Houlihans And Horse Sense 8z31

Houlihans And Horse Sense

Vernon Schmid

Copyright © 2004 by Vernon Schmid.

Cover art by Joe Prater

Library of Congress Number: 2003195043 ISBN: Softcover 1-4134-4468-7 Ebook 978-1-4771-6398-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Houlihan

Why?

Garthed!

Brushing Up Against Fame

The Beginning of the End

Alternatives

Jack and Me

Charlie

Cowboy Church

Good Old Days Revisited

The Best Christmas Ever

The Day Ol’ Rick Bucked Off a Hayloft

Who Benefits from Farm Policies

The Hat

Happy Anniversary, Darlin’

The Truth of the Matter

Waylon, Willie, George and Me

Wranglers

Getting Hitched

Dude Horses

Mother’s Day Memories

Cowboy Story: A Found Poem

Good Guys and Bad Guys

Horse Mumbling

How Many Are There?

Language Lessons

My Old Mare

Nielson Family

Old Age and Treachery

Political Wisdom

Running is a Matter of Survival

The Brown Bomber

The Incredible Shrinking Cows and Horses

Prejudice

Just a Simple Handshake

God Dogs

Conversation with My Old Mare

Joe and Me and the Band

A Memorable Christmas

The Summer of Our Sorrow

A Singing Fool

Cowboy Boots

Backyard Creation Story

Cowboy Cures

Cowboy Time

Cowboy Insults

Educashun

Excuses, Excuses

Family Ties

Good Eatin’

Good Old Days Revisited

The Black Mare and the Cowboy

The Red Mule

War Horses

The Most Important Meal of the Day

The Truth about Tools

The Sight

California Chili: A Found Poem

Beef—It’s What’s for Dinner

Advance and Retreat

Geezers

The Rockefeller Center Incident

Summertime and the Living are Sweating

Ute Trail

The Poor Boy and the Mud Ponies

The Daddy of ’Em All

For my uncles,

John and Bert Amrine.

Like me, all they ever wanted to be was a cowboy, and for all the others who dreamed the cowboy dream.

Acknowledgements

All of the columns, articles, and poems contained in this collection were published in their original form in the Rising Sun (MD) Herald, the Herald County Times, the National Foundation Quarter Horse Journal, and the Christian Century. We are grateful for permission to reprint them.

Also by Vernon Schmid

Poetry Kissing Moctezuma’s Serpent Hog Killers and Other Poems Sleeping with Zapata Testament Canonical Hours As Tentative as Flight (co-author) Of the Heart and the Bread (editor) The Desert and the Dance Pilgrims Poets and Priests and Men Aspen Groves

Prose Showdown at Chalk Creek Seven Days of the Dog Media and Methods for Your Church War and Peace in the Land of Saints and Scholars

Drama Five Who Knew Jesus One Night in Daylight A Hare with Many Friends Between Eleven and Thursday

Houlihan

A form of roping wherein the roper throws a backhanded loop in a perpendicular way so that the animal runs into the loop and is caught, sort of like these columns.

“Every man has wanted to be a cowboy. Why play Wall Street and die young when you can play cowboy and never die?”

Will Rogers, July 10, 1931

Why?

They couldn’t believe it in the emergency room when I told them the wound in my arm was caused by a horse bite,” Joe said. “They took 26 stitches and I think they still thought I was lying.” Then, he went on to describe a broken foot and other injuries he incurred as a trainer. Tommy gives a crooked little grin as he talks about having reconstructive surgery on his face after being hit by a horse. And my rancher buddy Rick leans a little forward as he walks. That is the result of too many years riding broncs. My neighbor Jan has had her back broken in four places. She walks a little funny, too. My own aches and pains accumulate with the years, as well. One knee was a bashed up by a two year old filly back in ’49 on a ranch in Colorado and reinjured in ‘53 by a bucking horse who trapped me in a chute at a rodeo at Altamont, Kansas. A few years ago, I got bucked off while working a neighbor’s horse. I had to have a little wrist surgery after that incident. The first time that has happened in forty years. It took me a lot longer to recuperate from that little mishap. I am also a little deaf in one ear. Specialists tell me it is the result of a concussion I incurred when a horse reared up and slammed me above the ear with one of its front hooves in a parade in St. Paul, Kansas. Sitting around with friends talking about our experiences with horses it becomes brutally clear that we have collectively suffered all kinds of injuries. Many of those injuries plague us more and more as age slips up and pats us on the shoulder. One thing we all agree on is that most of our injuries were our own fault or just simple accidents. Most horses do not set out to hurt folks. It’s just one of those things that happen when you are working with horses. Then comes the question from folks outside the horse world, “Why? Why do something inherently

dangerous?” Well, either you love horses or you don’t. I personally do not believe you can be taught to care for horses the way some of us do. It’s kind of like the old question, “When did you decide to be a cowboy?” The answer is “You don’t choose to be cowboy. You are born that way.” The same holds true for horse folk. You can learn a lot about horses but the real horse people are just born that way. Stiff ts, aching knees, recurring pains, and funny ways of walking are just part of the joy. And the first question asked of the doctor after one of these injuries is, “How soon can I ride.”

