WHAT IT IS, by Trey Allen

trey2019

WHAT IT IS
by Trey Allen (1971-2016)

“What is this cowboy poetry?”
the lady asked of me.
“It must be more than stories
Whether rhymed or free.”

“What makes it so intriguing,
reels you in and gets you hooked,
it must be something simple.”
I jist give a sideways look.

“You’re right, ma’am, it’s kinda simple
but it’s complicated too,
but if you’ve got time to lend an ear
I’ll share some thoughts with you.”

You see the written word is simple
But the complicated thing
Is understanding the life behind the words
So I’ll tell you what I mean.

It’s the greenin’ of the grass in spring,
The first frost in the fall,
The dreary doldrums winter morns,
The summer shadows tall.

It’s the smell of mornin’ coffee
‘fore ol’ Sol has blinked an eye
and the million twinklin’ star aglow
in the pitch black predawn sky.

It’s the jingle of a much-worn spur
Upon a rundown handmade boot,
The snort of a cold-backed cayuse
And the silent prayer he don’t leave you afoot.

It’s the catch rope hangin’ inside the door
Of a rickety ol’ saddle shed
And the wariness of the pony
Who knows jist when to drop his head.

It’s the colt you traded for last fall
And started late this spring
That’s proved to you he’s worth his salt
And you wouldn’t trade him for anything.

It’s that motley face calf there on the scale,
He don’t look half as big as when
You had to flank him solo
Last spring in the brandin’ pen.

It’s the tangy scent of wood smoke,
The washtub by the wagon wheel,
The patched and worn out cookfly
And all the stories it could tell.

It’s a herd of unbroken saddle mounts
Strung out steppin’ single file
Through a sage covered Utah mountain pass
For near three quarters and a mile.

It’s the old man outside the brandin’ pen
Watchin’ the goings on
And the look in his eye that says loud and clear
“I’d like to see one more ‘fore I’m gone.”

It’s an old cow sucklin’ a newborn calf,
A foal on wobbly legs.
It’s a seventeen hour day with nothin’ on your stomach
But bitter coffee dregs.

It’s the old kack you use to start a young colt,
Holds in for the bad storms you weather.
It’s the pride displayed in a new handmade rig
And the creak of the well tooled leather.

It’s the antiquated wage he draws
Despite the Hollywood label,
It’s puttin’ life and limb on the line
To put a tasty beef steak on the table.

It’s the Sevier River Valley and the Wasatch Front,
The Muggyown Rim in the spring.
The Canadian River breaks, the Chisos and the Davis
And a thousand other places I’ve never seen.

It’s the labor of love you choose for life
Workin’ from can ’til can’t.
Maam, I could go on for days ’bout what it is
And probably a lot of things it ain’t.

So in short, ma’am, what I’m sayin’ is this
Cowboy poetry ain’t jist in the words you read,
The poetry of the cowboy
Is in the life he leads.

© Jack “Trey” Allen
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission

It is hard to top what the late Trey Allen, popular award-winning poet, reciter, cowboy, and Kansas ranch manager had to say in his poem. He is greatly missed by his many friends and family. We’re grateful for his poetry and recordings.

A 2014 bio he supplied gave a bit of background, “For some twenty years and change now, Jack Trey Allen has been writing and reciting cowboy poetry. He started out gathering intel early in life as a bullrider/bullfighter and graduated to shoeing horses and starting colts, to those ‘to those in the know’ this should explain a great deal. At the
point he began his family however, the conclusion was reached that three meals a week and Copenhagen made less than desirable home conditions and he settled into a real job…

“While earning a regular paycheck, he kept his hand turned at colts and shoeing, dayworking, etc. It was during this time he became intimate with a little known group called ‘Corporate America.’ Thirteen years of that and he packed his family up, headed for the mountains of south central Colorado, near Canon City and has been full time cowboy every since. For nine years Trey has managed the Moyer Ranch in the northern Flints Hills of Kansas, south of Manhattan. When asked about the possibility of ‘lightin’ a shuck,’ he said ‘Pack rats set up shop in my tipi and cut my bedroll up into little tiny ones. Sure hate to disturb their little enterprise…’ Reckon he’ll stay put.”

A painting of Trey Allen by Don Dane was featured on the 2015 Cowboy Poetry Week poster.

cpwdane

Find more about Trey Allen at CowboyPoetry.com and on Facebook.

Thanks to Janice Hannagan-Allen for the aboves photograph and her generous permissions.

