The Ranch at Muleshoe

For many years my grandfather, Aubrey Oursbourn, owned a small ranch just outside of Muleshoe, Texas.  It wasn't large, only a quarter-section, but it was planted in Bermuda and had one of the first water-drive Valley pivot sprinklers in the middle of it.  He could run about 300 pairs of cattle on it through the summer months.

Grandpa would buy cows at Muleshoe Livestock Auction early in the spring that had either just had a new baby or, were about to have one.  He would then take them to the ranch and turn them out on the irrigated Bermuda to graze.  Cows at that time of year were usually a bit thin due to poor forage in the winter months and they would put on lots of weight through the summer months.  He would also turn out bulls with them so that he had a 3-in-1 package to sell in the fall.

Some of my favorite memories of growing up were of going over to the ranch with Grandpa.  Usually, at least in the fall of the year, I would spend the night with my grandparents at the farm north of Olton on Friday night because I didn't care about going to the football game with my parents, and then early on Saturday morning we would make the 35 mile drive to the ranch to work.  Around Noon we would head into Muleshoe to eat at Leal's Restaurant which is where most of the cattlemen ate prior to going to the sale.  We would often run into people like Gerald Allcorn, or Joe Rhodes, or one of the Norfleets.  Then we would spend the afternoon at the auction until time to go change water on one of the side-rolling sprinklers or ground lines Grandpa used to water the grass before getting the Valley pivot.

We then would spend Saturday night at the ranch and get up early on Sunday to turn off the water sprinkler, check the cows and make the drive back to the farm to arrive in time for Sunday lunch.  Mom and Dad would be there for lunch along with my younger brother and then sometime late Sunday evening we would go back to our home in town.

Each year we also would have to work the calves.  Working time was a big event and all of the family and sometimes friends would be involved.  We would gather the cattle into the corrals and then separate the calves.  Grandpa would be in charge of castration, my Dad usually vaccinated and my uncles would catch the calves and throw them for branding and other operations.  It was mostly done on foot rather than horseback, although there were times that larger calves were roped.

I usually would have the job of sitting in the flank of a calf that one of my uncles had thrown, or in the case of some of the smaller calves, that I had thrown.  I would sit in their flank as they lay on their side and my left foot would pin the bottom front leg of the calf while I held the top leg.  Someone else would be holding the rear legs.  I was sometimes a little nervous when the branding iron was applied while the calf squirmed beneath me.  I had a fear of ending up with a circle on my backside rather than on the calf where it was intended.

Grandpa had an old trailer house there at the ranch and the women would prepare lunch for all of us.  We would stand, or sit around and eat and visit as we rested before going back to finish the job. It was hard, hot, dirty work, but something I remember with fondness.

A Sound in the Woods

[Following is something that I wrote several years ago.  We had a different place out in the country than the one we do now.  It is a piece of fiction, but it was inspired by the time of year, the surroundings, etc.  I have been looking back at quite a few of the pieces that I have started and set aside through the years and this one caught my eye because I spent yesterday trimming trees and piling brush.  It seems I was doing the same thing at about the same time of year several years ago that inspired this.]

Soft footsteps, carefully avoiding the fallen twigs, cannot prevent the quiet crunching of the leaves on the forest floor.  Camera in one hand, 30-30 Winchester in the other, the stalker quietly made his way along the barbed wire fence, vigilantly turning his eyes in every direction, watching for he knew not what.  Stopping periodically, he listened.  The sounds of the crows faded into the distance as they flew off, alerted by his presence.  Still, other sounds came from around him as the life of the wooded creek bottom resumed a sense of normality.  Slowly, Kit was becoming one with his surroundings.

There was no purpose in his woodland saunter.  It was merely a walk among the trees to see what he could see; hear what he could hear; photograph what might draw his interest.  The rifle just seemed to be needed.  Some might call it intuition.  Others might call it habit.  It was a comfort.

White Oak bottom is what they called this place.  It was one of the wildest remaining areas of Northeast Texas.  It was known to shelter the occasional cougar or black bear and sometimes a Red Wolf.  It was no wonder the cattle were so jumpy.  After all, humans, just like other predators, had eyes in the front of their heads; it was the prey that had eyes on the sides.  It only took a brief glimpse of Kit for the cows to go running to their young calves in the middle of the meadow to join the ever-present “nurse maids” that stayed with them at all times.  Never were the young animals left alone by their mothers.

