The Shore That Kept Them

 

An old cowboy does not need a bureau to tell him the country was built by different kinds of people. He can read it in the trail itself.

America’s strength was never a stack of forms. It was a shore that kept whoever could stand the work. English anchors off the Cape. An Irishman and a Welsh maid on Cape Cod. A Boyd line out of Scotland into Pennsylvania. Palatines who had already buried their dead on the crossing. Dutch farmers out of New Amsterdam. Quakers looking for a quiet lot in Penn’s woods. A Spaniard who paddled for the trade. A Portuguese sailor who signed the contract under a French spelling and stayed. They did not arrive as a category. They arrived as households, with a trade, a faith, a debt, or a hunger for ground of their own. The mix was the point. One man knew the forge, another the pulpit, another the canoe. The country got all three, and the children of all three learned to answer to the same flag.

That is the diversity worth keeping: people judged by what they carried and what they built, not by a quota nailed to the bunkhouse door. The melting pot was hot, and it was not fair in the way a ledger is fair. Some trails ended at a gallows, an ambush, or a winter hire. The ones that held produced a nation no single parish in Europe could have made alone.

The posts below are that argument with the names left on them.

As American as French Apple Pie
https://a-drifting-cowboy.blogspot.com/2020/11/as-american-as-french-apple-pie.html

Gaelic Love on Cape Cod: David, the Irishman, and Jane, the Welsh Maid
https://a-drifting-cowboy.blogspot.com/2016/10/gaelic-love-on-cape-cod-david-irishman.html

Scottish Bishop to Colonial Patriots and a Frontier Blacksmith: Our Boyd Lineage
https://a-drifting-cowboy.blogspot.com/2026/04/scottish-bishop-to-colonial-patriots.html

From Mayflower Anchors To Our Epic American Tapestry
https://a-drifting-cowboy.blogspot.com/2026/07/from-mayflower-anchors-to-our-epic.html

1710 Palatine Migration: Harrowing saga of early American history
https://a-drifting-cowboy.blogspot.com/2026/06/1710-palatine-migration-harrowing-saga.html

From the Wallabout to the Jersey Hills: The Long Trail of Peter Monfoort
https://a-drifting-cowboy.blogspot.com/2026/06/from-wallabout-to-jersey-hills-long.html

Seeking Quietness in Penn's Woods
https://a-drifting-cowboy.blogspot.com/2026/07/seeking-quietness-in-penns-woods.html

BOOK I: Pelts of Empire
https://a-drifting-cowboy.blogspot.com/2026/09/book-i-pelts-of-empire.html

They Came Seeking Spiritual Liberty, Peace, and Self-Determination
https://a-drifting-cowboy.blogspot.com/2026/07/they-came-seeking-spiritual-liberty.html

From New Amsterdam to the Upstate Frontier: The Kolfs, Losee, and Weeks Legacy
https://a-drifting-cowboy.blogspot.com/2026/09/from-new-amsterdam-to-upstate-frontier.html

The Forge and the Pulpit: The Armed Defiance of Westerly
https://a-drifting-cowboy.blogspot.com/2026/06/the-forge-and-pulpit-armed-defiance-of.html

Our Plimpton family and the geographic expansion of early America
https://a-drifting-cowboy.blogspot.com/2026/05/our-plimpton-family-and-geographic.html

Voices from Hartford's Gallows Hill: Justice for Mary Barnes
https://a-drifting-cowboy.blogspot.com/2026/07/voices-from-hartfords-gallows-hill.html

The Martyrs of Montreal: The 1657 Ambush and the "Talking Head"
https://laprairie-voyageur-canoes.blogspot.com/2025/12/the-martyrs-of-montreal-1657-ambush-and.html

André Robidou dit L’Espagnol — Voyageur from Spain
https://laprairie-voyageur-canoes.blogspot.com/2019/10/andre-robidou-dit-lespagnol-voyageur.html

Our Miville Family's Role in Early New France
https://laprairie-voyageur-canoes.blogspot.com/2025/12/our-miville-familys-role-in-early-new.html

The Contract and the River
https://laprairie-voyageur-canoes.blogspot.com/2026/10/the-contract-and-river.html

Different ports. Same bargain. Show up, take the work, and the country keeps the name.