(Please respect copyright: You can share this poem and photograph with this post, but request permission for any other uses.)

WHAT IT IS, by Trey Allen (1971-2016)

trey

WHAT IT IS
by Trey Allen (1971-2016)

“What is this cowboy poetry?”
the lady asked of me.
“It must be more than stories
Whether rhymed or free.”

“What makes it so intriguing,
reels you in and gets you hooked,
it must be something simple.”
I jist give a sideways look.

“You’re right, ma’am, it’s kinda simple
but it’s complicated too,
but if you’ve got time to lend an ear
I’ll share some thoughts with you.”

You see the written word is simple
But the complicated thing
Is understanding the life behind the words
So I’ll tell you what I mean.

It’s the greenin’ of the grass in spring,
The first frost in the fall,
The dreary doldrums winter morns,
The summer shadows tall.

It’s the smell of mornin’ coffee
‘fore ol’ Sol has blinked an eye
and the million twinklin’ star aglow
in the pitch black predawn sky.

It’s the jingle of a much-worn spur
Upon a rundown handmade boot,
The snort of a cold-backed cayuse
And the silent prayer he don’t leave you afoot.

It’s the catch rope hangin’ inside the door
Of a rickety ol’ saddle shed
And the wariness of the pony
Who knows jist when to drop his head.

It’s the colt you traded for last fall
And started late this spring
That’s proved to you he’s worth his salt
And you wouldn’t trade him for anything.

It’s that motley face calf there on the scale,
He don’t look half as big as when
You had to flank him solo
Last spring in the brandin’ pen.

It’s the tangy scent of wood smoke,
The washtub by the wagon wheel,
The patched and worn out cookfly
And all the stories it could tell.

It’s a herd of unbroken saddle mounts
Strung out steppin’ single file
Through a sage covered Utah mountain pass
For near three quarters and a mile.

It’s the old man outside the brandin’ pen
Watchin’ the goings on
And the look in his eye that says loud and clear
“I’d like to see one more ‘fore I’m gone.”

It’s an old cow sucklin’ a newborn calf,
A foal on wobbly legs.
It’s a seventeen hour day with nothin’ on your stomach
But bitter coffee dregs.

It’s the old kack you use to start a young colt,
Holds in for the bad storms you weather.
It’s the pride displayed in a new handmade rig
And the creak of the well tooled leather.

It’s the antiquated wage he draws
Despite the Hollywood label,
It’s puttin’ life and limb on the line
To put a tasty beef steak on the table.

It’s the Sevier River Valley and the Wasatch Front,
The Muggyown Rim in the spring.
The Canadian River breaks, the Chisos and the Davis
And a thousand other places I’ve never seen.

It’s the labor of love you choose for life
Workin’ from can ’til can’t.
Maam, I could go on for days ’bout what it is
And probably a lot of things it ain’t.

So in short, ma’am, what I’m sayin’ is this
Cowboy poetry ain’t jist in the words you read,
The poetry of the cowboy
Is in the life he leads.

© Jack “Trey” Allen

It is hard to top what the late Trey Allen, popular award-winning poet, reciter, cowboy, and Kansas ranch manager had to say in his poem. He is greatly missed by his many friends and family. We’re grateful for his poetry and recordings.

A 2014 bio he supplied gave a bit of background, “For some twenty years and change now, Jack Trey Allen has been writing and reciting cowboy poetry. He started out gathering intel early in life as a bullrider/bullfighter and graduated to shoeing horses and starting colts, to those ‘to those in the know’ this should explain a great deal. At the point he began his family however, the conclusion was reached that three meals a week and Copenhagen made less than desirable home conditions and he settled into a real job…

“While earning a regular paycheck, he kept his hand turned at colts and shoeing, dayworking, etc. It was during this time he became intimate with a little known group called ‘Corporate America.’ Thirteen years of that and he packed his family up, headed for the mountains of south central Colorado, near Canon City and has been full time cowboy every since. For nine years Trey has managed the Moyer Ranch in the northern Flints Hills of Kansas, south of Manhattan. When asked about the possibility of ‘lightin’ a shuck,’ he said ‘Pack rats set up shop in my tipi and cut my bedroll up into little tiny ones. Sure hate to disturb their little enterprise…’ Reckon he’ll stay put.”

A painting of Trey Allen by Don Dane was featured on the 2015 Cowboy Poetry Week poster.

Find more about Trey Allen at CowboyPoetry.com.