The sound that had drawn Kit to the woods had quieted.  It really wasn’t the purpose for the walk – merely the excuse.  After all, clearing brush from the fence line was tiring.  A walk seemed just the thing to rest the weary body and to clear the mind.  Clearing brush allowed for too much thought.  It was physically tiring but it rarely slowed the mind.  The sound of the crows had done that – the crows and that other sound – the one he couldn’t quite identify.

Standing quietly on the south side of the creek, listening to the birds and the sound of the falling leaves, Kit thought he could make out a slow shuffling somewhere to the North, on the other side.  The wind was behind him and that wasn’t good.  It would blow his scent to whatever was there.  Nevertheless he stood, listening. 

Somewhere a Flicker was pecking at one of the dead or diseased trees trying to dig out a late season insect.  A flurry of tiny wings marked the passing of several sparrows.  They flitted from branch to branch, never sitting still long enough to focus the camera on them before they were on to another perch.  The tannin-stained water of the creek was littered with fallen leaves from the various species of oak and other hardwoods.  The mirrored surface was broken only by the occasional leaf-fall that landed with a light “smack” which broke the reflection of the trees overhead.  Looking up, Kit saw a Black Vulture circling high above against the pale blue sky.  He was alone which meant he was merely riding currents, seeking the scent of the next meal.

Then he heard it.  There was a slight mewing sound somewhere across the creek where the woods were thickest.  It wouldn’t be easy getting over there without making the trek around by the bridge.  Still, there were fallen trees that would make a natural bridge in a few places and Kit knew exactly where they were.  He headed toward the largest one which lay from bank-to-bank about ten feet above the stream.  It was a place where crossing could be made without the need to climb the steep bank....

Red Sox Win the Series

Dad was a huge baseball fan.  He loved the sport and knew the intricacies of it inside and out.  It probably came from growing up in a tiny southwestern Oklahoma town where he attended a school so small they only had baseball and basketball for sports.  He, along with his siblings and cousins, all played and made up the majority of the team.

At some point in his life Dad came to love the Boston Red Socks.  They were his team even though one of his brothers pitched for a farm club of the St. Louis Cardinals.  I never knew why he was such a Red Sox fan unless it was because of some of their players who were among his favorites.  The Red Sox boasted of Babe Ruth, Cy Young and Bobby Doerr.  Later there was Carlton Fisk, Roger Clemens and Carl Yastrzemski.  But, Dad's all-time favorite was Ted Williams.

Dad tried to pass on his love of baseball to his sons.  We spent many hours playing catch in the back yard and then as we grew older, participating in Pee Wee, Little League and Babe Ruth baseball programs.  Dad always coached and his teams frequently won their league.  Not long before he died he was honored by induction into the local baseball hall of fame for his years of devoted service to keeping baseball alive in our small town.

My brother was a good baseball player.  I was not.  I never developed a love for the game, but I continued to play off and on through the years.  I also kept score for the teams Dad coached, or later when in High School, I kept the official score book or, announced the games from the press box behind home plate.  I was much better at those tasks than at standing out in right field trying to pay attention.

Dad would have been pleased that his Red Sox won the World Series last night.  I suspect he was watching from on high and cheering them on.

Dancing With the Devil

[Below is an excerpt from another piece of fiction that I started some time back.  It seems timely...]

Mexico was never politically stable.  It drifted through the years after Spanish conquest from Monarchy to quasi-Democracy, but always with a strong culture of graft and corruption by which a few became obscenely wealthy while the majority existed on the edge of starvation.  Many abortive “revolutions” through the years merely served to tighten the hold of the powerful while diminishing the power of the impoverished.  It was a country ripe for Communism.

Juan Rodriguez was born into that poverty in a small village outside Guerrero in Coahuila.  At the age of 8 his father died at the hands of a local Cartel and an uncle took him east across the border into Texas, to pick vegetables in the valley.  Juan didn’t make much, but his uncle confiscated what he did and sent it back to Guerrero to Olivia, Juan’s mother.  Those meager earnings, along with what she could make in a local cantina were all she had to support herself and Juan’s six siblings.  It was a hard life.

Juan and his uncle had entered the U.S. illegally, but to them it wasn’t a matter of the law, it was survival.  You did what you had to do to provide for your family.  Contacts in Texas provided them with identities in exchange for about half of their first week of earnings and they lived with a group of other workers in a small, rundown house on the outskirts of Edinburg.  Juan was sometimes abused by the other men in the group, but he endured because he didn’t know any better.

