Ron And Ronnie Chapter 15 Ronnie s Cheating Way
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El Paso – Ronnie Wachuka free porn video
Several authors are coming out with stories based on three songs by Marty Robbins: El Paso, Feleena and El Paso City. The story titles will be: ‘El Paso – author’s name’ e.g. ‘El Paso – JakeRivers’
This is a follow on to our first ‘invitational’ in the fall of 2006 with entries based on the Statler Brother’s song, ‘This Bed of Rose’s.’ If there is continuing support we might make this a regularly semi-annual event. For ‘This Bed of Rose’s’ there were six stories with an average score of 4.83!
Regards, Jake Rivers (Dynamite Jack)
My thanks to my new soul-mate, warmhoney1, who made suggestions when I needed them, found some of my more stupid errors, and listened to me as I outlined the story, without once laughing or shaking her head in disbelief.
– Ronnie W.
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1. Happy Birthday To Me
It was a struggle to try to get my front door open. Naturally, the Labs started barking to warn off any evil-doers or to greet me, I wasn’t sure which.
‘Quiet, Gunner, Quiet Bosun. Sit!’ I hollered, and naturally they obeyed by jumping up and down and barking even louder.
I was finally successful in opening it just enough to allow me to slide sideways through the opening. Mindlessly, I scratched the dogs behind their ears as they sat at my feet wagging their tails, smiling, and panting, while their tongues gave me a 90 knot greeting. Looking at the floor behind the door I found my problem.
‘Damn it all to hell!’ I roared, as I beheld the sight before me.
The floor was littered with what appeared to be dozens of letters and cards laying in a multi-colored hill below the letter slot, blocking the door so that it could be only partially opened before it jammed up tight against the pile of paper.
I wondered how on earth Bosun and Gunner had managed to miss this golden opportunity for mischief, as the mail had been left alone. Seven year old Black Labs are still all puppy in thought word, and deed. They never grow up like other dogs. Ordinarily, I’d have seen two inches of shredded paper littering the hallway floor like a blanket of snow after a winter blizzard.
‘Thank you Lord for mercy received,’ I muttered.
As I bent to pick up the pile of debris, I muttered aloud the thought which flashed through my mind:
‘Damn that mailman. I bet he was busting a gut laughing as he pushed all this garbage through the letter slot. I hope he don’t try to wipe his butt with my Christmas present this year ’cause he’s going to have brown smelly fingers if he does.’
Picking up the final piece of my distress and anger, I strode into the living room, and tossed the pile on the coffee table, figuring I’d take care of it after supper.
Supper and the dishes having been taken care of and the dogs fed and watered, I picked up my wine goblet, and walked into my entertainment/computer room to pick up a trash can.
As always, my attention was drawn to one of the pictures on my desk, a blushing young lady of great beauty and a clearly uncomfortable sailor posing for their wedding photo.
The picture was taken in 1961 when I wed my lovely lady, Jean. We’d been married for over thirty four years when she was taken from me when cancer stilled her beating heart. That was over three years ago. I still missed her and daily mourned her loss.
Shaking my head to snap myself back to reality, I picked up the trash can to take care of the largely unwelcome pile on my coffee table.
With the dogs comfortably ensconced next to my legs in blissful slumber, I tossed post cards and letters into the trash can. It was soon made plain that I’d been set up by an evil-minded friend or friends. The trash can gained weight with invitations to join this dating service or that, or to become a member of this x-rated video club or that. Someone was going to get it in spades when I figured out who or whom were going to receive some serious paybacks.
The remainder of the letters and cards were from friends and relations wishing me well on my sixtieth birthday, with the exception of a large heavy white envelope.
The envelope was addressed to me, Mr. Paul Stone, but the sender was unknown to me. Hefting it, I decided if it wasn’t another joke, I had some serious reading on my hands, so I’d better prepare myself.
Having made a head call (bathroom to normal citizens) and relieved myself, I filled my wine goblet, and sat back down on the sofa to investigate the mysterious envelope.
I couldn’t read the postmark, other then to make out Tx on the cancelation stamp. Coupled with the name in the upper left hand corner, Mrs. Cecilia Gutierrez, I had few clues as to who sent it or where it came from.