Garthed!

When I was a boy, my daddy and my uncle both had dairy herds. Somewhere along the way, some researcher, probably with a federal grant, discovered that if you played classical music while milking cows gave more milk. Well, its years later and some folks are telling horse people that horses are more relaxed if they hear country music while in their stalls. Some friends of ours have a very nice stable with prize winning performance Quarter Horses and whenever you visit the barn, you hear country music being played in the background. So, being curious, we placed a small radio in our little barn and turned it to our local country music station so our two mares can listen to country music day and night when they are in their stalls. The other morning I came into the house after doing my outside chores and began my inside chores: writing this column and preparing to teach at the local community college. As I worked, I found myself humming a country tune. I hummed it and half sang it to myself, over and over and over again. I still have trouble getting it out of my mind. In fact, I heard it again this morning while in the barn and it’s off and running through my head again. I asked Miss Susan, my wife, why can’t I get this song out of my head? Her response was quick and to the point. You’ve been Garthed!” I never thought I would see the day when I would be afflicted by that particular malady. You see, I am a country music fan. However, my favorites go back a few years and include Johnny Cash, Kris Kristofferson, Bobby Bare, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Chris LeDoux, and Don Williams. Most of whom I’ve seen in concert thanks to generous gifts from my daughters. I am also too much of a penny pincher to buy concert tickets. The newest singer I really like to listen to is George Strait. However, that makes sense. George is a noted Texas Quarter Horse breeder, so he has some special marks to the good. But, new country has never done much for me.

Oh, I know Garth Brooks is from Yukon, Oklahoma. He knows the right way to wear a cowboy hat, so, he’s probably a good old boy. But, I just resist any of the new guys and gals on the block. I understand from Miss Susan, who saw him perform at Cheyenne Frontier Days, that he is a great showman. I also recognize that he sings some interesting lyrics. But, I am, as Gabby Hays used to say, “A leetle bit stubborn.” So, I resist new country as best I can. I sit in my study trying to write and the words keep coming back to me. Perhaps, it’s because I can relate to it. I’ve got friends in low places.”

Brushing Up Against Fame

It isn’t often that one can claim to have brushed up against fame. Nevertheless, I have had my moments. Some I vividly. Shortly after Miss Susan and I were married, nearly four decades ago, we were living in Colorado Springs and I had the privilege to ride in the Christmas parade with a familiar face from television. He was Roy Rogers’ sidekick on the television series. That’s right, former member of the Sons of the Pioneers and movie actor Pat Brady and his old Jeep, Nellie Belle. They were my designated transportation for the parade. Dressed in that same old battered straw hat he wore on the show, he was not as warm and friendly, or as stupid, as he appeared on all of those television programs. Pat had a little ranch near Colorado Springs and generously came into town to participate in various community events, whenever someone ed he was out there. It was nice to get to meet him even though he did seem a bit aloof. The other brush against fame left a bigger and better impression on me. It was back in the days when I was riding rodeo rough stock along the KansasOklahoma border. A friend of my mine came by one day and said, “There’s an old boy on a ranch down by Lenapah, Oklahoma who invites folks to come help him with his cattle every spring. I said I didn’t know if I wanted to go volunteer for that kind of hot dirty work. My friend said, “He feeds good.” That being the key phrase to get me to do any work, off we went on our fifty miles jaunt into Oklahoma. When we arrived, I discovered the ranch belonged to world champion steer roper Shoat Webster. Now, there was a gentleman that would do to ride the river with. In addition, Popcorn, the Hancock foundation bred Quarter Horse, which helped him win so many championships, was now retired in a private pasture, grazing knee deep in good, green Oklahoma grass. We jumped in and helped herd cattle, pushed the young stock through the chute

for shots, branding, and ear marking. It was hot and dusty work, but the companionship could not be beat. When noon came, Mrs. Webster and some helpers filled long shaded picnic tables with platters of beef and potatoes and all the fixings. There was lots of talking; cowboy and rodeo talk and good cheer. Then it was back to work. That evening as we drove north to our homes in Kansas, we mused about how nice the Webster’s were and I kept ing that horse in the pasture by the lane. We talked about his shiny coat and the love the Webster’s reflected in his continued care even after his rodeo days were finished. And my friend and I agreed, “They sure did feed good.” Shoat Webster and Popcorn have both been gone for some time now. But I have never forgotten that day and my brush with fame—a beautiful old, fast, tough brown horse named Popcorn and the cowboy who loved him.

