - he had 15 years of life in southern Utah, at a time when Utah and Arizona was the wild, wild West - and he went to prison in 1930, and he remained in prison for the next 80 years, more or less.
Not the kind of guy I would have wanted to bump into down a dark alley!
Last year I suggested there was room in the self-help book market for a new title, A Dummies Guide to Dude Ranching. There are obviously quiet a few people out there who’d buy a copy given visitor traffic to the story 12 months on.
With that in mind, how about a companion title on How To Be A Cowboy? There must be many folks who would love a couple of hundred pages, in addition to their classic westerns DVD collection, on how to live the cowboy lifestyle.
If books aren’t your thing then how about a trip to the Arizona Cowboy College? It’s “Your chance to learn authentic cowboy skills at a working cattle ranch.”
I passed through Scottsdale at the start of 2009 and wish I’d had the chance to stop by for a week’s tuition. Just look at the kind of training on offer below - not sure I’d be able to pick up all this lot in one of those trademarked yellow manuals!
When I posted back in March about my move to New Zealand I said that Big Ben pies were:
a reassuring sign that the cowboy is a global icon recognised wherever you are
What I didn’t realise some 8 months ago, stepping off that plane at Auckland airport, was that instead of opting for the City of Sails I should have set up home down in Cowboy Paradise in Hokitika in the South island!
Who’d have thought that all the way down here I’d be able to dress up and shoot real bullets and real guns just like a gunslinger from the Old West!
Whether you’re travelling around the South Island of New Zealand catching in the beauty of the mountains, planning a corporate team building excursion or a professional marksman/markswoman, Cowboy Paradise welcomes you.
You don’t get much of a chance to shoot the pistols and rifles of the Old Wild West in South London, that’s for sure. I’m heading to grabaseat.con.nz as you read this…
The tale of Commodore Perry Owens, Apache County (and later Navajo County) Sheriff, as told by the 50s era Collins Bumper Cowboy Book of Thrilling Western Stories. A more factual re-telling of the Blevins Gang incident will follow:
In the long and honourable list of the law enforcement officers who helped to tame the old wild west, there are many names that are better known than that of Commodore Perry Owens, but it is doubtful if even such men as Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterton, or Wild Bill Hickock were braver men than the strangely named sheriff of Apache County, Arizona. It is also doubtful if any of the more celebrated sheriffs and marshals ever achieved anything like the single-handed exploit that Owens pulled off one September day in 1887.
Commodore Perry Owens - Commodore was his real name and not a title or nickname - had been a cowboy and an lndian Fighter and when, in 1887, the more sober citizens of North Arizona were searching around for someone to take on the formidable task of cleaning up that part of the state, they decided that Owens was the man for the job. At first sight, he hardly appeared a proper type for such a task. He had a smooth, handsome, boyish face with a fine, silky moustache. His voice was soft and his manner inoffensive. His long hair hung down almost to his waist. He was not particularly tall and he was slimly built. In appearance he was so far from the rootin’-tootin’ kind of officer that most people reckoned he could not be a good 1aw man at all. Then one morning on September 4th, 1887, Sheriff Owens rode into the tough town of Holbrook. Ironically enough, in view of what we to happen that afternoon, he we merely carrying out routine official duties connected with the summoning of jurymen.
All thought of routine duties vanished, however, when Owens was informed that Andy Cooper had also ridden into town that morning. Cooper was a bad man of the worst type, brutal, boastful and fast with a gun. He had already several killings to his discredit, but what interested Owens more was the fact that a warrant had previously been issued for Cooper’s arrest on a rustling charge. So far, no one had been found who had enough courage to serve this warrant but Owens decided to change all that. He found out where Cooper was staying and set off, alone, to arrest him.
Now had Cooper been alone as well, the job would have been dangerous enough. But Cooper had company. With him, in his mother’s house, were his half-brother, John Blevins, and Mose Roberts, both of whom were almost as bad as their leader. In addition, there was another half-brother called Sam Houston Blevins who, although only sixteen, was already following in the crooked family footsteps. All of them were at home when Sheriff Owens walked up the path and knocked on the door. Andy Cooper opened the door with his left hand, his right being occupied with a six-shooter. At the same time, a door in the side of the house opened and John Blevins, also armed, with a gun in his hand, peered out. Owens was between two fires but he gave no sign of anxiety.
“Cooper,” he announced. “I want you.”
The rustler tried to stall but Owens was standing for no nonsense. Then finally the rustler went for his guns. Two shots rang out simultaneously. Cooper missed, but Owens, firing a Winchester from the hip, shot the rustler through the body. As Cooper staggered off, mortally wounded, Owens whirled round and shot John Blevins in the shoulder. He then backed away from the house and awaited further developments. He had not long to wait. Mose Roberts came leaping out of a window, gun in hand, ready to carry on the debate with hot lead. Owens moved slightly, taking advantage of the cover offered by a cart, then once again he cut loose with his deadly Winchester, the gun which, according to the Westerners, “fired all week, including Sundays without reloading.” Mose Roberts staggered, dropped his revolver, and went lurching away round behind the house.
Meanwhile, inside the house, the sixteen-year-old Sam Houston Blevins had gone berserk. As Owens took toll of his friends, one after the other, the boy ran around pleading for someone to let him have a gun. The wounded John, realising no doubt that they were up against something special in Commodore Perry Owens, refused to let his brother have his gun. Cooper, who was dying, was less capable of refusing, so the young man seized Cooper’s gun and went rushing out to do battle. As he was in the act of firing it, another bullet from the lawman’s Winchester took him through the heart and sent him sprawling face down in the dirt. The battle was over. One man was killed outright, two were mortally wounded, and one, the lucky one, had a bullet in his shoulder. The time taken, from the first shot by Cooper until the final deadly shot by Commodore Perry Owens was about one minute.
Commodore Perry Owens died in 1919 at the age of 66. He had had a long life filled with violent action and adventure. When he looked back on it, it is possible that the time he recalled most clearly was not a day here or a week there but a certain period of sixty seconds, one September afternoon, in the cattle town of Holbrook, Arizona.
THE END
Do you think Sheriff Owens’ actions were justified? That’s a question to be discussed in the follow up post to come. Plus I have photos of the Blevins House as it looks today in modern day Holbrook and the county courthouse building which houses a great frontier history museum.