Life was hard and the work was hard, but at such a young age there were few choices.  It was an age when he should be in school and playing with other children, but it was not to be.

Each day Juan would go out with the men to pick vegetables.  They were paid based on quantity, not on the number of hours they put into the job.  Juan’s share was small because he couldn’t pick as much as the older men.  His uncle took what he earned anyway.

In such conditions a friendly face and the semblance of caring were attractive to the wise-beyond-his-years youngster.  It was into that need that Rigo Carrales stepped.  He began to protect Juan from the most egregious of the abuses perpetrated by some of the more hardened men who lived with them in the common housing.

Rigo was part of a radical organization gaining popularity among the young of Mexico and the southern United States.  Their goal was to overthrow the Mexican government and replace it with a Socialist one.  Rigo was one of the more effective recruiters of the quickly growing movement and Juan was a prime candidate….

Follow the Butterfly

[Following is an excerpt from something I wrote a couple of years ago.]

It was a large yellow and black butterfly common at the particular time of year and place – not a Tiger Swallowtail, but something similar.  It had touched my arm in one fleeting second as though to say, “Follow me.”  So, I did.  I followed it.

The heat was oppressive in the densely tangled thickets as I made my way over fallen logs and through tangled briar in pursuit of the gossamer-winged insect that stayed just ahead of me.  It was as though it waited for me to bull my way through the foliage of the deep-shaded woods that lay before me.  I was drawn to it as a bee to pollen.

It was merely a six-legged creature of the forest, yet deep within I knew I was deceived by appearance.  There was something more to this wondrous flitting beauty bouncing on the imperceptible air currents of the deepening forest.  Then it was gone.

I froze in my tracks, looking about me for the bright yellow flutter that had led me into the darkness, but it was not to be seen.  Then, as if from a trance, I became aware that I was in a place I had never been before.  I thought I had explored every inch of this forest between the creeks, yet nothing around me seemed familiar.  The dead fall, the tangled briars, the occasional beam of light shining brightly on a trembling leaf – nothing was familiar.  I was in a place I had never been before.

It was no bother, merely a wonder to me.  I knew that with only a small effort and a short hike I could reach the edge in any direction – a fence, a meadow, a wandering stream – I would enter the known in moments if I only struck out but, I waited.  I felt disoriented.  There was enticement in the unknown.  I wanted to remain in this place where the familiar was unfamiliar.

The forest is a noisy place.  The sounds of insects, frogs, birds, the skittering creatures stirring the leaves filled what felt like silence but was never silent.  It was a place where fear could seize but did not. 

I searched for a place to sit and listen.  The crumbling logs encrusted with fantastic arrays of mushrooms, toadstools and various other fungi drew my gaze until I sensed the presence of the tiny slithering insects that filled their rotten core.  There were no rocks, no fresh-fallen timber, only decay and the refuse of fallen leaves and twigs and the occasional scrawny tuft of grass rising from the moldering proto-soil.

I wanted to absorb, to enter into the world around me in ways that I had never done before.  I wanted my senses filled with the odors, sounds, sight and feel of this seemingly primeval place.  I wished to merge with the forest – to make it one with me.

Before me stood an ancient tree, an oak, and its limbs reaching skyward before curving down toward the earth.  Some of the lower limbs touched the rotting forest floor only to curve upward again with a burst of foliage at the tip, reaching for stray sunshine filtering through the scant spaces above.  It was covered by lichens and moss.  The upper foliage obscured the sky but for the occasional space where some damaged limb had come crashing to the ground, only to lie in place until the unseen workers had converted it to soil.

Early Morning Leaves

Autumn leaves,
Falling to swirl
In the sharpness of
An icy breeze,
Rustle under foot
While the silvery pearl
Perches watchfully
Against a sequined gown
Of ebony,
Waiting
For bright slivers
Of morning
To crest
The inky fingers
Of dimly seen
Sources
Of the rustling,
Crunching
Shards.

Technology Dependence

Computer viruses are something with which we all must deal,
Although, it hasn't always been that way.
Until we became dependent on these infernal electronic machines
We'd never heard of such things back in the day.

I have always been quite careful about security
And have anti-virus software everywhere
But, I managed to contract one just the other day
By opening an e-mail unaware

That it contained a virus.  It was from my loan officer
Who was taken by surprise in much the same way that I
Received a document from him that required me to
Enter information to unlock it due to its confidential nature

And I was immediately suspicious so, I quickly e-mailed
Him back to ask if it was legitimate to which I received a reply
That it was and all I had to do to access it was to enter
The requested information regarding my own e-mail account.