Cowboy Wisdom: The Most Dangerous Horse in the World

 

Years ago I wrote about my pard Roger Miller and the time Canadian whiskey met a certain paint mare. Roger knew I hadn’t been around horses much for a long stretch, so he appointed himself mentor. At first his steady stream of advice rankled. I’d grown up with horses; I just needed time to settle back into the rhythm. Then it dawned on me: I was lucky. A real working cowboy was handing me the kind of hard-earned knowledge you can’t buy.

Roger had spent his early twenties on the Vail and Vickers Ranch—Cowboy Island—on Santa Rosa Island off Santa Barbara. He carried fond memories of those years and the old California vaqueros who’d shown him the ropes. Their lessons stuck.

One of the first practical ones arrived right after we’d strung barbed wire around the new pasture. Roger explained that manure wasn’t a problem if you broke up the clumps and spread them. A good kick or two from a size-11 cowboy boot did the job just fine. I knew exactly whose boots would be doing the kicking. I took to the chore with all the grace and aplomb a man can muster while dodging horse apples.

Around that same time the paint mare was starting to accept me, and I was probably giving her a little too much attention. Out of the blue Roger said, “The most dangerous horse in the world is someone’s pet.

”It sounded like throwaway wisdom. I filed it away anyway.

Years later the circle closed. I had Cash, my “bomb-proof” gelding, and Kasidy, my alpha mare. I understood completely why Cash feared her. I never wanted to feel the full force of one of her kicks either. I learned to keep one eye on the mare and give the geldings plenty of get-away room.

But daily life with horses makes you casual. You drop your guard when you’re busy. One hot afternoon I was picking manure in the loafing shed. Cash was trying to sidle into the shade beside Kasidy. Suddenly he bolted. In less than a tenth of a second his front hoof pinned my shoe to the ground, then he slammed me into the fence as he thundered past.

From somewhere above, Roger’s voice floated down: The most dangerous horse in the world is someone’s pet.

I walked away with bruises and no broken bones. The bigger problem is that Cash still believes if he runs to me I’ll protect him. He’s bumped into me more than once while escaping the mare. I just hope the most dangerous horse in the world doesn’t eventually finish the job.

Could it be my old mentor is now my guardian angel? Quien sabe.

Afterword

Roger crossed the Great Divide in the fall of 1998. That same year Cowboy Island died too—the last cows shipped to the mainland, the cowboys let go. The National Park Service took over. Some lessons, though, refuse to stay buried.

Thank you Grok xAI for your wisdom and fixin' my spellin' etc. -- Drifting Cowboy

Kasidy May and Me -- A Poem of Cowboy Mounted Shooting

 

Kasidy May and Me

A Poem of Cowboy Mounted Shooting

In the nineteen-fifties, when I was still a small boy,

My heroes rode tall across the silver screen’s joy—

Hopalong Cassidy with his black hat and grit,

Gene Autry’s clear voice and Roy Rogers’ quick wit.

They taught me that courage and honor could ride

Through dust and through danger, with justice as guide.

But time has a way of turning the page,

And at sixty-five I stood at a different stage.

The boy in me stirred when I searched for a mount,

Not some gentle trail horse of ordinary account,

But a partner with fire, with heart, and with pride—

A clever grey mare who would not be denied.

Her name is Kasidy May, four years in her prime,

A beauty of silver with markings of time.

She’s no living toy for a casual hand;

She’s power and grace, answering every demand.

With “power steering” soft and “overdrive” strong,

She slides to a stop as if hearing a song.

Together we found a new sport to pursue,

Cowboy Mounted Shooting—bold, fast, and true.

We race through the pattern of barrels and poles,

While single-action .45s speak from our souls.

Blank cartridges flash and the balloons burst bright,

As Kasidy May thunders with all of her might.

Around the first barrel she glides like the wind,

Her body collected, her balance refined.

I lift the revolver, the hammer falls clean,

A bloom of white smoke where the target has been.

Another balloon, then another in turn,

While her flying lead changes are smooth and well-earned.