Thanks to Janice Hannagan-Allen for this photograph and her generous permissions.

(Please respect copyright: You can share this poem and photograph with this post, but should request permission for any other uses.)

 

A FATHER’S CONVERSATION WITH HIS DAUGHTER by Marci Broyhill

treyjanice

photograph of Trey and Janice Hannagan Allen by Carol Barlau; request permission for use

A FATHER’S CONVERSATION WITH HIS DAUGHTER
Inspired by Jack Carter “Trey” Allen, III
by Marci Broyhill

Father and daughter leaned against the rail fence
reviewing the day as the sunset commenced.

They talked about livestock, repairs of the day,
the upcoming taxes and bills yet to pay,

how much hay to keep and how much to sell,
a new door for the barn, a new pump for the well,

cedar trees in the pasture and down by the creek.
Those invasive rogue trees to be burned out next week.

As they paused for a moment and gazed to the west
at the glorious sunset, their voices took rest.

They stood there absorbing the radiant sky
so, peaceful, serene. No words could apply.

This setting was right for the man to impart
philosophical thoughts and requests of his heart.

Breaking the silence by clearing his throat,
calmly shifting his hat, the father gave note.

I’ve lived my best years on this ground where we stand.
I’m the third generation to work this grassland.

As a young man, I frequently fell off the track.
But each time I did, this land called me back.

I’ve been giving some thought to my life here on Earth,
hoping my work has contributed worth.

Man, woman or child, we just never know
when the angel of death says, “Hey there, let’s go.”

To make that time easier for those left behind,
let me share what’s been buzzing around in my mind.

When my body can no longer shelter my soul,
when old age or disease have done taken their toll,

when it’s time for my spirit to cross the grand bridge,
to that eternal grassland up over the ridge,

I have some requests, I hope you’ll abide
when my spirit is called to the hereafter side.

I’m a practical man, my style is low-key.
A quiet observance is perfect for me.

I need not a casket to bury my bones
or a cemetery plot with a fancy head stone.

No extravagant flowers in basket or vase,
for this crusty old geezer, they’d be out of place.

Let me merge with this land, my dust to this earth,
to join in the cycle of Nature’s rebirth.

Toss some of my ashes into a warm breeze
to dust the green crown of the cottonwood trees.

Scatter some dust through a shelterbelt row.
There I’ll stand against wind driving dirt, ice and snow.

Shake some dust in the pasture along the fence line,
and behind the horse barn that your pa built with mine,

across the hay meadow that borders the creek,
into the plum brush where blossoms smell sweet,

on my favorite trails where I ride with Roan Red,
on your mother’s perennials, her prize flower bed.

When it rains, I’ll drip, float and trickle around
immersing myself into life-giving ground

to be one with wild flowers and native grass.
I’ll stroke velvet muzzles of those grazing past.

I’ll cradle new life, domestic and wild,
the gentle, the aggressive, each one Nature’s child.

When the scattering of ashes is accomplished and done
I’ll be living in two worlds, not merely one.

Now you sleeve that there sniffle and blink back those tears.
‘Cuz I plan to keep ranching some twenty plus years.

This land will be yours when I cross the divide.
But until then my dear, I’m here by your side.

You’re an honest, smart woman, with a trustworthy man.
If any two ranchers can make it, you can.

Right now, we’re a trio. I like that I do.
When counting my blessings, the best ones are you.

Oh, there’s one more detail I’m a gonna’ to impose.
Get a stainless-steel plate for a message of prose.

Engrave an inscription so all understand
my respect for ranch life, my love for this land.

Then nail that steel plate on a creosote post.
Let it state, Trey Allen remains here, on the land he loves most.

@ 2017, Marci Broyhill
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission

Marci Broyhill comments:

“A Father’s Conversation with His Daughter” was inspired by Jack Carter “Trey” Allen III. I first met Mr. Allen in 2005 at Michael Martin Murphey’s West Fest event at Snow Mass, Colorado. I was in the infancy of my cowboy poetry adventure and attended West Fest to immerse myself in the essence of western culture: the people, art, music and poetry. It was there that I heard and met Trey Allen for the first time.

It was after one of the West Fest concerts as I stood on the grassy slope, the magnificent natural amphitheater setting for the West Fest concerts, that I saw Trey Allen walking in my direction. I was apprehensive, yet summoned up the courage to introduce myself and express my appreciation for his material and presentation. At that time, he was dressed in crisp light taupe attire from head to toe. Trey politely tipped his hat and respectfully said, “Thank you, ma’am.” We shared a few pleasantries and he was gone. Our encounter was brief, yet it is branded in my memory.

