Good Help is Hard to Find

A worn out old pickup turned off the highway and crossed the cattle guard into what looked to be a promising spread.  The dust boiled up behind the rusty stock trailer bouncing along behind him on the ranch road as he headed inland toward what looked to be the Headquarters.

As his tires crunched the gravel and he rolled to a stop, the owner stepped out on the porch and waited as the slightly bent door of the old Chevrolet squeaked and popped as it was opened by the lanky visitor who hollered a "Howdy" as he slammed the door and headed toward the house.  It seems he badly needed work and had his horse and tack but, needed room and board and a little something to tuck away for the future.

The rancher eyed him hopefully because help was hard to find and this old cowboy appeared to wear the positive signs of knowing his stuff, but there was always a catch so, he asked the question, "What kind of work are you looking for?"

The grizzled old puncher said, "I been horseback my whole life.  I know cows better than I knew any of my three wives.  Why, I've worked ranches all across the west and can give you plenty of references."

The rancher rubbed his chin and said, "I've got plenty of work and I can supply the room and board and a pretty good wage, but the work will be hard and the days long.  We're spread out over 40 miles and I'm short handed.  You can start in the morning.  The bunkhouse is behind the barn and if you'll get your gear stowed we'll have supper here at the house around six.  You'll find hay in the barn and you can put your horse in the corral out back."

With a grin and a hand shake the old cowboy felt his luck was finally changing.  He pulled his rig around back, unloaded Old Red and hauled his entire life's accumulation of property into the bunkhouse.

Supper was beef and beans with a side of corn bread and the pleasant company of the rancher's wife.  Conversation mostly consisted of the old cowboy sharing tales of his travels around the country and the spreads he had worked.

The next morning, long before daylight, breakfast of pancakes and eggs with bacon and hot coffee greeted the old cowboy who anxiously awaited the day's instructions which the rancher had carefully withheld the night before.  As they walked outside the owner asked, "Do you have a good set of gloves?"

"Yep, I keep a pair of nice, soft calfskin gloves.  I find they're the best for handling a rope or, a hot iron."

The rancher said, "You may want something a little tougher today.  I've got several pair I can supply you.  Here's the keys to that old pickup you saw parked in front of the barn.  If you'll hook it up to that trailer load of cedar posts and meet me back here in about 30 minutes you can follow me up to the north place where I've got about 3 miles of fence that needs built."

The cowboy's face fell as he turned and headed to the barn.  He looked in the back of the old truck and saw the rolls of "devil's rope" stacked there and said a few choice words to himself before pitching the keys in the seat of the old truck.  He then headed to the bunkhouse, grabbed his gear, then loaded Old Red in the rusty trailer.

The rancher heard churning gravel as he came back out to the sight of the worn out old pickup headed back toward the highway, dust boiling.  He shook his head and laughed to himself.  "If that old cowboy knew we were just going to deliver that pickup and trailer to the fencing crew he would have stuck around.  I guess he didn't need work that badly after all."

A Tale of Three Friends

Three amigos went to town

Dressed in their finest clothes

With payday bulging in their pockets,

Following their nose.

They stepped into a local bar

And plopped their money down

For a bottle full of whiskey

So they could paint the town.

Jingling spurs were on their boots

And hats sat on their head;

They planned to have a good old time

Before they went to bed.

They met three ladies painted bright

And then commenced to dancing;

They were whooping and a hollering,

You should have seen them prancing!

But, three bad hombres took offence

At the noise they were making

And seeing they had money

Thought it would be easy taking

So, they picked a fight which moved outside;

The crowd right there observing

To see what these young friends might do;

The scene was quite unnerving.

When one bad hombre said to them,

"We're here to spoil your fun!"

To which replied one of the three,

"Why, the fun has just begun!"

Three cowboys out to paint the town

After weeks out in the brush

Weren't about to let three local toughs

Take them in a rush.

They met the onslaught like old pros

With fighting in their blood

And left those hombres in the street

Just lying in the mud.

The three then headed back inside

With the ladies on their arms,

Exhibiting for them to see

Their simple cowboy charms.

They danced and sang throughout the night

Until they shut the old place down

Then the three amigos caught their mounts

And headed out of town

With empty pockets, bellies full

And tales of what they'd done;

Their ride was full of laughter

Just reciting all the fun.

Dust-covered Memories

Flour-fine dust floats in the air from my quiet footsteps into this space where the smell of horses and manure once dominated.  The glory days are gone and the stalls are empty.  Dried clumps scattered along the way indicate a bovine presence has recently partaken of the shade which once sheltered more stately beasts.