The Beginning of the End

I met my old friend, Seth, the other day. He looked absolutely devastated. I asked why he was so depressed. That’s always a mistake. He told me. It seems a friend gave him a horse. So, he built a small run-in shelter that costs $750 and then fenced in a paddock at the cost of $450. He knew he would need hay, so he bought a small truck to haul the hay from the dealer to his barn. The truck cost him $12,000. He wanted to go places to ride his horse on trail rides, at team pennings, calf ropings, gymkhanas, and shows, so he bought a good used horse trailer for $2,800. Wanting company on his rides, he bought a second horse. It cost him $2,500. Needing a place to store hay and equipment he decided to build a larger shelter. It cost him $2,000. Then, he said, “I needed more fencing and that cost $1,200.” By now Seth really liked horses so he bought a third horse for $1,500. Then, of course, he needed a larger trailer and truck. They cost $25,000. Seth needed more pasture so he bought four acres next door for $28,000. That took more fencing at $2,000 and then he built a small barn for about $16,000. Things looked good. So, he purchased a camper for his truck for $9,000. The place was getting bigger all the time and now he needed a tractor. So, he bought one for $12,000 and then picked up two more horses and for another $5,000. Space was at a , so he looked around and found twenty acres. That cost him $125,000 and he built a house on the new property for $120,000 and a new barn for $26,000, more fencing & corrals all at a cost of $14,000. By now, its plain to seem, Seth was a serious horseman. So, he built a covered arena for $60,000, purchase a dually diesel pickup for $34,000 and a gooseneck trailer with living quarters for $32,000. Seth was off and running. Then he bought three more horses for $10,750. He decided that with all these horses he needed a trainer. So, he hired one for $40,000 a year and built him a house for $54,000. Then he bought a motor home for the big shows and that cost him $125,000. Then, he got some bad news.

His wife left him a note. She was running away with the trainer. He hired a lawyer that cost him $5,000. But, his wife still got everything. Old Seth gave up and declared bankruptcy. I stood there listening to him and felt tears well up in my eyes. Seth had lost everything. His heart was broken, his spirit shattered. I looked into those pain filled eyes and finally said to Seth, “I really feel sorry for you, old buddy. Let me give you a horse.”

Alternatives

Talking with Rags Bandy the other day I lamented the fact that teaching can be very challenging. He grinned, poured some coffee into his saucer to cool, and said, “You know, an old horse trainer once told me “If the horse you’re riding on dies, get off.” That seemed simple enough. I thought for a minute and searching for further clarification asked, “Is that all?” “Yep. Folks don’t seem to understand that there are a lot of alternatives to what they think is tried and true. If the horse your riding isn’t working out the way you think he should than you could always buy a stronger whip, try a new bit or bridle, switch riders, move the horse to a new location, or ride the horse for longer periods of time.” “I know,” I said. “But, most folks will say “This is the way we’ve always ridden this horse. And if you question them they try to appoint a committee to study the horse or arranging visits to other sites where they ride dead horses. Then they may just increase the standards for riding dead horses or creating a test for measuring our riding ability comparing how we’re riding now with how we did ten or twenty years ago.” “Sometimes,” Rags said, “they just complain about the state of horses these days.” “Yeah, or come up with new styles of riding, blame the horses parents believing that the problem is often in the breeding.” Rags chuckled and sipped his coffee. “Other options are tightening the cinch, or resuscitating the horse, or at least trying to.” I sat there soaking up his wisdom. Finally, it got late. I got up to leave. He said, “Ride on, Hoss. Ride on.”

