Years ago, when extended family members were asked to write something of their backgrounds, I was also invited. The following is an excerpt of what I wrote then.
We drove to Wyoming from the East to be part of a family reunion of the Moores. It was the first of a number of such times. I’d never been there, or seen any of these people that I was just learning I was related to. I was suddenly becoming aware of what it was to be a Moore, a unique heritage, and that rooted in a unique land. For me Wyoming has held special qualities ever since.
But these Moores, they were like giants in the land, big sequoias with broad smiles and ready laughs. And there were so many of them, relating together in every room of that house that Grandpa built in Rawlins before I was imagined. That day they didn’t even see little me or realize that I hardly knew where I was.
Finally I learned to know them all, but I remember one in particular, Sterling, my dad’s younger brother by two years. I was awed. I had a younger brother by two years but he wasn’t like this. To me he seemed, along with Dad, to represent the qualities of all Wyomingans in general, that being a special breed, if nothing else, by association with this uncommon place.
Wyomingans. Aren’t they always tall? And limber? And aren’t they always rugged but gentile (until cornered)?
Dad and Mom, before they had those identities, in Wyoming, still kids, years before they had any.
Aren’t they always jovial? And able? And strong?
And don’t they always have the weather and the elements etched in their faces?
Didn’t they all ride to school on a buckboard, if they had a school to go to, and if they didn’t, weren’t they smart enough figure out what they needed to know anyway?
Don’t they always have collections of found arrowheads and stories of rattlesnakes and shooting jackrabbits as big as small horses with a .22?
And don’t they all have that far away Wyoming sage-scape in their eyes?
Don’t they all have 49 brothers and two sisters who are just as brave?
And aren’t they all as hearty as their parents who raised them and were among the heartiest of souls who ever conducted a train across the reaches of the west or raised a family on nothing but grit and love and no choice but to do it?
This was Wyoming. And this was Moore. Since that day when I looked up and shook the giant Sterling’s hand, whenever I’m asked to give the place of my birth I tell them sort of quiet-like, “Pennsylvania.” But I hurry to add I just lived there ten days and that my parents were really from Wyoming!
With that I expect some respect.
——-
PS Incredibly I just came across a poem about Wyoming entitled Gertrude of Wyoming, a Pennsylvanian Tale. Click it and see.
PPS Also incredibly, I just came across the two following photos.
Allison (3) and her dad (me), in California, 1974.
Allison (4) in her dad’s gear, in Guatemala, 1975.
Our Lives Together
Its About Life
9:13 am
Working hard on my upcoming Springtime at the Cottage Boutique, I have not had the luxury of sitting & reading all about your dad………because I want to savor every word. Memories are so important to me, as you know, and I don’t want to miss out of your sharing about this important amazing man…..your dad…….and there is such healing, laughter, tears and smiles as we remember special times!!!!…..and funny things….and tender moments, etc…..
Hope to catch up on all your writings soon.
9:29 am
And I think, “I’m a Californian …” Wyoming takes on a whole new flavor after your read, Hyatt. Uncle Sterling must have been quite a guy. I camped and hitchhiked all over the Northwest in the early 70’s, and wish I’d gotten as far as WY. Yellowstone as a young lad with my family in an overheated ’60 Bel-Air station wagon is all I remember. The Moore boys must have been a hoot!
9:30 am
Thanks so much for sharing all these stories. I feel richer for them.
9:56 am
in the middle of a big move, but enjoying a snippet of your family history here and there…Thanks for sharing your wonderful heritage. It all boils down to Christ in us…Love it. Blessings, love Candy
7:35 am
Great read Hyatt!
Your Wyoming stories evoke strong memories of my own Uncles. I know them all now as an adult and love them all the more: but as a child they were bigger than life.
Their booming laughter and ready hugs, the smell of wood smoke, coffee, old spice and cigarettes all muddled together in some oddly comforting mix. They were big as the whole Northwest with tales of fishing boats and logging trucks and old Harry Truman (who lived up on Mt. St. Helen’s before she blew). Regaling my gaggle of cousins and I with stories of my dad jumping off the roof of the house with bed springs tied to his feet- all the older brothers egging him on (he did bounce, just not quite the way he expected- he lived to tell the tale).
Thanks for sharing your memories of Wyoming and your uncles. The magic of story telling — how another’s memories can call back your own.
Stephanie
9:02 am
Great comment, Stephanie, especially coming from one with whom I am somewhat related, being the granddaughter of my grandfather’s second wife after my grandmother died. Such heritage we share!
1:07 pm
O my! Our Mark was born in Laramie (we’ve always called him the Wyoming Kid) while we pastored in Riverton WY……such accurate “child concepts” of true Wyomingans. AND…our very dear almost-favorite & beautiful lady in our church was named Gertrude!
Hyatt…you are a gem and thank you for being so “Wyoming-ish.”