I’m not gonna say that when the Good Lord made Jerry Rich, He broke the mold. But I will say that I don’t think He used it very often after that.

So far as I know, Jerry’s passing didn’t create any great ripples through the political or business communities of south central Kansas. I can’t recall any time that he served in public office or ran a large business. About all he did was work, raise a family, and live in the Arkansas City area for over eighty years.

Although he was born in Missouri, he moved to the Land Rush territory while still very young; he had no memories of living elsewhere. He worked at the meat packing plant until it closed and then went to work for himself. For decades, he was a farrier—a person who takes care of horses’ feet, trimming and treating, fitting and attaching shoes. He raised his kids around and on horses, encouraging them to ride and rodeo. And occasionally, boarded horses for other people.

That’s how my wife Randa and I came to know him and Norma, his wife for sixty-three years. And that, in turn, came from my knowing their daughter Sally.

Sally and I both worked at Cowley College. Randa and I were living in Ark City and boarding her Rocky Mountain Horse over by Winfield Lake. We had him lodged at a nice place with really great people but a fifty mile daily round trip definitely had its downside.

Sally heard me griping and moaning about Randa’s commute one day at work. “My dad might be willing to board your horse for you,” she offered.

“Where’s your dad’s place?” I asked.

When I found out it was less than four miles from where we lived, my interest level definitely peaked the meter. A ten minute round trip definitely sounded better than a one-hour-plus!

I got Jerry’s phone number and Randa gave him a call and set up a time for us to go talk with him. It was sort of a mutual screening process. We wanted to be sure that Chance wouldn’t be likely to get himself cut up, torn up, or otherwise afflicted by random objects around the pens. Jerry wanted to be sure we weren’t too flighty or fickle or likely to abandon the horse or not pay the monthly boarding fee in a timely manner. Or be too loony, maybe. In forty years or more of dealing with other horse people, he’d met more than his share of “all of the above.”

A week later, we moved Chance into his new quarters. With the shorter commute, Randa started spending even more time tending to Chance and working with him. And getting to know Jerry and Norma. Occasionally, I’d get to hang with them, too.

Whether together or Randa by herself, we spent more than a few hours sitting inside the hallway of the barn or just outside the main door depending on temperature, wind speed, and other meteorological factors. Listening to Jerry’s stories, gaining perspectives, swapping advice on gardening, and sharing perceptions.

He had no patience for stupidity—in handling horses, raising kids, or just in general. Hypocrisy disgusted him. He never had much tolerance for flimsy excuses, either, so far as I could tell. Even after he completely lost a thumb to cancer, he kept shoeing horses and taking care of his place. That kind of thing might make a man a little short of patience.

Some folks might say that Jerry could seem a bit gruff until you got to know him. Others suggested it might last longer than that. It’d be hard to argue with them. But if he took a liking to you, you had a friend until you gave him a really good reason not to be your friend anymore. So far as I know, Randa and I never gave him any reason.

Both Jerry and Norma were the kind of people we’d grown up around, Randa in Iowa and me in West Kentucky. Farm folks. Unpretentious. Hard working. Honest. Loyal. Take care of things and be good to your neighbors. Show up when you said you’d be there, do what you’re supposed to do, and then go on to the next thing.

Between the packing plant and farrier work, plus rodeoing and horse shows, Jerry had met hundreds of people, I reckon. He took note of how they cared for their animals and how they treated other people. Whether they were or substance or full of hot air. Or… something else. When he could, he avoided the ones that didn’t measure up. He loved to read and was colorful in his expressions: “I knew a place in Oklahoma where you could hire someone killed for fifteen dollars,” or “This land is so flat here you could watch a mouse run all the way across the pasture.”

Jerry didn’t go around spouting off his political opinions. He was pretty much live and let live on those things. But if you brought up something controversial, you’d better be prepared for an honest response. When one neighbor showed up, uninvited, extolling the virtues of the NRA and trying to convince Jerry that assault rifles should be legal, the crusty old farrier replied sarcastically, “Yeah, never know when I might need to shoot a first grader.” He had a similar lack of tolerance for politicians or CEO’s who lied or misused their positions for personal gain or glory.

I appreciated Jerry’s plain-spoken manner of communication and quick wit. It didn’t hurt anything that we tended to take similar views of happenings in the world at large and close at hand.

I suspect that if you were able to talk with the folks that knew him, the ones whose horses or mules he’d trimmed and shoed, the people he’d hunted with or rodeoed with, and maybe a small host of others, you’d find that his life made bigger ripples than his passing might suggest.

I know that for some of us, it left a hole that won’t be filled.