My mind drifts to sweat-soaked saddle blankets and creaking leather sliding off the slick back of a four-legged friend in need of a curry comb scratching to ease the itching hide after hours under a heavy load bent on searching out the cows who didn't want to be found.  The gentle nicker conveys impatience to be rolling in the dust instead of standing patiently while the necessary is accomplished.  It is the same dust.  The same smell.

Gnawed ancient pine, sagging hinges, the faint scent of mouse droppings and loose feathers from the sparrows and swallows and pigeons that nest in the rafters steal the image and turn it to regret for days past and unfilled dreams.  A yellow jacket, walking circles around some invisible attraction, draws my attention and remembered burning, swelling, reddened welts in times past bid caution against the gold and yellow winged demons of childhood nightmares.

Allergies -- to the dust and dander and pollen and yes, the venom of the yellow jacket were my nemesis, yet still I pursued.  Love and passion overcomes all enemies.

A cockle burr, ungerminated and half covered by the fine dust, brings memories of hoof knives cutting into the tangled mats while a stamping hoof signaled it was time to be done with this.  Slack reins, lowered head, thumps in time to my steps and the rattle of the chain against the rock-hard wood of the gate signals the day is done.

The stiffened skeleton of an old set of reins hangs from a nail -- spliced together with a couple of slits and end-through-end ran through each other -- a cowboy patch in a pinch. Dried and cracked.  No longer useful.  Age and white speckles of bird droppings turned Appaloosa instead of the supple, weak coffee and fresh smell of their working days.  More sadness.

I think of Grandpa and his horses.  Bugger Red.  Bonnie B.  Ginger.  Joe.  A dusty barn and a wall of tack.  I was a wanna be, he was the real deal.

Heroes Wear White Hats

My heroes have always been cowboys;

At the top of the list was the King.

He could ride, he could shoot as he whipped the outlaws

And on top of that he could sing!

He rode on a horse that was everyone's dream

And Trigger was his name;

A gold palomino, swift as could be,

The fastest one in the game.

They don't make 'em like Roy and Dale anymore,

At least not up on the Big Screen.

Today they portray all the cowboys

As ornery, low-down and mean.

Hollywood needs to go back to the day

And make cowboys heroes again.

It's important for roles to be healthy for kids

And help the young boys become men.

[The photo above is one I took yesterday at the Briscoe Museum of Western Art in downtown San Antonio, Texas, of the saddle and bridle of Roy Rogers.]

The Harem

The Harem

Quality is the name of the game

For purebred cattle herds

So no expense is spared acquiring genes.

They arrive in tanks of nitrogen

In something we call straws

And delivered in a way that seems obscene.

It is the most efficent way

For improving of the herd

Because the best blood is often far away

So modern technology

Has taken the place

Of the purebred herd bulls today.

However, there are those

Among the lucky few

Who don't face humiliation in a cone

They get to roam the pasture

With the chosen of the crop;

They're like a king who sits upon a throne.

With their harem on display

They stand by the road all day

With an attitude of, "Hey, you -- look at me!"

You know it's just their job --

Passing traits on to the mob --

And it's just the way that it was meant to be!

Home Away From Home

Just for grins I am posting the poem below that I wrote back in March, 1990, when I thought I was something of a cowboy poet....

Home Away From Home

A one-ton club-cab pickup

Parked out front of Joe's cafe,

Guarded by a surley pup

That keeps the world at bay.

A thirty-thirty on a rack

That hangs behind the seat

Almost covered by spare tack

Just thrown in, none too neat.

A brass spitoon sits on the dash

That years back held a shine,

But, now is filled with mouldering mash

And covered up with grime.

Sale receipts and tally sheets

Are piled up here and there;

Flyers from the auction meets

Just thrown in without care.

A stray left glove lays on the floor

Among the ground-in dirt

With empty snuff can lids galore

And a once-clean extra shirt.

The left rear fender's dented in;

The imprint of a cow

Who battled rope but didn't win

And into it did plow.

Speckled mud from grill to ball,

This master of the road

Never even threats to stall

While pulling heavy load.

Lived-in, sure, and much abused

Made for one to roam;

O'er many a hard mile it has cruised,

This cowboy's second home.

The Mishap

Once upon a few years back, I worked for a rural, mixed-practice veterinarian. It was one of the ways I managed to earn enough to get through college. It was interesting work if for no other reason than the occasional mishaps that occurred. While working there I wrote the following poem (I kind of fancied myself as a cowboy poet). It is based on a true occurrence although slightly exaggerated. I call it:

The Mishap

I had an old cow with a bad cancer eye

That I hauled into town to the vet.