Jack and Me

I suppose a hundred and fifty years ago Jack would have been a trapper and mountain man and I would probably have been a beat-up old cowboy. No matter, since we didn’t live a hundred fifty years ago. But, we did spend a few years together as teenagers fifty years ago in the upper Arkansas River Valley of Colorado. Our playground was the Sangre de Christo Mountains and the San Isabel National Forest. We rode, camped, fished, and hunted along Chalk Creek, Cottonwood Creek, and the Arkansas River, as well as the timberline Cottonwood and Kronke lakes. We rode the trails around Buffalo Peaks, Ruby Mountain, Midland Mountain, the collegiate peaks (Harvard, Yale, and Princeton) in what was once Ute territory, then Spanish, Mexican, and finally United States territory. It had a long history even before miners and cattle ranchers brought about even more change. We were saddle-pals before ski lodges, summer homes, white water expeditions, dude ranches, tourist attractions and art colonies that now inundate the region. It was pretty wide open. A boy could saddle his horse, disappear for the day, and see things not many other folks had seen. That was what brought us together and connected us: horses and the mountains. I visit Jack and Rosie, his wife, whenever I can on my summer trips back to Colorado. We all went to high school together until Jack and I dropped out to seek greener pastures. That was a lesson in itself. Nevertheless, luck smiled on us and we both wound up with good wives and good kids. We camped in the high country eating potatoes fried in an iron skillet over an open campfire, pork and beans from the can, and trout we would hand catch in mountain streams. We got into some trouble, but nothing serious and life just kind of rolled along. They were the kind of good old days folks like to look back on. Jack’s pretty sick now. Cancer has him in its cold grip. Last summer when I saw him he was on oxygen. I talked to Rosie on the phone the other day and she said

he was asleep. He sleeps a lot these days. Hope he dreams about the good old days. I do. They are worth ing. And by the way, Jack, if you beat me to the camp site hobble the horses, catch a few trout, build a fire and hang on. I’ll catch up with you one of these days.

Jack Dieterman died a few weeks after this piece was published. He is missed.

Charlie

He was a dreamboat. Tall and well built, Silver haired and sure-footed, A nose with a slight tilt. Eyes shining with wisdom, A full, quarter horse behind, And, oh, by the way, Charlie was blind. My dad got him in a trade, A multi-horse swap, And brought him home, A gift hard to top. And Charlie and I knew As soon as we met, We were a team, pals, As good as you get. All those hours together, Me with no saddle,

Him with no vision, We would skedaddle On all kinds of missions, Running errands for mother, Bringing in the cows for dad, An old, white blind horse And his cowboy wanna-be lad. Nearly sixty years later When sitting tall astride A ed Quarter Horse Swelling with pride, I still check to see, In an agile horse movement, If its Charlie I’m riding, Or a senior memory moment.

Cowboy Church

After my retirement from the United Methodist ministry a few years ago I gave myself the title “bootleg preacher.” I did cowboy weddings, funerals, and the like. Then one day, someone wanted to know “what’s the difference between regular church stuff and cowboy stuff?” Well, having served some pretty cowboy type churches in the past I thought I would take time to clear the matter up. So, here goes. You know you are in cowboy church when: The call to worship is “Y’all come on in.” People grumble about Noah letting coyotes on the ark. The preacher says, “I’d like to ask Bubba to help take up the offering” and five guys stand up. The one room restroom is outside. Opening day of deer season is recognized as an official church holiday. Ditto for haying, combining, branding and the county fair. A member of the church requests to be buried with his 4-wheel-drive-truck, because “It ain’t never been in a hole it couldn’t get out of.” When it rains, everyone is smiling and prayers regarding the weather are standard practice. The choir group is known as the “OK Chorale.” Four generations of the same family sit together in worship. There is no such thing as a “secret” sin. Baptism is referred to as “branding” or “dunking” or “having the baby done.”

There is a special fundraiser for a new septic tank. Finding and returning lost sheep isn’t just a parable. High notes on the organ can set the dogs outside in the trucks to howling. People wonder, when Jesus fed the 5,000 whether the two fish were bass or catfish or trout. People think “rapture” is when you lift something too heavy and tear a gut. And the final words of the benediction are “Y’all come back now, ya hear!”

Good Old Days Revisited

Those of you who have read my columns or listen to me speak at various events know about my old fictional friend, Tater Johnson. Well, we were sitting on the back porch spitting and whittling the other day when the conversation turned to current events. I made the mistake of asking him what he thought about things in general. And that got him started. He replied: “Heck, Vern, I was born before television, penicillin, polio shots, frozen foods, Xerox, lenses, Frisbees and the pill. There weren’t things like radar, credit cards, laser beams or ballpoint pens. They hadn’t even invented pantyhose, dishwashers, clothes dryers, electric blankets, air conditioners and nobody walked on the moon.” “My wife, Effie, and me got married first then lived together and until I was 25 I called every man older than me ‘sir.’” “Sunday was set aside for family, helping those in need, and just visiting with your neighbors.” “That was before gay-rights, computer dating, dual careers, day-care centers, and group therapy. Our lives were pretty much governed by good judgment and common sense. We were taught to know the difference between right and wrong, and to stand up and take responsibility for our actions.” “We thought fast food was what you ate during Lent. Having a meaningful relationship meant getting along with your cousins. And time sharing meant time the family spent together, not condominiums.” “We never heard of FM radio, tape decks, CD’s, electric typewriters, artificial hearts, word processors, yogurt or guys wearing ear rings. We listened to ‘big bands’, the Lone Ranger, Jack Benny, the Grand Ol’ Opry and the President’s speeches on the radio. “If you saw anything with ‘Made in Japan’ on it, it was junk! The term ‘making out’ referred to how you did on your school exam. Pizza’s, McDonald’s and instant coffee were unheard of.” “We had 5 and 10 cent stores where you could

