For Whom the Bell Tolls. . . .

Sunday morning was quiet. I pruned some dead branches from The Old Man copse and had to shift a 100-year-old horse bell hanging along its perimeter in the process. I was wondering why I was so attracted to this rusty old bell when I purchased it from a curiosity shop for over $50.00. I mean it’s no bigger than my fist. It wasn’t created from molten metal in some pretty mold. There are no manufacturer marks that give it some sanctified or valuable provenance. This was utilitarian, created by impacted brute force. It must have hung around the neck of some large animal that thanklessly tilled the local fields before I was born.

And I knew in that moment, when I lifted it from the back of a shelf tucked away in one of the cubbies that I had to have it.

Standing alone in the large, converted barn that is now a curiosity shop in Berthoud known as The Rancher’s Wife,

THE RANCHER’S WIFE – Updated October 2025 – 20 Photos – 603 3rd st, Berthoud, Colorado – Antiques – Yelp

there was something about its energy that made me want to resurrect it through conscription to The Old Man chime choir at Casa Claire.

I certainly could appreciate that it was handmade – you can see it in the minute scars in the oxidized surface and folds and overlapping seams that were forged together by one of the original ball-peen hammers on an anvil. Its clapper is literally just a poorly clipped metal cylinder like an old nail. It’s not aesthetically pleasing to look at, and the sound is a muted clang. It almost sounds like a clicking of a tongue though an open mouth.

But I appreciated its imperfections like I appreciate my own, and, since its arrival, have loved listening to its contributions to the wind fueled crescendos while laying with the Beagle Brothers beneath The Old Man’s canopy.

I heard it catching a slight breeze from its new perch while I was out there this morning, grounding and hugging The Old Man in the dark. Other than the faint overhead starlit canopy, the front property was pitch, so my other senses, including hearing, were heightened. While I neutralized those free radicals (hint, hint) through electron exchanges with Mother Gaia, I focused on the faint sound of the bell.

Surprisingly, the other chimes allowed this cast-off bell its nocturnal solo.

Then it hit me. I was instantly transported over a half a century, and my single digit self was hiding with some friends, crouching curbside among 1950s and 60s model cars parked in front of my childhood home, the same cars I later borrowed to learn how to drive, along the first level stretch of Mosholu Avenue. An area referred to as the “top-of-the-hill.”

A string of identical hand-made bells with the same muted tones hung on a cord along the front of the wagon of the Junkie character that appears in the early chapters of The Wise Ass.

And there was that old beautiful mule leading the large wooden cart up the hill towards our hiding place, each powerful step set those bells ringing.

My young eyes and ears were focused on that string of bells. I could hear the Junkies loving guttural exchanges with his mule.

Then the same bell chime brought me right back to my barefoot spot hugging The Old Man.

What a blast.

The old barn bell reminded me how much I love story telling.

Its timing could not be better.

But first I need to wrap up the last nine CLE courses I will ever engage.

Nine hours of Catholic purgatory I will never get back.

But I look forward to that next couple of days of running start research before I launch writing the next novel on my high holy day.

It’s kind of fitting that Monday volunteered to take the final hit of my last legal exercises. Last man standing. Monday, I owe you.

So, my fine, five readers, let’s get at it. You finish those cuppas and head off into the rat race to earn your keep. Despite my magic, these CLE videos are not going to play themselves, so I better hit click.

And no matter what else we get up to, let us make today a great one.