A light tap of spur and a rein on her neck

Bring collection and focus, without any check

Of the spirit that carries us both through the course.

A soft signal slows her; she answers with force

When I ask for more speed on the final long run—

Two partners as one underneath the same sun.

She grows a bit wiser with each ride we share,

Learning the patterns, the timing, the care.

The arena grows quiet, the bleachers look on,

As gunsmoke and hoofbeats write stories of dawn.

After the rundown we ease to a walk,

And share a deep breath that needs no more talk.

In this dusty arena the years fall away;

The boy who once watched is the man who can play.

No longer a dream on a flickering screen,

But living and breathing in leather and sheen.

Kasidy May carries the heart of that lad

Who once cheered the heroes in black-and-white glad.

So here at this age I still ride for the thrill—

The pop of the balloon, the rush of the skill,

The bond with a mare who is honest and keen,

The proof that adventure need never grow lean.

While playing the cowboy, old age is set free,

And Kasidy May gallops the best part of me.

© Jerry England 2008

Kasidy May crossed the Great Divide in 2025, and that leaves a big empty space where a fine grey mare once stood. Everything I wrote about her—the power steering, the sliding stops, the flying lead changes, the way she made an old cowboy feel young again—she was clearly one of the special ones. Partners like that don’t come along often, and they leave hoofprints on the heart that never quite fade. She carried me through the patterns, the gunsmoke, and the joy of the sport. That kind of partnership lives on in the stories, the poems, and the quiet moments when I still feel her beneath me. 

Rest easy, Kasidy May.
You were a good one.

(expanded and refined just for fun... a poem I started in my youth (age 65) back in 2008. Grok helped me finish it today, 2026)

The Skipper of Point Prim: Findlay MacDonald and the Selkirk Settlers

 

Every family tree has its quiet giants—men and women whose grit laid the groundwork for everything that came after. On our MacDonald branch, Findlay MacDonald (1750–1844) stands as a towering figure who bridged two worlds, taking the maritime heritage of the Scottish Western Isles and turning it into a thriving coastal life on the red shores of Prince Edward Island.

From the Ashes of the 78th Highlanders

Born in 1750 in Inverness-shire, Findlay came into the world during one of the darkest chapters in Highland history. His father, Captain Donald MacDonald, was a proud officer in Fraser’s Highlanders (78th Regiment of Foot)—a regiment of former Jacobites who fought for the Crown in the Seven Years' War. When Captain Donald fell in North America in 1757, young Findlay was raised in an era when the ancient Gaelic clan system was being dismantled by high rents and landlord clearances.

Rather than bending to circumstance, Findlay turned to the water. Learning the tides and winds of the western firths, he became a skilled coastal boatman, buying his own vessel to transport goods, timber, and cattle along the rugged Scottish coast.

                   THE MACDONALD-TO-MCNEIL LINE

                   

                 Capt. Donald MacDonald (1720–1757)

                   [Fraser's Highlanders, 78th Foot]

                                │

                    FINDLAY MACDONALD (1750–1844)

                  [The Boatman of Point Prim, PEI]

                                │

                    Mary MacDonald (1769–1845)

                  [m. Donald Bell in Argyll, Scot.]

                                │

                      Mary Bell (1791–1878)

               [m. Duncan McNeill; Pioneer in Bruce, ON]

                                │

                     Duncan McNeill 1821–1882

                                │

                   Allan McNeil (1865–1927)

                                │

                 Annie Margaret McNeil (1892–1964)

                     [Paternal Grandmother]

Sailing on the Dykes (1803)

By 1803, the urge for permanent independence led Findlay, his wife Mary "Jessie" MacKinnon, and their children to join Thomas Douglas, the 5th Earl of Selkirk, in his grand vision to settle displaced Highlanders in British North America.

In August 1803, the family boarded the Dykes—the second of Lord Selkirk’s three famed ships—bound for St. John's Island (Prince Edward Island). While many emigrants were strictly farmers bewildered by the Atlantic crossing, Findlay was right at home among the ropes and timber.

When the Dykes dropped anchor off the Orwell Bay peninsula, the settlers looked out at a dense wilderness of pine, spruce, and striking red soil. They named their new home Point Prim.