buy things for 5 and 10 cents. Ice cream cones, phone calls, rides on a streetcar, and a cola were all a nickel. And if you didn’t want to ‘splurge,’ you could spend your nickel on enough stamps to mail a letter and two postcards.” I thought he was wound down, but he kicked into second gear and went on. “You could buy a new Chevy Coupe for $600 if you had $600, which I didn’t. And that was too bad, because gas was only 11 cents!” “In my day ‘grass’ was mowed, ‘coke’ was a cold drink, ‘pot’ was something your mother cooked in, and ‘rock music’ was your grandmother’s lullaby. A ‘chip’ meant a piece of wood, ‘hardware’ was found in a hardware store and software wasn’t even a word.” “We were not before the difference between the sexes was discovered, but we were surely before the sex change. And we were the last generation that was so dumb as to think you needed a husband to have a baby. No wonder people today call me old and confused.” He paused looked out across the trees toward the setting sun and muttered. “You know, Vern, there really is a generation gap, but as you say, ‘Ride on.’”

The Best Christmas Ever

Winters were harsh in southeastern Kansas when I was boy, so Christmas was always brisk and icy and snow covered. Many years on the farm all we could afford was a simple Christmas dinner squeezed in between feeding horses and cows and milking chores. Our gifts tended to be practical: gloves, socks, flannel shirts, long handle underwear, new overalls and shirts and dresses momma made from chicken feed sacks. Daddy dreamed of one day owning his own farm, but that was never to be. So, he remained a tenant farmer giving the farm owners a share of the crops he grew. We lived at different farms every few years, each one a little better than the last. I when we moved to one that had the first indoor outhouse we had the genuine pleasure of using. We were in deep clover: flush, flush, flush. Although we children didn’t know any better we lived in hard times. My daddy used to say, “They say the depression ended, but I never noticed it.” One Christmas my momma took me aside and whispered to me. “There won’t be any presents this year. We just don’t have the money. Since you are the oldest, I thought you should know. Maybe you can help with the girls.” I had three younger sisters at the time. We had a group Christmas present that year. Since gasoline was rationed except for farmers to use in tractors, daddy took gasoline out the tractor tank and put it in the old Plymouth car. We all piled into the car and he drove us to town. There we cruised the streets of the best neighborhoods and exclaimed with excitement at all the beautiful lights. By the time we got home the girls were asleep and we crawled out of the car half carrying, half dragging the girls into the dark house where we stood while daddy lit the kerosene lamp on the table. As light flooded the room we spied on the tattered couch four small brown paper sacks. We children were filled with pure delight. As we excitedly opened the bags to find in each an orange and three pieces of hard candy, I noticed my momma and daddy giving each other puzzled glances. It was several days before my Uncle Bill came by to visit. His family had little

for Christmas that year, but they knew we had less. So, he had come out to the farm Christmas Eve to share what little they had. We weren’t home so he just left the gifts. It was the best Christmas ever and each year it comes home to rest again in my memory. So, kids, don’t let anyone ever tell you there isn’t a Santa Claus.

The Day Ol’ Rick Bucked Off a Hayloft

It was Colorado blue skies and Hades hot As the last hay bale was laid in place. His tongue dry as that morning’s July dust Ol’ Rick had sweat running down his face.

He stepped back for a final look at his work, His jeans and shirt soaked plumb through, Mustache dripping dark and wet with sweat, The fact of his mistake he suddenly knew.

His face turned red and then a paler hue As into open space he stepped gripping A fist full of air, expletives undeleted flew The air full of the sound of denim ripping.

Ol’ Rick was not a slow thinker so he knew A sixteen penny nail caught in his jeans Did not bode well for the immediate future,

And for a level of tolerance he had for pain.

So, when the worn Wranglers began to rip The groin with stops along the way Ol’ Rick yelled as he made the agony trip To earth where he stripped in dismay.