My next encounter with Mr. Allen was ten years later, August 2015, in Abilene, Kansas at the Cowboy Poetry Rodeo where I was a participant. Mr. Allen was one of the judges. The third time was in October of 2015 at Old West Days in Valentine, Nebraska where Trey was a featured performer. Trey was ill both times; fighting multiple myeloma. Still, Trey portrayed a positive attitude of living, strutting his pink boots, bright neon colored shirts, flashy scarves and ties giving inspiration to all present.

Trey was scheduled to entertain at the Chickasaw County Cowboy Poetry and Western Music Gathering in Lawler, Iowa the following January 2016. Due to his on-going, energy-sapping cancer, he had to decline that appearance. I was asked to “fill in” for Trey Allen. Wow, what boots to fill. I was humbled and honored.

The following was garnered from CowboyPoetry.com.

Jack Carter “Trey” Allen III was born January 20, 1971 in Richardson, Texas. He respected the cowboy code of life and was employed in the ranching, cowboy-style of living most of his life which generated a wealth of background experiences for his colorful, original cowboy poetry which he recited with ease.

He was diagnosed in 2013 of multiple myeloma. A photo of Trey, taken by Carol Barlau became the reference photograph used by Don Dane for his painting titled “Cowboy True, Thru and Thru.” That art work became the poster for Cowboy Poetry Week, April 19-25, 2015.

Understanding the severity of his illness, Trey asked his three daughters that at upon his death, they take a road trip with his ashes. He directed them to scatter his remains on all the ranches on which he worked. Jack Carter “Trey” Allen III died July 7, 2016 in Manhattan, Kansas with family at his bedside.

My three brief encounters with the brave, unselfish man, Jack Carter “Trey” Allen III, inspired me to write “A Father’s Conversation with His Daughter.” Thank you, sir.

[Find a tribute to Trey Allen here and more at CowboyPoetry.com.]

 

Marc Broyhill

ABOUT MARCI BROYHILL

Marci Broyhill, Prairie Poet & Storyteller grew up on the Cedar-Dixon County Line between Nebraska’s Cowboy Trail, Highway 20 and Nebraska’s Outlaw Trail, Highway 12. Marci is on the Humanities Nebraska Roster with her program, Nebraska’s Outlaw Trail, Highway 12. She balances her presentations with current information, history, reflection and humor. Marci currently lives in Dakota City, Nebraska. Find more at marcibroyhill.com.

2015Marci BroyhilMarci Broyhill and two new fans of Cowboy Poetry. South Sioux City, Nebraska Library honoring Cowboy Poetry Week (2015).

2015Marci Broyhill2.jpgMarci Broyhil, Doc Middleton (aka Kyle Rosfeld) and Teresa Kay Orr. Naper, Nebraska honoring Cowboy Poetry Week (2015).

2017marcibroyhill.jpgTeresa Kay Orr and Marci Broyhill in Dakota City, Nebraska honoring Cowboy Poetry Week.  Marci adds, “Teresa Kay is my sister. Whenever possible, we do events together. She brings the element of music. Together, we provide a bit of fun sibling banter.”

THE WAY I REMEMBER HIM By Jack “Trey” Allen

treyjanicephotograph by Carol Barlau; request permission for use

 

THE WAY I REMEMBER HIM
By Jack “Trey” Allen

His boots looked a hundred years old
they’d seen 10,000 miles and more
They’s scuffed up dirty except for the spots
worn smooth by the spurs that he’d wore

Levi’s adorned his twisted bowed legs
faded pale from years in the sun
His belt was remnant of an old harness strap
fastened with some buckle he’d won

His shirt was just a remnant, too
torn and patched and half untucked
If it could’ve talked, it mighta told the story
of all the hard seasons he’d bucked

His shoulders set straight and firm
though not as firm as they once may have been
They spoke of a man who’d done a life’s work
and would gladly do it again

His gray hair told of the wisdom
he gained from years on the range
of horses he’d rode, friends he’d outlived
and all the things that he’d seen change

The line of his jaw set crooked but hard
Seemed it was chiseled outta stone
And the lines on his face, like the wrinkles on his hands,
seemed to cut clear to the bone

The gaze from his icy blue eyes
Could almost bore a hold plumb through
But there was nothing to warm your heart like a smile
from that ancient buckaroo.