She was wild as a jackrabbit on a warm day

And could outrun a horse you can bet.

I pulled through the unloading area out back;

A new kid was running the gate.

We opened the trailer and the cow jumped right out

Blowin' snot and bellerin' her hate.

With considerable proddin' and a little finesse

She was headed right into the squeeze.

But, the kid on the headgate missed with the catch

And the old gal was gone with the breeze.

She couldn't get far 'cause the gates had been shut

And the place was designed for such things.

When lo and behold from the west end of the barn

We heard some terrified screams.

It seems the receptionist, much to her surprise

Had opened the door from up front

And come face to face with a one-eyed mad cow

Of whose rage she might be the brunt.

She dropped all the papers that she had been carrying

And jumped into an empty stall.

Just as you would guess, she left the door open

And the cow ran into the hall.

She charged right into the front waiting room;

By then Doc was close on her tail,

But the lady who sat there with the manicured poodle

Suddenly began to turn pale.

The poodle jumped up and crawled under the chair

But the lady was frozen with terror.

Doc had to work fast so he grabbed the cows tail;

He knew there was no margin for error.

Well, the tail did the trick and the cow spun around

And sent Doc flyin' through the air.

Then that old Hereford cow jumped over the counter

And smashed flat the front office chair.

Our luck finally turned, 'cause the cow saw her opening

And headed back out of the door.

Doc started tendin' to the sweet poodle lady

Who had fainted and fell on the floor.

We caught the old cow and Doc took her bad eye

Then began to clean up the mess.

That the kid who had first let the cow get away

Was concerned for his job, you can guess.

I loaded my cow after paying the bill

Which was only the standard fee.

Doc said, "There was nothing unusual about it.

It's just a normal day's work for me."

Don't Settle for Pretenders!

Because of the travel that I do with my job, I eat out frequently. Tonight, I went to "Whiskey Creek Steakhouse" in North Platte, Nebraska. It has been several years since I ate there. It was good then and it is still a good moderately priced place to eat.

One of the things that I find interesting is that many restaurants, especially steak or barbecue restaurants, have attempted a "Texas" theme. They frequently display Western movie posters on the wall, have wooden floors, barrels of peanuts (that you shell and throw the shells on the floor), country music playing, Lone Star Beer neon signs, and things of that nature. I find it humorous -- especially since many of them don't even have locations for their franchise in the Lone Star State. I often ask where the "home" of the chain is located. Usually the answer is a large city in the Upper Midwest or sometimes on the East Coast. They are fakes -- wannabes.

It reminds me of the Saturday Night Cowboys -- you know the type -- they've never been on a horse, probably work in an office, but have a pair of expensive boots and a "snap front" western shirt with a western yoke on the back and pocket flaps. John Travolta started a trend quite a few years back with one of his movies -- Midnight Cowboy I think was the name of it. It was about the guys who dressed western and went to a Honky Tonk on the weekend. Pretenders. The movie Brokeback Mountain (which I intend never to see) created a resurgence in the "snap front" shirts and western attire. It's almost embarrassing to me now to see someone wearing one.

The real cowboys that I know -- and living in cattle country I know quite a few -- often wear tennis shoes, a "gimme" cap and a Harley Davidson T-shirt. You see hats and boots too, but they are functional, well-worn, and dirty for the most part. If you see nice polished boots and a clean felt hat during the week, it's usually a salesman that calls on the livestock producers. I guess what it boils down to is that the real cowboys have nothing to prove. They aren't pretending to be something that they are not. They are just being who they are. It's refreshing when you think about it.

If you want to find a real Texas Steakhouse, go to Austin, Texas, and eat at Ruth's Chris Steakhouse at 6th and Congress (I know, Ruth's Chris didn't start in Texas but it got there as fast as it could). You won't find peanuts on the floor, but you will be treated right and served exceptional beef. Be prepared to pay for the quality -- but you will get quality. If you're looking for a real cowboy, don't look for pointy-toed boots with a glossy sheen, designer jeans, a "snap-front" shirt, and a funny looking crumpled-up loose-weave straw hat with feathers. Come out to the heartland of agriculture. Why settle for a pretender when you can have the real deal.

P.S. I hope I didn't step on too many toes out there!

Ear Him Down!

Back in the time when horses were broken rather than trained, the methods used probably would not have pleased the animal rights groups. The contest between the cowhand and the bronc usually became one of endurance and determination rather than a gentle "getting-to-know-each-other".