Blood filled his shorts, but he remained true To the code and cowboyed up like the days When he sat deep on snorting broncs For a long eight seconds looking for pay.

At the house he engaged in a good cleaning, Replaced underwear and jeans and sallied Back to the barn walking with legs bowed So wide he couldn’t stop a pig in a alley.

Watching him walk so bowlegged the hands With eyes averted tried not to stare at it. And secretly were proud to work for a man Who knew how to grin and bare it.

Who Benefits from Farm Policies

I read a quote once from Harry Truman who said, “No man should be president who doesn’t understand hogs.” Well, he had a point. The fact is agriculture bills are not written by farmers or consumers. That would be too logical. They’re written by agri-business giants who dictate food and farm policies no matter which party is in power. Jim Hightower, one time two term Secretary of Agriculture, America’s most amusing populist and author of the newsletter, Hightower’s Lowdown, explains what he calls this industrialized, conglomeratized, and globalized food production. He shares the fact that “out of each dollar you spend on groceries, only 19 cents goes to the farmer. The rest goes to the corporate middlemen. Thousands of efficient family farmers are driven out of business each year by rising costs and failing commodities prices. As farm prices continue to fall, consumer prices keep going up, creating windfall profits for conglomerate shippers, processors, and retailers.” That isn’t all. The federal farm program provides $8 billion annually. But, none of it goes to thousands of small farmers. However, Charles Schwab, the billionaire stockbroker gets $500,000 per year to subsidize growing rice at his California duck hunting club. Rice attracts migrating ducks for his friends to shoot. How about this, agri-business dumps some 8 billion pounds of pesticides each year on farmland that pollutes 45% of the groundwater used by farm families, farm workers and just folks living near the poisoned fields. These folks increasingly suffer birth defects, cancer and death. What this all boils down to is that food has become a clear and present danger, Hightower says. Quick profit agriculture, he says, has given us mad cow disease, feces contaminants, irradiation, infusion of sexual hormones, genetic

manipulation, a toxic stew of chemical additives, and an epidemic of fats and sugars. Most of the food in our supermarkets travel more than 1,500 miles to get to the pretty, organized shelves. Along the way they waste fuel, freshness, and nutrition. So, these agri-business giants aren’t doing us any favors no matter what their television ads say. , Cargill, McDonalds, Monsanto, Nestle, Phillip Morris, Tyson, Unilever, and Wal-Mart are in the business for profit. That’s no sin, but their morality is in question. It’s the same old gambit: destroy whomever and whatever necessary for the sake of the bottom line. There is a way to resist this attack on our humanity. Buy locally produced products. Insist that our supermarkets stock their shelves with food and milk produced by our neighbors. And ride on.

The Hat

All stove-up, he walks with effort, His battered black Stetson showing the years They’ve been together in rain and sun, Hunting cows and elk, tracking a deer.

Sweat soaked and corral dusty, It sits back on his head, a hawk feather, Found in the San Juans giving it an edge, A touch of dash in all kinds of weather.

He is one of the last of a peculiar kind. The American cowboy with a hidden face, Remaining invisible to the naked eye roaring Down the interstates from place to place.

But, he won’t give up the hat, or the life He chooses to live his face grown deep With history’s wrinkles in western time,

Tanned with memories he likes to keep.

The hat is the badge, the symbol of the pride In a man who loves the land he knows From its baked hot and blue sky summers To its high windy plains and winter snows.

Happy Anniversary, Darlin’

Some forty years ago, I worked as a copywriter, newscaster, disc jockey, and producer in radio stations in Missouri, Kansas, and Colorado. That’s how I met Miss Susan in 1967. She was working at my hometown radio station as a receptionist and traffic controller (that’s someone who types the logs for each day’s broadcast). She was a dewy-eyed blonde-haired woman with a good summer, swimming pool tan, and I was mind-boggled from the first time I met her. Over the months that I worked there as a country disc jockey I kept asking her out. Wisely, she kept saying “No.” I knew I was cute but I wasn’t what you could call a real solid catch. But, I persisted. And one day, she said, “Yes.” We dated off and on for a couple of years and one day I just up and popped the question. I figured she was too smart to say “Yes.” She surprised me. We’ve been married for a long time. January 25 is our wedding anniversary. It has started me thinking about how we’ve survived all these years and I’ve come up with an answer. Or rather, my oldest daughter came up with the answer. She said, “You and Mom could never get divorced.” I said, “Why not?” She said, “You are too good of friends.” Who said children aren’t perceptive. Miss Susan and I were friends before we married and we have stayed that way. I like her. She’s a good person. Comionate and understanding she has a social conscience as big as all out of doors. Heck, she even sends a little money along to help out some Native American kids in the Dakotas to say nothing of helping out a lot of other folks having tough times. She does it without any fanfare, the same way she has cared for our two daughters and me all these years. She’s a wonder. I thought rather than get her a card for our anniversary I’d be cheap and just write something that I could share with everyone. Happy anniversary, darlin’.