Unbeknown to me I was corresponding with a hacker who
Was spoofing his address and in the process of all
I managed to let a virus into my own personal e-mail account.
Immediately I changed my password and thought that I had

Stopped the attack, but it was too late.  Hopefully, I prevented
The spread of the virus, but in the process I lost all of my
Contact information that was in my e-mail Contact files
And when I tried to restore it from my iCloud account I lost it there as well.

So, now I am lost and if I didn't have your cell number
Or, e-mail address stored elsewhere, or couldn't re-create
Them from past documents, I don't know how to contact
You.  Sigh.  Technology dependence stinks.

The Tides of a Future History

With only a couple of weeks before the mid-term elections we have highly publicized immigrant caravans marching from Honduras through Guatemala and Mexico toward the U.S. border.  The timing seems contrived.  Such a trek is expensive and it is amazing how much news coverage is being devoted to the caravans.

I am currently reading a book called, "Inside the Revolution," by Joel C. Rosenberg.  It covers the history of the rise of radical Islam which led to the attack on the twin towers and the expanding global terror in the name of jihad.  I mention it here because the book reviews the failure of the U.S. leadership as well as the leadership of other countries to recognize the rising radicalism and how it could ultimately impact our country and destabilize the world political systems.

Could it be that a similar failure is occurring even now as we watch the unfolding battle between law and lawlessness in our own country?  The caravans are only one of the many symptoms.  The general incivility of many groups is another.  Violence is becoming a first resort -- not the last.

In most parts of the world a migrant caravan would be met with an escort to a refugee camp.  If they are indeed attempting to escape an environment of danger from lawlessness (which is being claimed), why should they be allowed to enter our country by unlawful means?  Political refugees should be given asylum through following appropriate steps of vetting and education to our legal and economic system.  Systematic, orderly handling of them is called for, not the idea being espoused by many of opening our borders to an uncontrolled flow.

The American people are blind to world events and the effects of events occurring in other countries.  Too often we duck our heads and just say, "leave us alone."  That approach will lead to cataclysmic events such as the bombing by jet of the World Trade Center.  We must learn to "see" with wisdom, not with a selfish insular pride in our accomplishments.

The issues are global and we will not be left untouched.  We must control our borders, but we also must realize that conditions elsewhere drive the behaviors that will undermine our security.  Our greatest export is Capitalism and the rule of law through a system of governance that protects the rights of people from the overreach of oppressive or chaotic rule.  Government should derive from the consent of the governed as is inherent in the design of our Constitution.  Instead, throughout much of the world, people are treated as the expendable pawns of those who would accrete power and wealth in an insatiable quest for more.  Wake up America.

A Snippet from "Making of an Outlaw"

Some days it is hard to come up with something about which to write.  Today is one of those days, so I have provided a small snippet of something I started on awhile back.

It was a soggy day.  Sometimes a light shower and at others a downpour, it had rained for three days straight.  It wasn’t cold so much as just the persistent, soaking wetness that sent shivers through Jake at intervals as he plodded through the puddles; three interminable days.

In a way, the rain was a blessing.  It erased tracks and kept the timid indoors.  High creeks had been a problem.  The detours, though, had probably helped to throw any followers off the trail. 

The plodding rhythm of hooves lulled Jake into a complacency that allowed vivid memories of the previous few days to come boiling up in his mind…. 

Fort Smith had been quite a place.  It was crawling with both Yankee and Rebel sympathizers as well as men from both sides of the recent conflict who only months before had been fighting each other.  Tension was high and shots often rang out when tempers reigned unchecked.  That was part of what had set Jake to traveling south.

Having grown up in Missouri, a border state, Jake was familiar with local sentiment that publicly followed whatever troops were in the neighborhood.  Mostly, people just wanted to be left alone.  The hill people, his people, chose where they lived because they craved a place where they were free to carve a life for themselves.

The Ozark hills were home to Jake.  He grew up on the mountain overlooking Swamp Hollow and Sellers Creek....

A Brief Beach Respite

We arrived at our destination near the Gulf Coast and found we had about 4 hours until it was necessary to get ready for the event we were there to attend.  After checking into our hotel we decided to make a quick run to the beach.  After all, who can resist the temptation when you are as close as we were?  It was only a short distance to the small town of Matagorda, Texas, at the mouth of the Colorado River.