Usually the bronc was roped and snubbed (tied, for all you non-cowboy types) to a post. Then the "bronc buster" (cowboy) would have someone "ear the bronc down" while he put the saddle, blanket, and hackamore on the animal. This procedure could get pretty wild at times; hence, "earing him down". What this meant is that one of the cowboys would get close to the bronc, which sometimes was a life-endangering feat, and grab one of the animals ears and twist it. In fact, it was usually twisted and then bitten. While this was going on, another cowboy would put the saddle and blanket on and then the hackamore.

Once the animal was properly accoutered, the bronc buster would climb on his back, the rope would be slipped off, and then finally the one holding the ear would let go. That was when the fun began. From that point on, it was a test between the bronc that wanted to get rid of whatever was stuck on his back, and the bronc buster who intended that he stick there. It was purely a test of strength and will.

Now, the point of all of this is the ear. That ear was the key to the entire operation. By twisting and biting on it, the cowboy was able to distract the bronc long enough for the animal to be saddled and the bronc buster to take his seat. If it wasn't for that ear, the animal would have continued fighting with hoof and teeth and nothing would have been accomplished. The horse would never have been "broken", or trained.

We can all be like that bronc occasionally. Sometimes, something gets hold of us and we just go crazy. I'm not talking about fighting it out, I'm talking about going places in our mind and in our behavior that we wouldn't normally go if we were thinking straight. We need to be distracted from that wrong path to get back to where we need to be. It may take a friend or a spouse to accomplish the feat, but with a little attention and self-training, we can usually do it ourselves. When our mind engages the wrong things, we need to stop and re-focus our attention on the good. It will keep us out of trouble.

"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is admirable -- if anything is excellent or praiseworthy -- think about such things." Phil. 4:8 NIV

Ride for the Brand

In cattle country there is a code of behavior written in the hearts of men who ride the range and work the cattle on ranches from Alberta to Mexico. This code is basic to the belief system of those who rightfully claim the title cowboy. The code is simply this; when you hire on to an outfit, you ride for the brand. Now, for those of us who grew up in cattle country, this code is self-evident. It requires no explanation. However, I've found that as my wanderings have taken me beyond the bounds of cattle country into the realm of "big business", that people don't seem to understand the concept. So, let me explain.

The saying came from the fact that cattle are branded with a mark unique to the ranch that owns them. It was and is a symbol that "these are mine, keep your hands off!" In the days of open range this was especially important because often, ranches shared grazing lands. Throughout the year, the cowboys would brand the new calves with a brand that matched their mother's. Most of the cowboys carried a "running iron", or they would sometimes use a saddle ring which would be heated in the fire and used to apply the brand of the cow onto the calf. The honest cowboys would rope only the calves belonging to cows from the ranch they worked for, or occasionally a "maverick". A maverick was an unbranded calf whose mother couldn't be determined. The mavericks were the real problem. Many cowboy started their own herd by branding maverick calves with their personal brand. Riding for the brand came from the idea that the cowboy, if in the employ of a ranch, should brand the maverick calf with the brand of the ranch that he rode for. It was an issue of loyalty. You worked for the man that was paying you.

The concept of loyalty to an employer is rare in many businesses. Employees are loyal only as long as it is to their advantage to be loyal. Too often, they are just looking for the next opportunity. That concept of loyalty cuts both ways though. Most corporations today look at employees as a disposable asset. They often fire long-time employees for no apparent reason. Often they replace them with someone younger that will work for less money. It's too bad.

It's time we change the business world. Ride for the brand.

Old Tom

The jingle gives him away when he walks in the door;
He rarely arrives unheralded.
On a kid you might think it was merely for show
But the spurs in this case were a natural part
Of the handmade boots they adorned.
The hair's getting thin on the top of his head
But rarely is it ever seen for the paper-thin covering
So yellow with grease that it is almost transparent
Except for the crust that has turned to
Permanent decoration in the vicinity of the hatband.
The holes in the crown were made with a knife
To let the heat escape as it should. The stampede string
That drapes from the back is worn to the point
That some pony's tail will soon be missing a few strands
To be plaited back in by the fingers that are gnarled
And scarred by too many years of working the livestock
That is his life. Fluent in Spanish or English alike
He has worked the ranges from Argentina to Canada.
The wildest he said was the time he was shot down
In a Piper Cub over Uruguay by a band of guerrillas.
It seems they had been raiding stock from the spread
He was hired to patrol by a corporate owner in New York City.
I asked if that meant he was a mercenary to which he replied
"No, I was just the company troubleshooter."
Tom was once known in the outback of Paraguay
As that Christian cowboy because he never failed
To conduct a Sunday Service at his humble home
Which was open to all comers at all times.
His son once told me that he had made more money
Than most people will ever see in a lifetime but
Gave it all away because he couldn't survive
Without helping people needier than him.
The first time I saw him I felt sorry for this man
Who was wearing the worn-out shirt that had
Been patched at least a dozen times. I suspected
He was a down-and-out drifter that couldn't hold
A job and didn't have a nickel to his name. The
Next time I saw him he was sitting in a pickup
With a laptop making entries into a program he
Had written that could tell you in detail anything
Anyone would ever want to know about the operation
That he was responsible for. It seems that he had
Written his Masters Thesis over "cell grazing"
Back in the days before the concept had
Seen the light of any other researcher's eyes.
This Aggie was living the life that he loved
And loving the life that he lived because
He never lost site of his calling.
I'm proud to call him my friend.