The Skipper of Orwell Bay

Land was surveyed, trees were felled, and homesteads were built, but the early Selkirk colony faced a critical problem: there were no roads through the thick forest to Charlottetown or Belfast.

This is where Findlay’s expertise came into its own.

Drawings upon his years as a Scottish boatman, Findlay acquired and fitted out a sturdy coastal boat—a heavy, timber-rigged trading vessel capable of navigating the shallow, tide-ripped waters around Point Prim. For years, "Findlay the Boatman" served as a vital lifeline for the peninsula, hauling:

• Timber and Shingles cleared from the pioneer farms.
• Barrels of Salted Fish & Produce bound for markets in Charlottetown.
• Essential Supplies, Tools, and Mail brought back to the isolated families of Point Prim.

While others cleared the forest with axes, Findlay worked the oars and sails, keeping the colony connected to the broader world.

A Century of Change

Findlay lived at Point Prim for over forty years, passing away around 1844 at the age of 94. During his nearly century-long life, he saw Point Prim transform from a quiet landing site into a prosperous agricultural and fishing community—crowned in 1845 by the construction of the iconic, round brick Point Prim Lighthouse, built on the very headland where he had landed decades earlier.

Through his daughter Mary MacDonald, his granddaughter Mary Bell, and down through the McNeils of Bruce County, Ontario, Findlay’s lineage carried that same resilient, water-faring spirit all the way into our modern family history.

Biographical Notes on Findlay MacDonald (1750–1844) & His Descendants

1. Findlay MacDonald (1750–1844) — 5th Great-Grandfather

• Highland Origins & Military Heritage: Born in Inverness-shire, Findlay was the son of Captain Donald MacDonald, a officer in Fraser’s Highlanders (78th Foot) who died in North America in 1757, and Flora MacCuish. Orphaned of his father at a young age, Findlay was raised in the shadow of the post-Culloden Highland Clearances.
• The Coastal Trader & Boat Owner: According to local Lord Selkirk settlement traditions and Maritime histories, Findlay was not merely a subsistence farmer; he was a skilled mariner. In Scotland, he operated coastal craft along the western firths and lochs, carrying livestock and trade goods.
• The Dykes Voyage (1803): In August 1803, Findlay, his wife Mary "Jessie" MacKinnon, and their family boarded the Dykes—the second of Lord Selkirk’s famous three ships carrying Highland emigrants to St. John's Island (Prince Edward Island).
• Maritime Pioneer at Point Prim: Settling at Point Prim along Orwell Bay, Findlay put his nautical experience to work. He built and operated a small coastal vessel (often referred to in island lore as a schooner or heavy trading boat). He hauled timber, agricultural produce, and salt fish between Point Prim, Belfast, and Charlottetown, serving as an indispensable lifeline for the early Selkirk colony long before roads connected the peninsula.
• Patriarchal Longevity: Findlay lived to the extraordinary age of 94, dying around 1844. His long life spanned the fall of the Clan system, the Napoleonic Wars, the War of 1812, and PEI’s growth into a thriving maritime province.

2. Mary MacDonald (c. 1769–1845) — 4th Great-Grandmother

• The Scottish Bridge: Born in Scotland to Findlay and Jessie, Mary spent her early life in Argyll (Kilcalmonell and Kilberry).
• Marriage to Donald Bell: She married Donald Bell (1764–1791). Following Donald's early death, Mary maintained the family's ties between the Scottish mainland and the emigrating branches of the family, passing down the MacDonald and Bell heritage to her daughter, Mary Bell.

3. Mary Bell (1791–1878) — 3rd Great-Grandmother

• Highland Roots to Canadian Frontier: Born in Kilcalmonell and Kilberry, Argyll, Mary married Duncan McNeill (1786–1841).
• The Migration to Bruce County, Ontario: After Duncan’s death, Mary joined the great westward migration of Scottish families from Argyll and the Maritimes into the newly opened Huron District of Ontario. She settled in Paisley, Elderslie Township, Bruce County, where she lived to age 86, surrounded by children and grandchildren who cleared the dense Ontario timberlands.

Thank you Gemini SI for your wisdom and research assistance. -- Drifting Cowboy