The highway runs along the banks of the Colorado which in reality has been confined to a dredged channel that makes its way in straight lines through the tidal flats behind the line of barrier islands that line the coast of Texas.  As we headed toward the shore, on our left was what appeared to be an unending landscape of water and grasses, wading birds and sand, while on our right were brightly colored houses on stilts with driveways full of boats on our side, or boats tied to docks on the water side which was to their rear.  The Colorado made a perfect highway for the marine traffic headed in and out of the Gulf.  There were all types of craft from shrimp trawlers to speed boats.

The estuarial flats to our left held many waterfowl of various types.  The large number of egrets and herons on their long legs, probing the mud with their pointed beaks is always interesting.  There were also occasional fishermen, mostly with small seines which they threw into the deeper pools in search of baitfish.

As we approached the end of the highway we could see a low line of barrier dunes with another line of colorful stilt-houses angling away to the north, while to the south, the river widened into the terminus of Matagorda Bay which stretched further to the southwest, its entrance being much further to our south at Port O'Conner.

Having only a small amount of time and not being dressed appropriately for the beach, we were contented to walk out on the public pier which jutted out into the gulf.  It ran long and straight across the dunes and out over the water for a couple of hundred yards, terminating in a stairway that led down to the artificial barrier which stretched even further as a protection against erosion of the beach to our south.

We stood for a good while near the end of the pier watching the fishermen occasionally reel in a bull red or a black drum from the surging waters.  The brown pelicans floated upon the water until drawn to sail along the crest of the incoming waves, riding unseen currents pushed ahead of the water as it swelled toward the wide sandy beaches.

The peacefulness of the incessant waves washing the sand and the cool ocean breeze was a calming respite difficult to leave.

Books and Baristas

As we rolled into the small town in the middle of the Texas Coastal Plain we decided to explore a bit.  We were in the heart of the cradle of Texas Liberty, the original Austin Colony surrounded us, if only in the historic land deed records.  We had covered many miles of rain-soaked Blackland prairies with open cotton bolls stringing their white fiber into the mud.  Harvest should be in full swing, but instead, the tall plants, sporting green and redish leaves were still growing and the cotton was rotting.
Some of the towns scattered through this fertile belt had roots that preceded the Texas revolution.  Their downtown areas of red brick storefronts were often empty and abandoned, but in places where pride still prevailed, many were restored to a semblance of their original glory.  It was the kind of downtown for which we were searching on our trek across the area.

We were on a schedule, so we didn't have much time to explore, but as we left the town square of this particular town we spied a sign that drew us like a magnet.  It read, "Books, 25 cents!"  Fortunately there was a parking spot right in front of the door.

You might think parking would be a simple task in a small town in the middle of nowhere, but that isn't always the case.  This particular establishment also offered coffee in various flavors and sizes in the knock-off of yuppiedom that has become familiar throughout the country.

Before entering the ancient wood and glass door we quickly perused the offerings on the wheeled book shelves framing the entry.  The choices were few, but a couple found their way into my hand and wouldn't let go as I made my way into a tastefully appointed combination coffee house and used book store with ample reading areas and young people scattered with open laptops, sipping their exotic brews and surfing the Internet.

Just inside the door was a second shelf with additional offerings at the advertised price of which I chose an additional work of fiction before sauntering to the shelves which lined one side of the building.  The enticement of the low-priced offerings quickly turned to disappointment as the well-picked shelves held little else that drew me or my bride of 36 years.

As we browsed the selections, we noticed the line to order coffee steadily grew as did the wait time.  Our early arrival on this fine Saturday morning apparently preceded the local rush for caffeine and we reluctantly joined the que with our selections in hand.

The one clerk/barista busily bounced between flavorings and machines which ground the roasted beans and then added water or other ingredients that were whipped into a froth while emitting pleasant odors which filled the air.  Having had sufficient stimulant for the day, neither of us were interested in ordering, but continued to wait patiently for our turn at the checkout counter with my three selections.

As I stood there, a young lady joined the quickly growing line and it was obvious that she was somewhat impatient to reach the counter.  I offered to let her precede me, but after viewing the numbers ahead she laughed and declined saying, "I'll just go through the McDonald's drive through.  This place has the best coffee in town, but I don't have time to wait."

Eventually, the counter was reached and I paid my $0.75 plus tax and placed the remaining change from my dollar in a Styrofoam cup for the use of the next person who might be short a few cents.