Chivalry is Not Dead

Chivalry is not dead.
It lives on in those who think
There is truly a cowboy way.
It resides in a land of ma'am and sir.
It is the removed hat.
It is opening the door for the ladies.
It is almost humorous in its expression sometimes
Because it is filled with myth
And with a feigned humility
That cover a pride that holds
Little toleration for those
Who would be pretenders.
It is a club with initiation rites
As intricate as the most arcane
Fraternity rituals.
It is a seeming backwardness
Steeped in knowledge gained
Through a lifetime of learning
By watching the old hands
And from the hard knocks of
"Been there, done that."
It echoes the sounds of the deepest Ozarks,
The Texas Plains,
And the feedlots of Kansas.
It is at home in the fastness
Of a high mountain valley
Or on a western Indian Reservation.
It is heard in Elko, Billings, Brush,
Dodge, Kearney, Muleshoe,
Snowflake, Socorro, Gonzales,
And a thousand other towns and cities
Interrupting the landscape from the Mississippi
To the Pacific and from
The Valley to the Canadian North.
It lives on in all of its confused
And colorful expression, in the hearts
More than the mannerisms, of the
Modern mounted warriors
Who cling to the mistaken idea
That toughness is shown only
In physical endurance,
Hard drinking, and extreme living.
The contradictions abound.

John

Standing about six-foot-five
Plus two inches of boot heel
If you stood him up straight,
John is topped by a black
Felt hat that's pulled down
Tight because he doesn't like
To chase it in the wind.
Unless otherwise occupied
His thumbs stay hooked in his
Pants pockets because there's
Not much else to do with 'em
When he's talking to someone.
It used to be he always had
A ready smile for just about
Everyone that came his way
But the cares of trying to
Build his own herd have
Made that smile so scarce
You sometimes wonder if
His best friend just died.
His face is lined with years
That age him faster than the
Calendar or his friends from school
That went on to city jobs because
The pay was better and the work
Wasn't nearly so hard.
But John's a survivor made
From the stock that built this
Western country from scratch
Way back before the roads or
The fences cut it into nice, neat
Patches that call it tamed.
He's an anachronism --
Living a life that many a youngster
Once dreamed of living before
Reality crashed and sent them
Scurrying for safety and security.
Loneliness and wind and too much
Sun have left their mark on this man
That was born at least a hundred
Years after his allotted slot in
The ribbon of time had
Already passed by.

Dreams

After I've had some time to accumulate a few more posts on this blog, you'll likely begin to see a recurring theme. You will see ties to agriculture -- particularly cattle. For years I've made my living in various capacities associated with the livestock industry. It's probably because as a child, my dream was to grow up to be a cowboy. Isn't that surprising. I think most boys growing up in cattle country go through that phase at one time or another.

Although I grew up in town, I spent most weekends and summers on my granddad's farm or, as I got older, working for one of the farmers in the area. My love was always to be working with the cattle. I guess I was never a very good tractor driver. I had a strong tendency to drift off from the monotony and plow up a little cotton or corn here and there. Maybe that's why I usually got sent to the layout ground with a tandem disk!

When I headed to college, it was with the idea of becoming an engineer. It took me about two weeks to decide that was the wrong place for me. I switched to agricultural economics my second semester and found something that I could enjoy. In everything that I've worked at for the last ?? years, I've been at least somewhat connected to agriculture. Since the early 90's, I've been in businesses that served the livestock industry.

Some lucky people get to live out their dreams. For others, dreams evolve through the years into something different. I think God plants dreams in our hearts for a purpose. He wants us to wake up in the morning with something that pulls us forward to face the challenges. He plants new things and new people in our lives at just the time we need them. Sometimes it takes those new people and things to revive our dreams -- to remind us that we should keep pushing forward toward what He has planted in us. That doesn't mean we'll become the next "Nashville Star", but it might mean that we can use those talents and abilities in ways and places that we never even knew existed when those dreams were planted. It's likely they'll be even better than what we envisioned.