2. The Past Revealed?
As I sliced the envelope open, another, smaller, envelope fell out and landed on my lap. Over the flap, in what in my youthful day was called an elegant hand, was this: Please don’t open this envelope until you’ve read my letter.
Obeying her request I set it aside and removed the massive letter from it’s white constraint.
– Dear reader, I won’t try to bore you by reading the letter in its entirety, rather I’ll try to give you the high points, the better to enable you to understand all that followed. –
From Mrs. Gutierrez (Cecelia from here on):
In her letter, Cecilia informed me that she was a resident of El Paso, Texas and had been for her whole life. She was married to her late husband, Robert, in St. Patrick Cathedral and the two of them had raised their five children in St. Patrick until they’d left the nest and he’d passed away.
After his death she’d began volunteer work in the city library system. It was during this volunteer work that she’d developed an interest in her family genealogy.
With the help of the family Bible, which was jealously guarded by her Mother, Christina, she’d been able to trace her family roots back to her Great Great Grandfather, Emilio Mendez, and his Wife, Liliana.
Emilio was a dirt poor farmer in New Mexico Territory in the late 1850’s thru the 1880’s, barely able to feed himself, his wife, and three kids.
After their marriage in 1858, they’d quickly started their family with Feleena, Alicia, and Jesus being born almost exactly a year apart. The children grew up without the benefit of any schooling as there was no school in that desolate part of the world, and their parents could neither read nor write. None of that would have made any difference, as the kids were expected to pull their fair share of the load to help the family survive.
When Feleena turned seventeen she rebelled and took off to God knows where. Alicia also ran away just after she turned seventeen.
Alicia caught the brass ring. She ended up in El Paso and was taken in by a kindly lady as a maid in training. The lady in question was part of the nouveau riche, her husband having made a fortune in cattle and the newly built railroads.
She taught Alicia to read, write, and correctly speak drawing room Spanish and English, along with a large portion of the social graces. The lady even ensured that Alicia adhered to her faith, which culminated in her being baptized in the Catholic Church. Her education enabled her to ‘marry above her station.’
One further blessing occurred, when Alicia was baptized, her mistress gave her a Bible. The Bible had pages to enter the names of family members, their dates of birth, marriage dates, children, etc. She spent many hours neatly entering all the information about her family that she knew.
The Bible was now in the capable hands of Cecelia’s Mother. This proved to be of great value in Cecilia’s future searches for her roots.
Among the progeny of Alicia’s marriage was Gabriela, who also married well and gave birth to several children including Cecilia’s Mother, Christina.
By now the family, while not rich, was rather comfortable, so Chri
stina also married well, and her brood of children included Cecilia.
As a young inquisitive girl, Cecilia used to ask her grandmother about her parents and great grandparents. Gabriela had no information to give about Cecilia’s great great grandparents as contact with them had been lost when her Mother, Alicia, left home. When Feleena’s name was brought up her face got red and her angry tone quickly let Cecilia know that that subject was beyond the pale.
It was at this point that Cecilia dropped the bomb:
One of her tasks at the library was to organize the library archives, especially the various newspapers the library kept for historical purposes. While making sure they were properly cataloged and stored she noticed the headlines on one paper. It was the El Paso Times and dated Tuesday June 20, 1882:
The headline read, ‘Marshal and posse catch up with killer.’
The article went on to explain that the posse had trailed one, Paul Stone, a local unemployed cowhand, in his early twenties, into New Mexico Territory. He’d fled there after shooting another local cow hand, James V. Blaine, to death during an altercation at Rosa’s Cantina on Saturday 17 June, 1882.
Following Paul Stone’s death, a young woman, Feleena Mendez, a twenty three year old woman of ill-repute, and a dancer and bar girl, at Rosa’s Cantina took the slain cowboy’s gun, pressed it to her breast, and took her life. Mr. James Metzger, Justice of the Peace and Town Coroner, ruled the deaths as justified in the case of Paul Stone, and suicide in the case of Feleena Mendez.
Cecilia concluded her missive with these cheery thoughts:
‘From the similarities of names and other facts, and because of the rarity of her first name, her age, the fact of her maiden name, and the dates, I believe she could well be my great aunt.