Was it worth the wait?  Absolutely!  Who can pass up 25 cent books!

Playing Games

I grew up playing cards and dominos;
It’s how I learned to count;
It’s something I enjoy to this day.

Other skills developed
From the playing of those games
Like strategy and tactics,

Memory and bluffing and
Reading your opponent
By the way that they played.

Those things have all been useful
In business and in life
And I’m happy that we still have time to play.

Just last night we played
A game of Spades with my in-laws
Like so many times we’ve played through the years.

Staring Into the Fire

I sit and stare into the fire,

Watching flickering flames

That dance among the charred remains.

Windows to my thoughts are pulled

By figures prancing there

Within the soaring vapors

That burst in vibrant colors,

Red, orange, yellow and blue,

Still not consumed.

A tiny stream of gray and black

Rises over all,

Escaping scents to draw the nose

Of passing life downwind

Pausing in fear of conflagration

To cleanse before renewal.

I'm drawn by some primeval force

To reach out, warming

Hands and toes that need not

Yet are pulled to feed

With broken limbs the cresting waves

Of shifting light as evening sets

And darkness creeps from every side

Until only glowing embers

Release their tiny sparks to die.

Traveling a Shrinking World

Have you ever thought about how mobile we've become?
It seems now second nature to us all.
We jump right in our car to head to town
To eat out, or to the store without a passing thought
Of how it is such a blessing to be able to do so.

Then, there are those of us who travel for our work
And it is nothing to drive to an airport and jump in a plane
For a meeting halfway across the country that
May only last an hour or two before we jump
Back on a different plane for a trip somewhere else.

Vacations also are a time for travel for the mass
Of people in this land who think nothing of
Catching a ship out of some port for a trip out into
The Caribbean or the Mediterranean to see places
That match the photos in some book read long ago.

For most of history man has traveled places far
From his home in search of discovery or, for commerce
With people living far away, but for much of
That history it was only the privileged few
Who traveled regularly around the globe.

We take for granted this thing, this amazing
Mode of combining experience with what we
Have learned from reading or, discussing with
Others about the world just moments, or maybe
Hours, or even days away that is now within our reach.

A Wooly Rodeo

Years ago, when just a kid,
There were some crazy things I did
That kids today will never have the chance.

Like going to feed my first show calf
On the edge of town, about a block and a half
At Smitty's house because he had some pens.

We lived on the edge of town
And twice each day I would walk down
Or, ride my bike to take care of that calf.

Smitty kept some sheep there
And succumbing to a friendly dare
We one day had a mini rodeo.

Riding on those wooly sheep
Upon whose back we'd quickly leap
Until we ended in a dusty pile.

Now, Smitty was the sheriff
And we had not asked him if
We could ride those sheep he kept there in that pen.

He happened to arrive at home
With lights flashing on the dome
Of the sheriff's car in which he drove.

It seems someone had seen us
And called him just to discuss
What we were doing to his wooly herd.

We thought we might just go to jail
Or, maybe that our hides he'd nail
To the side of one of his old rusty barns.

While we stood and waited
For the judgement we were fated
My mother showed up 'cause she had been called.

To say she wasn't happy
Was as understated as could be
And she said, "Just wait until your father gets home."

I think you know the rest
Of how a leather belt will test;
I don't think I could sit for 'bout a week.

Yep, Stuff Happens

I slipped some rubber boots
Upon my size eleven feet
And looked out at the cold rain falling down

Where only weeks ago
The dry and dusty ground
Had made my face to wear an ugly frown.

The calves were in the weaning lot,
Eager mouths despite the rain,
So I loaded up some bags to meet their need.

Squishing through the mud
That was sucking at my feet
I quickly set about to pour their feed.

As they pushed and shoved each other,
Greedy for the tasty fare,
I slipped and slid around, my feet unsure

Until they accidentally bumped me,
Knocking me right off my feet,
Into a pile of steaming fresh manure!

(This didn't really happen, but it very well could have.)

Repetition

It seems so hard sometimes to write
Something new that might delight
The minds of those who there would read
Some thought to fit unspoken need.

The themes repeat and oft I find
The same things spill from out my mind
As I have written here before
That I would choose to say no more

For it seems there's nothing new
Beneath each waking sky so blue
That hasn't happened o'er and o'er
In my own life in days of yore.

