THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1997, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Saturday, February 8, 1997 TAG: 9702070097
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: By MAC DANIEL, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: 195 lines
IT'S AS IF Stan Loewen had dropped from the sky into suburbia, a gift from Cowboy Heaven, a prototype for the Western stereotype.
To see him in Chesapeake's Greenbrier Mall, poking along in his cowboy boots, dirty blue jeans and ever-present knife on the hip forces an Eastern skepticism that asks: Is this cowboy for real?
Just look at the hat, a dingy lid with the creeping sweat stains around the band. Check out that mustache, a sprawling wall of brown and gray hair that hides his emotions as well as the utterance of an occasional ``daggummit!''
There's Loewen's uncanny resemblance to Wilford Brimley, the soft-spoken actor and oats spokesman. And there are the jokes, like the time Loewen slipped Rocky Mountain oysters (a.k.a fried bull testicles) into unsuspecting Easterners' biscuits and gravy. He also has an affinity for placing black plastic rats in open feed bags.
Loewen still kicks himself for wearing shoes instead of boots to his wedding, said his wife, Lavonne. And since living in the East, she said, he's not wearing his cowboy hats out as often.
``There's too much hassle,'' said Lavonne, noting that in real cowboy eateries, one's hat stays on indoors.
``I knew guys who I never knew were bald 'cause I never saw them without their hat,'' said Stan, a 52-year-old Kansan who for the past seven years has served as horsemanship director at Chesapeake's Triple R Ranch, a youth camp and retreat center.
He spends a good deal of his time teaching the camp's wranglers and assorted volunteers about riding the range, about values, about life. His evangelical faith is important to him, but he won't be tied down to any particular church.
He has spent much of his career as a working cowboy turning local greenhorns into ``car-trunk cowboys,'' a nickname derived from their practice of putting on hats and chaps from the rear of four-wheeled stallions. And he has left an indelible imprint on a ranch that was lacking Western flair before their cowboy came along.
But now the rules of the range are beckoning Loewen, unwritten rules that say you can't stick around one place too long; that say change is good; that quietly whisper, ``The West is the best.''
So a week from now, Stan and Lavonne are headed to Michigan to stay with their son and be closer to grandchildren. Then Stan will travel solo to the Sunflower State, back to prairie grass and the open space, to apprentice under a master saddler, a step on his way to opening his own saddlery.
After that, there are no real plans. A summer in Alaska, settling in Michigan or maybe Colorado, who knows.
``The old cowboy used to ride the grub line,'' said Stan. ``And as long as he didn't tag along too long, he was welcome.
``Well, I feel like I've been taggin' along too long. You need to move on, you know, because these are the rules of the range.''
AFTER A LIFE AROUND HORSES AND IN the out of doors, Robert Hampton found himself out of touch and out of synch. On a lark, he went to the Triple R Ranch, hung out and volunteered his time. Hampton said Loewen tolerated him for two years, to the point where, on Hampton's 50th birthday, he was permitted to load 300 bales of hay - and couldn't have been happier.
``I had completely gotten away from being in touch with reality. . . . I mean, nature,'' said Hampton, an Army employee at Fort Story. ``And when I finally came here, I found a place that reinforces what I think is important and central in life.''
``You can't teach a man anything,'' he added. ``You can only teach him to find what he's got inside.''
In rural Chesapeake, along Bunch Walnuts Road, as cul-de-sacs approach the largely unspoiled portion of the city, Loewen has lived as Western a life as can be lived in an area he's still trying to figure out. He recently asked, ``Is this area considered the North or the South?''
On a recent Saturday, after a short gallop, some of Loewen's former wranglers and current pilgrims gathered in a small rectangular clearing amid farm fields to eat fire-cooked burgers, listen to Don Edwards croon about being back in the saddle again, and remember their times with Stan, a man whom many credit with teaching them more than they could ever have imagined about horses.
Stan kept his distance. He didn't mingle too much and spent most of his time around the chuck wagon, checking the cooking.
``He's forgotten more than you and I will ever learn,'' said Peggy Stein, manager of Acredale Saddlery in Virginia Beach. ``He's definitely one of a kind. And every once and a while, he'll call and ask us a question and then tell us to call him back when we have the answer because he knows it'll take some time.''
For the younger campers, Stan was ever present. Once, out of sight of Stan and well away from the ranch, the riders were jaunting along when their radio crackled and Sam's booming voice rang out, commanding the rider of Milky Way to pull in the reins. The rider did as instructed.
Then there was the time an uncontrollable horse was calmed after Stan whispered in its ear.
``It made you feel real, real small,'' the rider said.
IT'S APPROPRIATE THAT STAN WAS born in Dodge City, Kan., the Cowboy Capital of the World, home of Wyatt Earp and ``Bat'' Masterson, and terminus of those bigger-than-life Texas cattle drives.
He was born in 1944 to Henry and Lena Loewen, a Mennonite couple who ranched and farmed between 1,500 to 2,000-acres in nearby Mead.