The Truth of the Matter

Some things are just true! It doesn’t matter of you are an eastern or western horseman. When you fool with horses there are some things just are! My old pal Tater shared some with me the other day. We were sitting in Jim Bob’s Barbecue t and he said, “Have you ever noticed there is no such thing as a sterile barn cat?” I thought about that and had to agree. He couldn’t stop. He just kept spitting them between bites into a fat rib. He said, “Vern, has anyone ever remarked on how well you ride until you fall off?” He had a point. He chewed another bite and took a sip of his iced tea and ruminated, “I have also come to believe that the least useful horse in your barn will eat the most, require shoes every four weeks and need the vet at least once a month.” Now, Tater has been around horses all his life. He loves them. But, he’s a realist. He knows, for instance, that a horse’s misbehavior is in direct proportion to the number of people who are watching. And your favorite tack always gets chewed on, and your new blanket gets torn, while tack you hate will never wear out and blankets you hate cannot be destroyed. So, I sat back and grinned at him while he wiped a little sauce off his chin with the back of his sleeve. He forgets there are napkins on the table. “ that useless old paint I bought?” I nodded. I ed him. He had a trot like a jackhammer and a head like a rock. We called him three-gaited because his gaits were trip, stumble, and fall. “I’ve been trying to sell him and can’t get anyone to even nibble. I do believe that horses that are absolutely useless cannot be sold and they will, out of spite, out live you.” I thought about that while we finished eating and it struck me that there are some other truths that are as solid as an engraving in a rock. Like clipper blades always become dull when your horse is half clipped and if you approach within

fifty feet of your barn in clean clothes, you will get dirty. “I been horse poor all my life,” Tater said. “And I have come to believe that the number of horses you own will increase to the number of stalls in your barn no matter how careful you are. And you know what else I believe? I believe your barn will fall down without baling twine, or wire wrapped around every post and hole in it. I grinned and said, “Tater, how is this for a truth? “Hoof picks always run away from home.” He laughed, picked his teeth and nodded. “You know,” he said, “I’ve got another one. If you fall off, or buck off, you will land on the site of your most recent injury.” I nodded agreement. As they say, I have been there and done that.

Waylon, Willie, George and Me

For several summers, I climbed into my old Ford truck and headed west to Durango, Colorado. I taught a lot of different subjects at Ft. Lewis College and worked part-time wrangling horses and dudes at Southfork Stables and Outfitters. It was an interesting trip each summer. I usually traveled to western Ohio the first day. The second night, after traveling through Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri, I stopped at my cousin Ted Schmid’s place near Topeka, Kansas. Like me, Ted spent a lot of his life on a farm in southeast Kansas. His dad was a major dairy farmer and when he retired Ted took over the dairy, went into debt like a lot of young farmers and finally succumbed to the low price of milk products. Ted is a high school biology teacher. He even taught when he and his wife Carrie were milking cows to the farm. Now he teaches, runs a landscaping business and raises beautiful Quarter Horses. So, we have a lot in common. The third night I spend at my sister Margaret’s place in Poncha Springs, Colorado. She and her husband own a few acres and run a few cows. Like me, Ed is a member of the old stove-up cowboys association. A third generation Colorado rancher he worked for a number of years for a big rancher in Colorado’s South Park. They had their own little spread for a time between Salida and Buena Vista, but finally moved down out of the hills to their present place. The fourth night I rolled into Durango. It was a pretty leisurely pace even though my niece Jackie in Parsons, Kansas, thought I was too old to be driving across the country by myself. What she doesn’t understand is that I am not alone. I stuff the old CD player in my truck with some select friends and they keep me company. Waylon, Willie, George and I clip along at a pretty good pace on those interstates and every morning we can

hardly wait to get on the road again. There are always interesting sights. Waylon, Willie, George and me decided as we were coming home to follow, as closely as possible, the old Santa Fe Trail northern route. That takes us from Trinidad, Colorado, and north to Bent’s Fort and out of Colorado and across Kansas to the Kansas City, Missouri area. It is always a good trip. Good food and good sights make it worthwhile. But, what is really for all of us in that old pick-em-up truck is the chance to see a lot of folks and renew connections. I recommend it to those who live away from family and friends. It makes life more complete.