It gives me pause to stop and think
How short our lives are, just a wink
In time that moves in steady stream
As though we live in waking dream

Repeating themes through day and night,
Some that vex and some delight,
As if there's something we should learn
But, fail in quest to fully earn

An understanding why it's so,
This thing of which we all should know,
And so repeat mistakes we must
Until we learn to fully trust

The Father who gives many chance
To those who fall within his glance
Our faith in him to fully place
While we run our earthly race.

A Reason

I would like to travel
Far across the globe
To all the places that I've never been.

And when I've seen the places
That I've never seen before
I'd like to visit all of them again.

It isn't just the scenery
That draws me on my way,
It's the people and the different ways they live.

It's learning how they differ
And how they are the same
Compelling me my time on earth to give

To something higher,
That is more than just what's me,
Whose focus is on getting through each day.

I know that there's a purpose
To my fleeting time on earth;
Perhaps it's helping others on The Way.

Why Do We Read What We Read?

Last night we talked about books.
When the subject was favorites,
The answers were all fiction.

When the subject was "most important,"
The answers were less conclusive
But, generally stated in categories.

The discussion is revealing because
It points to the desire, no, need,
For escape into that which stimulates

The imagination and offers vicarious
Existence in realms beyond
That in which we are now, or ever expect to be.

Though influences which shape us
Into what we are endure throughout
Our brief and flickering lives,

We hunger for something more, for
Something which transports us into
That for which we subconsciously sense we are made.

In the words of an old gospel song,
"This world is not my own, I'm just a passing through....

Unwritten Thoughts

This is now the third time
That I've started here to write
Something on this blank page
Here before my sight.

It isn't that I'm struggling
With something here to say
It's just that I don't like
For it to come out in a way

That might be taken wrongly
By someone who might read
The thing that I have written
Of some remembered deed

So, instead I'll write this nonsense
That obscures my current thought
That perhaps should be written
But, today, I think will not.

Buckets of Catfish

Many, many years ago,
I can't remember when,
It rained for days and days on end.

All the playa lakes were filled
And the draws ran wide and full
Until there was no way in or out of town.

My grandparents lived out north
On the Running Water Draw
And kept their cows on pasture there.

The water was swift and wide
And took out all the fences and
Cows were stuck in spots above the flood.

As the waters started down
It became necessary to patch
All the fences that had washed away.

Grandpa seemed to have no fear
Of the rushing water so
He mounted Bugger Red, his favorite horse,

And swam across the draw while
Carrying a roll of barbed wire
Held out away from the horse in one hand.

He fixed what he could
Then swam back across to where
We waited and watched as he worked.

For the next several days,
As the waters receded, he would
Work on the fence until the gap had been sealed.

Weeks later when there was
Nothing left of the flood but a few
Muddy water holes, my uncles and I

Took buckets and rakes
Down to the draw and raked catfish
Out of those holes by the dozens.

One Step Ahead

Some days it would be nice to sit,
The cares and worries to forget,
But, there are tasks yet to be done
With each and every rising sun.
Though some days I may be tired
Of things that would have me mired
I choose to place a foot ahead
Along the path on which I'm led
Until the sun breaks bright and free
As troubles there before me flee
If faith I place in Him alone
Who for my failures did atone.

"Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully administering God's grace in its various forms."  1 Peter 4:10

A Grand Visit

When grandkids come to visit us
It's always a good time;
They truly are a joy in our lives.

We read and we watch movies
And we go to check the cows,
Pick flowers and chase bugs

Around the pasture or the lawn
Or, play with trucks and buckets
In the dirt until it looks like

A major construction project
Is underway in the backyard.
There's helping Nana cook

Something special for a treat
And cleaning up the mess when all is done.
When the day has wound away

And the tiredness starts to hit,
After baths and brushed teeth
And super hero pajamas are donned,

There's time for one more book
And lots and lots of hugs
Then peaceful dreams until the coming day.

Finally Fall

Changing weather
Colorful leaves
Harvest time
Grain trucks
Cotton bales
School starts
Pep Rallies
Football games
Marching bands
Homecoming parades
Bonfires
Hunting season
Pumpkin carving
Indian corn
Holidays
Felt hat
Jackets on
Jackets off
Northern winds
First frost
Crisp nights
Fire lights
Family gatherings

A Road Map

I think, as I recall,
It was about in third grade
That we were taught in school
To read a map.

It is something that
Instilled in me a love
For such things and at one time
I considered a career

In Cartography which is
The art of creating those
Maps that are a window
Into the imagination,

Much like the written word.
I remember many trips
Taken with my family
In which I would sit with

Map unfolded in the back
Seat as I traced our progress
Along the route from where
We began to where we

Were headed and I would
Ask questions about the places
Along the way and why we
Didn't take alternate routes.