His affinity for horses developed as he grew older. He loved to read the animals like people, getting them to respond accurately to his commands, to communicate with the horse so well that man and horse were working as one.
During a rare soft moment, Loewen even admitted taking pleasure in well-kept hooves.
He met Lavonne in Mead and the two married shortly after he attended Fort Hayes Kansas State College. He left college after one year to begin welding at a tractor cab factory.
In 1967, Stan and his father opened Loewen Feed and Supply in Mead, where Stan began selling saddles, feed, boots and hats.
Ten years after opening the feed store with his father, Loewen was frustrated. Wanting to find a way to mix his passion for horses with a job that paid something, Stan could find nothing.
Then came an invitation to tend horses on a ranch outside Seattle. He stayed for about two years, attending farrier school at Oregon State University along the way.
Then it was back to Kansas to work as a full-time farrier, shoeing and taking care of horses, as well as livestock. But in 1982, the cattle business was bottoming out. Interest rates were high and Loewen began to think he might not survive. Then came a call from a Bible ranch in Oklahoma, and Loewen's life changed.
He and Lavonne became house parents for about 42 high school boys, the sons of missionary parents. There were horses to tend and lessons to teach, and Stan was pretty happy.
To this day, that is the place Loewen credits with putting him on his current path, working from youth camp to youth camp, helping people learn how to communicate with horses and teaching people about what it means to be a real cowboy.
Such lessons were on his mind when he first came to the Triple R. The facility hired Loewen to spruce up their ``ranch'' image.
When Loewen arrived, the horsemen were wearing their bandanas on their heads, an offense akin to a plebe in a tie-dyed shirt.
``That changed,'' said Stan. ``That changed.''
LOEWEN'S SKILL WITH HORSES is subtle. During a recent gray morning, he brought a quarter horse named Tye into the ranch's round pen and took him for a spin. Standing in the center of the pen, Loewen controlled the horse meticulously with a rope. Loewen's rounded frame jumped back and forth, and the horse responded. When the horse slowed down from a brisk trot, Loewen shooed it on with an accurately thrown loop to the rear leg.
Finally, while Tye stood still, Loewen walked up to him, patted him, whispered something in his ear and walked away. Tye hesitated, then followed close behind Loewen.
Loewen refused to say what he had whispered.
FOR YEARS, LOEWEN HAS TAKEN A series of young wranglers under his wing, freshly scrubbed faces wanting to know what Loewen knows about handling horses, about how to tell the difference between spurs by their jingle, and that cowboy clothing is utilitarian and not fashion, daggummit.
He has recently begun to call these apprentices ``pilgrims,'' referring to a book in which the word is used to describe a drunkard sent away West on a train by his friends. The man ends up in Montana and must begin life over again after being humbled by his past. And he does, slowly but surely.
Loewen's 13th Triple R Ranch wrangler is Joe Baker, a 21-year-old Missourian who will head back home to work on his family ranch after Stan leaves. Stan's got him reading Dale Carnegie books, and Joe's mustache is eerily familiar to his mentor's.
At the recent gathering of Loewen's former wranglers and current pilgrims, Joe had no time to socialize. He was the cook, ending his meal with a Dump Cake, a delicious Dutch oven concoction of pie filling, cake mix and a can of Sprite. Just in case his outdoor cooking flubbed, he brought along some store-bought chocolate mousse. Good cowboy.
As the day wound to an end and Stan told everyone he'd call but never write a letter, a bunch of young future wranglers roped a plastic calf's head on a hay bale.
Loewen challenged that he could rope a soft drink can from 30 feet away using a small lariat loop of about 8 inches. The bet was agreed upon and Loewen began measuring the distance from an unsuspecting can.
After laying out the stiff rope and forming his tiny loop alongside the can, Loewen stepped back and eyed his aluminum prey.
But just as everyone thought he'd gather his rope and begin his attempt, Loewen leaned down and gently twisted the taunt rope. The tiny loop flipped over and snared the can.
You could tell Loewen was smiling. But with that mustache, you could barely see it. ILLUSTRATION: Color photos
STEVE EARLEY/The Virginian-Pilot
Stan Loewen has been passing along his wrangling skills to
youngsters and workers at the Triple R Ranch in Chesapeake - a youth
camp and retreat center - for seven years.
Loewen, 52, Wilford Brimley look-alike who is usually seen wearing
his cowboy hat and boots, got an early taste of the cowboy life
growing up on his parents' ranch near Dodge City, Kansas.
Above: At a cookout for his Triple R wranglers, Loewen talked about
his plans to return to Kansas to train under a master saddle-maker
so he can open his own saddlery.
At right: Loewen gets a farewell hug during the cookout from Lori
Pickett, director of the therapeutic riding program at thye ranch.
STEVE EARLEY/The Virginian-Pilot
Stan Loewen has been known to pull a trick or two with his lariat.
KEYWORDS: PROFILE