Farewell, Natty

One of my first social outings on returning to Fossil from three months of travel was to attend the funeral of one of the town’s noted characters, a true cowboy. This skinny-legged, weather-worn cowboy with sky-blue squinty eyes seemed older than his middle years. In poor health, his death was not entirely unexpected, but it did hit the community hard.

A few hundred persons came from far and near to attend this funeral – a staggering amount when one considers that Natty rarely left Fossil and was not exactly the outgoing type. His death seemed to be recognized as the end of an era as well as the loss of a quiet friend who truly reflected a more simple time, one that required saddling up for the day’s work.

Natty was well known to all and was one of the familiar faces of Fossil. His ancestors had founded the town. It was taken for granted that Natty would show up at all fundraisers, sports events, and other community gatherings. Natty always stood quietly off to the side, black cowboy hat in hand, snap-front shirt and Wrangler jeans freshly pressed, nodding politely to those who greeted him. He was noted for his refusal to sit down or to stay for very long.

Natty spent most of his life outdoors and had the manners of the Old West: extremely polite to women, most comfortable with horses and dog, and impatient with errant cattle and humans. He never married and while several women had tried to catch his attention, he had not dated anyone in the past few decades.

Partisan in life as well as in politics, he carried a strong sense of right from wrong that put him always in the right. When he did talk, his voice was surprisingly loud with an echo behind it, as if he had to muster it up from the depths of his being. One could tell just from listening to him that he didn’t use his voice all that often with people but instead put it to use primarily to call cow dogs and horses.

Although he lived in town and over the years had accumulated enough wealth from his cattle business to not have to work, Natty maintained a rigid schedule of tending his horses and cattle for most of each day and of taking care of routine errands in the afternoon. His unassuming house was situated on a side street, its furnishing austere. He dined on simple meals at the same hour each day, picked up his mail at the post office at an exact time, and stopped by the office of a local business each afternoon to sit quietly while the owner worked. Natty would look quietly over Main Street.

Natty had always been polite to me and had often said to call him if I needed a hand with anything. He sometimes stopped to exchange pleasantries for a few minutes on his routine walks around town if I was out in the yard, and seemed to eye me warily as an independent woman who could fly off the handle at any moment.

He had happened by last year right after I’d learned that I’d been accepted into a cultural exchange program and excitedly told him I would be traveling with a group throughout Iran for two weeks. This would be my first trip overseas.

“That’s downright foolish,” he stated loudly. “Why on earth would anyone want to do something like that?”

At the funeral service a few old-timers told stories of Natty’s accomplished handling of horses. They reminisced over Natty’s deep affection for his dog that had preceded him in death and would share his grave. Another friend remembered how Natty had declined taking a trip with him to the ocean, recounting how Natty had told him he’d seen the Pacific once years before and that was good enough.

A guitarist played a few mournful cowboy songs, which brought tears to many eyes. The mayor, also a friend to Natty, read a poem written by a local rancher. The words lamented the end of day when there was still much ranch work to be done in the fading light. Natty would have liked that.
He also would have liked the simple decorations in the century-old church, left over from recent Easter services. A cloth banner that hung on the pulpit had the words “He is Risen” embroidered on it. A similar banner hung on the railing close to Natty’s coffin and read “He is Dead” – direct and to the point, just as Natty lived his life. 