Through the years I have
Accumulated maps of various
Places and I have them tucked
Away in boxes or drawers

And I even have a giant cardboard tube
Received from the United States
Geological Survey that contains
Detailed maps of Texas

That if unrolled would cover
Four walls in our home.
Maps have been a source of joy
For me through the years.

As I write this I have beside me
A 2018 Official Travel Map of
The State of Texas with the photo
Of an American Bison on the front

That was taken at Caprock Canyons
State Park which is one of my favorite
Places to visit.  When unfolded,
It covers the top of a table

Where I can look at all of the
Roads and rivers and counties
And cities and tiny wide spots
Along the way that dot

Our mighty state and I
Remember places where I have
Been and think of those where
I have yet to go and my mind

Wanders until I realize I
Need to get on with my day
And so I neatly fold the map
And place it back on the shelf.

It was then my thoughts came
Full circle to that third grade
Class where we learned to fold
The map properly.

Kids today just close the application
On their "smart" device.
They will never know the frustration
Of an improperly folded map.

Enduring Gratification

In this world of "want it now!"
It's hard to see too far
Down a road that requires
A very different approach.

We are conditioned to "just do it!"
Yet, that instant gratification
Expends the energy in a moment
That is needed for a marathon.

Things that are truly worthwhile
And not just a momentary glimmer
Require time and commitment
And often, great effort to achieve.

Unless our vision extends beyond
The transitory present and encompasses
A world beyond self -- perhaps
An extended self of multiple generations,

The result of our life is merely
Satisfaction of momentary needs
And desires that wither as the grass,
Leaving no everlasting mark

Upon the landscape as we pass
Hurriedly through this life
As a flickering mirage of
Self indulgent flesh to leave

This world unchanged from when
We entered in the very same form,
Whereas those who would truly
Make a mark with their life find

Great satisfaction in knowing their
Tireless efforts, resulting in tiny,
Incremental improvement in the
Lives of others, endure.

Cultural Sensitivity

What is this thing they call Cultural Sensitivity?
Growing up we never thought about such things.
I recall a phrase from many years ago that said,
"Different strokes for different folks."

Then there is Cultural Appropriation.
What exactly does that mean?  My favorite foods are
What are referred to as Mexican food, or Tex-Mex.

Is it now against appropriate societal norm for me
To eat Mexican food?

Ridiculous isn't it?

The trends toward retained cultural identity
Divide us rather than unite.

It seems to me our country has thrived on incorporation
Of ethnic variety.  How many of you
Like Italian food such as spaghetti?

Maybe we should consider how words have crossed
Boundaries that are being arbitrarily re-set
To restrict the blending that is truly,
But not uniquely, an American strength.

I was recently chastised online for my use of the word
Tribe.  Apparently it is inappropriate for me,
A non-native American to use it.

Tribes have been around from the beginning of time.
What about African tribes?

Offense is too easily taken.

Making an issue of Cultural Sensitivity is tribalism,
However, my stating that fact is deemed offensive.

Wedges of division are being driven into our society
From every angle.  We must resist such tactics
Or, the fragmentation will lead to violence.

Civility should be the norm, but the current form
Of Cultural Sensitivity should be thrown out the
Window.  We the People is a phrase that is
All inclusive.  Divided we will fall.

Army Worms

This summer was a trying one in terms of growing grass
To feed our hungry cows
Because our normal rains came early and heavy so
The Spring was good but
Quickly fizzled into dried stems and dust until
By the end of August we were
Scrambling for pasture and there was no hay to be
Found for a reasonable price
Anywhere within a few hundred miles which meant
The freight alone made it too high.

September came and we received enough of the precious
Moisture from the sky to get
Some late growth on the summer grasses and to give a
Start to the winter ryegrass which
Is a necessary part of the annual cycle of grasses that
Grow in our area and our
Optimism had returned that perhaps we would get by
And there would be enough
Late forage grown that the demand for hay would ease
And we might be able to buy.

Then came the invading host like a Biblical plague
And within a day the hatch
Became a seething horde which swept the landscape bare
Except for gray, leafless stems
Where the promise had stood the day before giving
Hope for a year, redeemed by
The late summer rains which finally fell upon the parched
And weary land that thirsted
For so long, but now had once again fallen to an army
Of wriggling worms already gone.