© Trey Allen, used with permission
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission.

Cowboy and ranch manager Trey Allen (1971-2016) is sorely missed by his many friends and family. His friend, rancher and poet Jay Snider has said, “Trey is one of those guys that lives every day by the same code of ethics as the old-timers. It means something to him that your word is your bond and that you do what you say you’re going to do.”

(This poem also appears in a Western Horseman tribute.

See more about Trey Allen here in this blog and at CowboyPoetry.com.

Photographer Carol Barlau took this striking photograph of Trey Allen and Janice Hannagan-Allen at a branding. We asked her to tell us a bit about herself and she wrote,”Photography is my outlet, my escape from the hurried and stressful everyday world. Photography relaxes me and renews my spirit. One of my favorite places to photograph is in the Flint Hills of Kansas. Here I can admire its quiet and subtle beauty and enjoy the warmth and friendliness of the people I meet there.”

Carol Barlau also took the photograph that was featured in Don Dane Art’s painting of Trey Allen, “Cowboy True, Thru and Thru,” that was selected for the 2015 Cowboy Poetry Week poster and for the cover of Trey Allen’s CD, “A Remnant Gather.” Find more about Carol Barlau and the poster here.

9 OCTOBER 2005 by Trey Allen (1971-2016)

pitchforkchristmas

 

9 OCTOBER 2005
by Trey Allen 1971-2016

The Great White Cowboy mounted up
on a bronc too long unrode
Bets were placed as to how he’d sit,
some wagered he’d get throwed
For a lot of suns had rose and sat
since he’d topped that wall-eyed grey
And he was forkin’ gentle ponies
when he rode out last May

But we missed the call on that one boys
for today he come ridin tough
Feedin rein and scratchin hide
on a bronc what ain’t no bluff
And what I mean he’s ridin boys!
Spurrin fore and aft!
And all the while just looked at us
and laughed and laughed and laughed

He rode him in the mountains
all along the great front range
And then off them through the foothills
and out on the eastern plains
And he gathered all the ones we’d missed,
who would de-fy Natures’laws
Then he bunched ‘em for us flunkies
in the coulees and the draws

Then he rode off and left us…
with our sad and forlorn faces
And all our ladinos that he’d gathered
like our little welfare cases
And as he rode he said to us
by way of a cold west wind
You’d better hunker in yore diggins boys,
for I’ll be back again

© 2005, Jack “Trey” Allen, used with permission

This photograph is the current Winter/Christmas Art Spur. The 1923 photograph by Charles J. Belden (1887-1966) is titled “Work on cattle ranch, Z/T Ranch, Pitchfork, Wyoming.”

The photograph put us in mind of the late Trey Allen’s poem.

Trey Allen, popular cowboy, poet, and Kansas ranch manager, told us about the inspiration for his poem in 2013: “When I first moved to the mountain country, I heard an old timer refer to the first snowfall as “the Great White Cowboy.” Anything we missed on fall gather would be promptly driven to the lower elevations by a good snowfall. It started snowing the eve of October 9 around 4 pm and by sunrise the of the 10th, approximately 32″ had driven everything, remnant cattle, elk, bear, antelope and two hippies into the lower reaches of our valley. I started my move to Kansas on the 12th so I guess in retrospect it drove me out too!

“It snows earlier than that up there but rarely that much. That particular storm shut Colorado Springs for couple days and had lasting effect on a lot folks across the East Central Plain.The poem was actually written on a paper sack as I bounced my Ryder truck from Canon City, Colorado, to Manhattan, Kansas.”

Trey Allen left us much too soon on on July 7, 2016, after a long, brave battle with multiple myeloma. He is greatly missed by countless friends and family. Find more about Trey Allen at CowboyPoetry.com, on this blog, and on Facebook.

 

Jack “Trey” Allen, 1971-2016

treyhoglex photo by Bruce L. Hogle

With great sadness, we learned of the death of popular cowboy, ranch manager, and poet Trey Allen on July 7, 2016, after a long, brave battle with multiple myeloma.

His many, many friends and loving family know that Trey, in the words of his wife, Janice Hannagan-Allen, was “a true cowboy, thru and true all the way.” Janice commented that Trey was, “A man that has touched a million lives, not just as a poet but as a friend to all of us …. He loved you all as much as you loved him …. Your love and prayers for our family are much appreciated …”

In a recent article in Western Horseman by Senior Editor Jennifer Denison, his friend, poet Jay Snider, is quoted, “Trey is one of those guys that lives every day by the same code of ethics as the old-timers. It means something to him that your word is your bond and that you do what you say you’re going to do.”

