WIT STOP

Boot Hill's Gravestone Versifications Spur Our Author to Bury His Vexations in Verse

In American folklore, “Boot Hill” has become a generic term a place where cowboys go when their earthly days are ended. The winner of a gun battle in any old Western town goes back into the saloon to reclaim his seat at the poker table; the loser goes to Boot Hill.

But Boot Hill is an actual graveyard on State Route 80 just outside Tombstone. It has been since 1878. The nonsurvivors of the famous O.Κ. Corral gunfight are buried there. More than 250 souls rest peacefully in Boot Hill, apparently not bothered at all by the 400,000 or so tourists who visit the cemetery each year.

Some of the departed were legendary outlaws of the Old West; most were ordinary citizens who led quiet, uneventful lives. A few, though, became straight lines for a whimsical epitaph writer who must have enjoyed his work in the Tombstone area.

A gentleman by the name of Lester Moore was a Wells Fargo agent who got in an argument with someone over a package that was scheduled to be delivered. It ended in a shoot-out fatal to both of them. Lester's tombstone in Boot Hill reads: Here lies Lester Moore, four slugs from a .44. No Les, no more.

Poor George Johnson was falsely accused of horse theft and hanged. His marker is inscribed: Here lies George Johnson, hanged by mistake, 1882. He was right, we was wrong, but we strung him up, and now he's gone.

It's kind of sad when your untimely demise becomes fodder for some wag's wit, but it's probably great fun for the wag. In fact, I would thoroughly enjoy writing a terminal punch line for some of the annoyances I would like to see gone from my own life, symbolically interred in a place like Boot Hill. The telephone is a wonderful convenience, but it also can be a nuisance at times. I wouldn't mind writing this on its tombstone: Here lies an irksome peeve of mine, whose loss I don't bemoan. When the telephone rings, I pick it up and hear a click and a dial tone.

Or even this one: Beneath this stone lies a telephone. Its bell will never more ring. Folks called too often, I feel, in the middle of my meal to sell me some silly old thing. Most of us start each day with irritation we're awakened from a restful sleep. That's a terrible way to begin a day. We'd probably all like to write this inscription: Here rests my old alarm clock, gone and gladly forgotten. Its job, for Pete's sake was to jar me awake, and I think that was rotten. Here's another annoyance that is pretty much universal. See if you wouldn't agree to this inscription: My washing machine has passed from the scene, and I wish it a terrible pox. Though it washed and it dried till the day that it died, it always kept one of my sox.

Commuting to work each morning is rarely fun, but for me, one traffic signal made it more exasperating. When I saw workmen tearing down that light one morning, I was happy to write the following: This traffic light passed away in the night. With me that's perfectly fine. I'm glad it's dead 'cause it always turned red just when I reached the front of the line.

There's another contraption I'd like to send to my mythical Boot Hill with these words carved in the stone: This vending machine will never more vend. Its useful days have come to an end. I'd insert my coins, my fee was paid up. It poured forth coffee and cream, but withheld the cup.

Maybe all of us can learn a useful lesson from the quipster who provided the whimsical epitaphs to the unfortunates who claimed a plot on Boot Hill. In keeping with the rest of this article, let me couch this lesson in a poetic way: When troubles befall you, vexations come your way, just put them to sleep, let a joke bury them deep, and enjoy the rest of your day.