For similar reasons I also believe you may well be related to the Paul Stone in the article. The theories remain just theories that are yet to be proven. Do you have any information to prove or disprove either of these theories?’
Either way you may contact me at . . . and she gave me her email address.
Her last words were to ask me to open the enclosed envelope and read its contents, if I wished to do so.
By this time my head was reeling and my thoughts totally jumbled.
Was I being set up to be the butt of someone’s joke? If so who, how, and why?
My next thoughts were even more gloomy, was this an elaborate hoax? If it was, once again, who, how, and why? Could this be a plan to separate me from some of my well earned shekels?
But what if it were true?
I slowly lifted the smaller envelope, opened it and removed its contents.
Inside were two copies of newspaper articles from the El Paso Times and dated Monday 19 June, 1882 and Tuesday 20 June respectively. The first one dealt with the fracas at Rosa’s Cantina on the previous Saturday and told of the argument between Paul Stone and James V. Blaine, and Mr. Blaine’s death at the hands of Paul Stone as a result of bullet wounds inflicted by that scurrilous villain.
The second article dealt with Paul Stone’s well deserved death at the hands of a posse headed by the brave Marshal and local hero, James B. Gillette. It also told of the death by her own hand of that round heeled lady of the night, Feleena Mendez, who worked at Rosa’s as a dancer and bar girl.
Something had been niggling at my mind as I read Cecelia’s letter and the newspaper articles when the flash bulb went off in my head.
In the late 1950’s Marty Robbins had written and sang a song, El Paso. I’d heard that song played on every juke box in every bar on East Main (to you old salts, Easy Main) Street in No-Fuck, Virginia for months. I also faintly remember that later he’d written and sang a song about Feleena. I also vaguely remember another song titled El Paso City.
Could El Paso and Feleena have been written about true events, and if so how did he know enough about them to write the songs?
I clearly needed to think further on the matters now called to my attention, but my wine goblet was empty, and I needed more brain food.
Rising slowly so as not to disturb the pups, I headed to the corner hutch in the living room that served as my bar, poured myself a stiff brandy, picked up the decanter, and resumed my seat. My attempts to not disturb the boys went for nought as they grumbled at being disturbed, wrapped themselves even tighter around my legs and feet, and drifted back to sleep.
Lighting my pipe and taking a sip of my favorite adult beverage, I contemplated all that had been placed on my plate this evening.
The first question that suddenly popped into my mind was how had Cecilia found me? How did she even know who I was and where I lived? Questions I needed answers to before I went further into the matter, if I did choose to pursue it.
After my second brandy I gave up in disgust. There was too much information and too much that was speculation to be able to formulate anything approaching a plan or make a decision.
After the dogs came in from their evening romp, I closed the house down, and headed for bed with two tired and sleepy dogs following closely behind.
That night, as was usual, I went to sleep with one Black Lab on each side of me, with me feeling like the white center of an Oreo cookie.
My dreams constantly switched back and forth from Marty’s songs, to Cecelia’s letter, and yet in the background I swore that I heard Jean’s voice reassuring me by telling me in a soft whisper, to trust Cecelia and all would be well.
3. Investigation and Decision
It had been my and my late wife’s habit to sleep in when we were able to. This morning was no exception as I woke up at 10:00 when the morning sun shining through the bedroom window finally roused me from my fitful sleep.
I staggered through my shower, dressed, and headed to the kitchen to feed myself and the dogs. While the sausage was frying in the skillet, I tried to formulate a schedule for the day but the dog’s antics distracted me.
They had to be fed well away from each other or a fight would ensue. Even with them completely across the kitchen from each other they ate facing each other, growling and snarling between bites. Once finished they headed for the water bowl and slurped up their fill side by side with no animosity whatsoever. Weird!
As I sat down to eat my usual Saturday morning fare of sausage, eggs, and toast, the dogs took their accustomed positions, sitting on either side of me, waiting for their share. I’d slip them each a nibble of sausage or toast once in awhile. When I’d eaten my fill I slid the chair back and held the plate between my knees. Gunner and Bosun began licking the plate clean with no growling, nor even a hint of it. Their tongues worked that plate over until it was almost as clean as if it’d come out of a dishwasher. I never could figure out how they did it without biting their mate’s tongue in the process. Weirder still!