See a Western Horseman tribute here, which includes Trey Allen’s poem, “The Way I Remember Him.”

We were honored to have a painting of Trey as the 2015 Cowboy Poetry Week poster. Photographer Carol Barlau took the photograph that was featured in Don Dane‘s painting of Trey Allen, “Cowboy True, Thru and Thru.”

cpw20151yy

Trey’s family shared his obituary:

Jack Carter “Trey” Allen III, 45, of the McDowell Creek Community, Manhattan, Kansas, passed away peacefully with his parents present, July 7, 2016. Trey battled Multiple Myeloma cancer since 2013.

Trey was born January 20, 1971 in Richardson Texas, the son of Jack Carter Allen Jr. and Tana (Davis/Wiggins) Gasparek. He went to grade school in Claude, Texas; attended Cal Farley’s Boys Ranch, Amarillo, Texas 1983-1988; and graduated from Claude High School in 1989.

For some twenty years and change, Jack “Trey” Allen wrote and recited cowboy poetry. He started out gathering intel early in life as a bullrider/bullfighter and graduated to shoeing horses and starting colts. To those in the know, this should explain a great deal. At the point he began his family, however, the conclusion was reached that three meals a week and Copenhagen made less than desirable home conditions and he settled into a real job near the present-day metropolis of Hooker, Oklahoma. While earning a regular paycheck, he kept his hand turned at colts and shoeing, day working, and so on. It was during this time he became intimate with a little known group called “Corporate America.” Thirteen years of that and he packed his family up, headed for the mountains of south central Colorado, near Canon City, and became a full-time cowboy for the rest of his life.  In 2006, he moved to Kansas and for 10 years he managed the Moyer Ranch in the northern Flints Hills of Kansas, south of Manhattan, Kansas.

Trey performed cowboy poetry from the Gulf Coast of Alabama to North Dakota and from Missouri to Utah. He was one of four event winners at the first Cowboy Poetry Rodeo and was purty fortunate in subsequent National Cowboy Poetry Rodeo events. In 2011, Kansas hosted its first annual State Cowboy Poetry competition, and a win there offered Trey the opportunity to perform for the “Gubernatorial Entourage” at the Symphony of the Flint Hills, Alma Kansas, in front of Governor Sam Brownback; he considered that a career highlight. The Durango Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Colorado and the Cochise Cowboy Poetry & Music Gathering in Sierra Vista, Colorado, were among his favorite gatherings to perform, along with local Kansas Livestock Association meetings.

Trey could always be seen wearing his trademark pink tall tops, colorful shirt and just as colorful wild rag on stage. His girls would call him “The Skittles cowboy.”  Trey titled himself as “Cowboy Poet, Humorist, Surveyor of Kingdoms, and Practitioner of Quality, Truth and Improvement.”

Trey was past president of the Kansas Livestock Association, local chapter in Junction City, Kansas.

Trey is survived by his wife, Janice (Hannagan) Allen, Manhattan, Kansas; three daughters, Shandee, Edmond Oklahoma, and Lara and Tera M., Cushing, Oklahoma; two step children, Jenna and Colton, Manhattan, Kansas; mother, Tana (Davis/Wiggins) Gasparek, Tres Piedras, New Mexico; step father (the man Trey called dad) Dee Aduddell and his wife Ronda, Claude, Texas; sisters Tera J. Ingram, Emporia, Kansas and Shana Aduddell, Amarillo, Texas; two brothers, Cody Aduddell, Claude, Texas and Seth Aduddell, Amarillo, Texas; two nephews, Tough Medina, Emporia, Kansas and Trenton Richey, Pampa, Texas; a favorite niece, Evelyn Aduddell, Claude, Texas; along with all his brothers from Cal Farley’s Boys Ranch in Amarillo, Texas and all his numerous cowboy poet friends.

Trey was preceded in death by his father Jack Carter Allen Jr., December 29, 1972.

Trey’s wish was to have his three girls take a road trip to scatter his ashes at all the ranches where he was employed and where he day-worked.

There will be a celebration of life, or as Trey would call, it a “shindig,” later this fall at the McDowell Creek Community Center, Manhattan, Kansas.  In lieu of flowers, please make donations to “Allen Girls’ College Fund,” 15601 Hannagan Road, Manhattan KS 66502.  Their education was very important to him.