Al Johnson joined us the first year we had the 4k dude ranch, 1954. He was with us for at least four years. Al was probably thirty years old when he first joined us, perhaps older. We got him as dad said, “on the rebound”. He was the art editor of the Bit and Spur magazine in Billings Montana when his marriage hit the rocks. The divorce came out of nowhere and just devastated Al. He gave up his high profile job, sold his home and accepted a job working for dad, and got out of town. Al was born and raised in the Plentywood area in Northeast Montana and had “cowboyed” in the eastern part of Montana prior to working for the Bit and Spur magazine. He was an expert horseman and was a great wrangler in the pitchfork tradition. He was an accomplished artist in oils with a wide reputation and had a great personality; very out-going and knowledgeable. His hero was Charley Russell and he painted in the Russell style. He also played the guitar although; we could never get him to play in public like Lee Wentworth. He and I would have sing alongs in the bunk house in the evenings.
Al’s only failing was a tendency to binge drink when the “blues” hit him. Unfortunately, we didn’t always see the blues coming and would have to make arrangements to cover for him. He was the only employee we ever had that dad would put up with relative to drinking. I remember dad firing cooks “on the spot” for drinking. It was different with Al, he was family. When we discovered Al "missing in action", dad would simply say, “give him a little time and we’ll go find him”. Often I was the designated “finder”. Dad would make a couple of phone calls to local bars, get his location, and then tell me to go get him. Often by the time I got to the bar to pick him up, he would have moved on. So, I’d have to drive from bar to bar and find him. Luckily in those days you could drive when you were fifteen so I could drive and dad wouldn’t have to spend time finding him. I got on a first name basis with a lot of bar keeps. Often I would find him in some corner of a bar just staring in his drink. I’d say, “Are you ready to come home, Al?” He’d look up at me, and say “yes, Skippy, I guess it’s time.”
When he called me Skippy I knew he was in bad shape because he never called me Skippy unless he was really in "the cups". He and I bunked together in a cabin set a ways from the other ranch buildings. The cabin was called the "honey moon" cabin in honor of it's distance from the other cabins! I remember one night hearing the mournful cry of "Skippy, Skippy". I finally woke up enough to go outside into the black moonless night with a flashlight and see what was happening. There he was in the middle of a swampy area next to the cabin. He was at least three sheets to the wind and he had lost his way back to our cabin and needed me to help him out of the swamp. He would usually be gone for two or three days – although at times he would be gone for over a week. He would be ready to come home when we found him. I don’t think he slept the whole time he was gone. It usually would take at least two or three days to sober him up and then he was usually good for maybe another couple of months. Dad loved him like a brother and felt so sorry for him. As I look back I now realize how much I loved him too. I would have done anything for that man. I’m sure the feeling was mutual.
Some of my favorite stories of my youth were of my adventures getting Al out of bars and of our adventures at rodeos. A fifteen year old never had a better mentor. I was treated as an adult and expected to hold up my end of the bargain – whatever the bargain happened to be – often the bargain was I could go with him but I had to keep him off of the booze because once he started he couldn’t quit. So I was the designated nagger. I usually was able to keep up my end of that bargain. His struggles with alcohol had a lasting impression on me. His lessons on man woman relationships probably had an influence on me as well.
I cannot recall all of our adventures together but a couple come to mind. I remember one time retrieving him from the Y Bar in Dean Montana. When I arrived he and Leland Lonzberry were huddled at the bar in deep discussion - deep important philosophical thoughts. Leland was a local character who was known for his stutter although this speech problem never deterred him from speaking his mind and at great length. Just as I arrived at the bar I heard Al ask in a very serious tone, “Leland, just when is it that you stutter the most?” Leland’s reply was classic, “whhhhhhhhhyy youuuu god damnnn fooooooool when I talk!” I thought I was going to die laughing. I got Al out of there before Leland lost his temper. Leland met his end when he was killed by a jealous husband’s pistol shot. I always thought, I guess he just couldn’t talk his way out of that encounter.
Another adventure I recall was related to a local rodeo in Columbus that Al and I attended. Al was the rodeo announcer and I was the designated driver and girl chaser. Dad would let Al take a ranch horse to the Rodeo. He would appear on this beautiful horse, Cherry, during lulls in the arena action and “chat it up” with the attendees. Early on Rodeo day we would load up Cherry in the horse trailer and head to Columbus. Typically, we would arrive home very late that night as we had to celebrate with friends after the rodeo was over. We were having breakfast early one morning after arriving home at about four o’clock in the morning – we hadn’t gone to bed yet. We were really tired and trying to keep awake for chores by drinking huge amounts of coffee – nothing seemed to work. Dad walked into the dining room, looked at us and said, “where’s Cherry, she’s not in the corral? I looked at Al and said, “shit Al, we forgot the horse!” So we dragged ourselves into the pickup and drove the fifty miles back down to Columbus to get Cherry. There she was tied to a fence post waiting patiently for us to come get her. She was saddled and ready to go home, not another soul around. God what a long trip down and back that was. And, we still had chores to do when we got back! We never lived it down because the word got out quickly that we had misplaced a horse. Ranch guests would ask, “How do you forget a 1200 pound horse?” I’d reply, “it’s easy if you get distracted! At least we didn’t forget the horse trailer. It just didn’t happen to have a horse in it!” We never again forgot a horse. Nor, did we ever “live down” the oversight.
One of my greatest regrets in life is that Al and I lost contact after I left for college. It was like the Bobby Goldsboro song, “we’ll get together soon”. I was fortunate enough to purchase one of Al’s paintings just before he died in the late 1990’s. Unfortunately, it was not as large or as reflective of his painting style as I would have liked. But I was able to write him a letter and let him know that I had purchased it in a gallery in Billings and how much it meant to me. He was nice enough to answer my letter and give me a short description of what he was thinking of when he did the painting. I remember his parting words on the letter were, “Well, Skip, hang and rattle”, Al. He died shortly after I received his letter and I was not ever able to tell him how much he meant to me and the impact that he had on my life. He will always occupy a large space in my heart. Not everyone has had a brother-uncle like Al. Al married a lady, I believe, from the Jordan area. He named his son, Skip. I never knew this until after Al died. Al was able to turn his life around and devote more time to his art and to the family he so wanted when he was with us. As I said, my greatest regret in life is that I was unable to spend more time with him once we made contact later in life. You should not allow yourself to lose touch with old friends.
