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.

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

Inside Job

As I sit and watch the snow falling on the Plains, I'm thankful that my job is not one that requires me to work out in the cold. I see pickups with trailers driving by with horses saddled for checking the cattle on wheat pasture. Their winter coats are long, but you can see them bunched forward under the half-top to try and escape the biting wind.

Through the fogged windows, you catch a glimpse of a hat pulled low and a bright splash of color that is a "wild rag" for keeping the wind from pushing down the front of the insulated coveralls that are partially open to let the heat soak in until he gets to the next pasture.

He pulls into the Quick Stop for a can of Copenhagen and some coffee. His face is red behind the two-day growth that looks like a sheet of sandpaper. Grinning, he cuts up with the clerk as she hands him his change. He heads out the door and throws the new can on the dashboard, then grabs the empty which he pitches into the back of the truck where it lands in a pile of straw. The black-and-white Border Collie sniffs it as it rolls to a stop against the spare trailer tire that needs to go to the shop.

Climbing in, he pauses to take a dip and then a sip of coffee. He listens to the Market Report as he puts it in gear and heads south. He's got two more pastures to go and then he'll head to the Ranch House for lunch. It's already been a long day.