With the dishes drying in the drainer, I headed to the entertainment room. A search of my records and tapes turned up copies of El Paso, but no Feleena or El Paso City. The first order of business was decided.
I loaded the boys in the van and headed to the mall to Tower Records. They were most helpful and I soon had a tape of Feleena and El Paso City but I wanted the sheet music too, which they didn’t have. At their suggestion I headed to a large music store which specialized in selling musical instruments and, as I was to find out, walls filled with racks of sheet music. After a lengthy search I found the words and music to all three songs.
Arriving home, I set the music on the coffee table, as I had more to do while it was still light. I climbed the stairs up to the attic and headed to my Dad’s old trunk.
That trunk had come into my possession following his death almost ten years ago.
The trunk co
ntained the usual things one packs up to store away, dreams, hopes, and failures, all tied up in blue ribbons.
I did pull out several photo albums and several stacks of letters written by him to Mother, and she to him when he served in the Navy during WWII. He’d been drafted at the beginning of the war and left Mother and me on Grampaw’s farm in Texas while he went off to serve his country. He’d been stationed on destroyers in the Pacific for most of the war.
After the war he’d been offered a good job in San Diego, a town he’d found to his liking. Gathering Mother and me up, he’d moved us to La Mesa (just outside San Diego) and we began to settle into our new life.
I started to gather up the items I wanted to study when a paper wrapped package caught my eye. I removed the ribbon and opened it. To my surprise I found myself staring at my school report cards. Lord! Of all the things to keep, evidence of my follies, trials, and tribulations. Why would Dad keep my record of crime and failure for all to see?
Thinking about it I decided that it wasn’t Dad who did the deed, it would have been Mother, ’cause if we’d had children, Jean would have acted the same way.
Closing the trunk up I headed down the stairs with my trove. In the living room the coffee table once again received a burden to be gone over later.
Following supper, I settled myself with my brandy and pipe, and put on the tapes of what I now called ‘The Three Songs.’ to listen to them.
The problem was that my mind was distracted by those damn report cards. Not the cards themselves, but rather what came after. When I graduated from La Mesa High School in 1956, the country was suffering what would now be called a mini recession, what the Republicans at the time called an economic re-adjustment, and the Democrats screamed was the worst depression in the history of mankind.
Regardless of the truth of the matter, jobs were scarce, so I joined the Navy. Through good times and bad I spent the next twenty four years in the service of my country.
After my transfer to the Fleet Reserve (unlike the other services, sailors can’t retire until they have thirty years of service. They are instead, transferred to the Fleet Reserve until they have thirty years of service, and during that period are always subject to recall to active duty).
I know many shipmates who were in the Fleet Reserve after twenty plus years and recalled to active duty during the ‘Nam War, some more then once.
After I left the Navy a great job offer in Washington State brought us up to paradise. We never regretted that decision.
Not being able to concentrate my thoughts, I decided to query Cecelia with a few questions that were laying heavily on my mind.
4. The quest?
Seated before my trusty old Mac I emailed her to ask the questions preying on my mind:
Before I can agree to help you I need some answers.
1) Besides your Great Aunt’s family Bible how were you able to track Feleena?
2) How were you able to place Paul Stone as a part of my family?
3) I am not the last of the Stone family, so why me?
I couldn’t think of any more questions that needed an immediate answer, so I pressed send, shut the computer down, performed my nightly chores, and headed to bed.
The next day I spent a large part of it going through the photos. A large part of them were taken during the days of my youth. I don’t remember much about the early years while we lived on the homestead.
I do remember Grampaw. After we moved to San Diego we would come back to the farm on vacation each year. The pictures showed him to be a man about my size and build. Even though most of the earlier pictures were black and white, you could see the permanent tan he had from working in the hot Texas sun. Even Grammaw had that deep tan on her hands and face.
When Grampaw died, Dad’s older brother, CW, took over the farm. He and Dad looked much alike and were sometimes mistaken for twins. CW was killed in a car accident in 1977 and his Son, LT, took over and was still running the farm.
When we were on vacation at the farm in my younger days, LT and I seemed to find ourselves in some kind of deviltry most of the time. Nothing serious, but bad enough for CW or my Dad to whup our butts. Didn’t make any difference which father caught us, that was the one that whupped us.
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