Wranglers

There ain’t no easy way to describe ‘em, Those fellas that wrangle the dudes. Old broken down rodeo cowboys, And fresh face youngsters included. They come in all sizes and shapes Short and stocky, like a bull dog horse, Tall and skinny, like a rusty hairpin, And all are determined, of course. Some are too young to grow whiskers, Some with mustaches drooping on the side, They sit on the porch at the stable office Waiting for their next appointed ride. And they tell stories tall, some call ‘em lies Until the dudes arrive dressed for a scandal In Nikes, fashionable shorts, new T-shirts. Heck, some even wear designer sandals. The wranglers snort, not to dude faces ‘Cause that breaks the wrangler code,

Requiring polite schmoozing of dudes To get a tip before soreness hits the road. So, the wranglers sit tall in their saddles, Spurs jingling and hats creased in style, Stampede strings in place, pants in boots, Leading dudes off with a wave and a smile. To dudes its Roy and Gene rolled into one Spending an afternoon, a cowboy borrowed. Then at the end of the day he counts his pay, Asks the boss, “What time tomorrow?”

Getting Hitched

I’ve conducted a lot of wedding ceremonies over the last three decades since I was ordained. Most have been enjoyable. I’ve done weddings in little clapboard country churches and fancy brick and stone big city churches, barns and restaurants, on boat docks and in waterside parks and beaches. I’ve done weddings where participants have been so nervous they cried and shook and we had to stop until they could pull themselves together. I’ve done weddings where the bride showed up a half-hour late and scared the groom silly. So, conducting weddings has been an adventure in itself. But, I think the last one was the icing on the cake. It was a cowboy wedding. The bride, groom, and myself dressed down compared to most weddings. Kory Porter, the bride, was lovely in a white dress with fringe and white cowboy boots. George Mitchell, the groom, paled beside the bride. Grooms always do, but he cleaned up real good with his white shirt, pressed blue jeans and cowboy hat. And they insisted I wear comfortable clothes, so even the preacher was comfortable in pressed Wranglers, white shirt, Resistol cowboy hat, and Nocona boots. It was a nice day and there amid the straw bales, saddles, and other western accouterments we had a nice time. The food was good and the disc jockey actually played real country music. The important part, however, was the commitment George and Kory made before the gathering of about a hundred family and friends. My daddy used to say, “Gettin’ hitched is serious business.” I guess he meant it. He and mother stuck together through thick and thin and the good Lord knows there was a lot of both. So, the best advice one can give to youngsters seeking to be married is “it is

serious business.” Or, as I said at the end of this wedding “what God has ed together let no man piddle with.”

Dude Horses

Some scientist feller once said, Horses have a brain the size of a pea. If that’s true then it must concentrated. And the evidence is there for all to see.

The dude horses stand saddled and ready, Of many colors; geldings, mares, fillies, They all know their duty for the day, Take care of the rider no matter how silly.

Little girls that squeal, boys bored, Daddy’s who did not wish to come but did, And mothers, in shorts and sneakers Trying to look brave for the sake of kids.

The horses wait patiently for their riders, Maintain calm as adjustments are made And wranglers instruct riders on how to stay

Aboard a horse who could care less today.

Mother’s Day Memories

On Mother ‘s Day, I reflect on the lessons I learned from my mama. Born at the edge of what is now the Comanche Grass Lands National Park in Colorado, her parents had lived in Arkansas, Kansas, and finally, Colorado. Her paternal grandparents had lived through the Civil War—my great-grandfather serving as a chaplain’s assistant and as a medic—then moved from a farm in Illinois to a homestead on the high plains of Kansas and then to another homestead in southeast Colorado. Her maternal grandparents had moved from the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina bringing their English, German and Cherokee heritage to the Ozark Mountains. She was of tough pioneer stock. Her philosophy reflected that. She was number ten of eleven children, only my cowboy Uncle Bertram, survives. She learned how to live through tough times—the depression—the dust bowl. She was only five feet and one inch tall and weighed about 90 pounds when she was soaking wet. And her logic was something to behold. She said things like “If you fall off that horse and break your neck, you can’t go to the store with me on Saturday.” Her medicinal skills included things like hot toddies when we children were really sick and stuffed up—hot water, sugar or honey, and a tiny shot of medicinal bourbon. She also knew something about preventative care and behavior. “If you don’t stop crossing your eyes, they’re going to freeze that way.” She was constantly concerned about our health. “Put your sweater on. Don’t you think that I know when you’re cold?” And sometimes she challenged me with things like “What were you thinking? Answer me when I talk to you.” And when you answered, “Don’t talk back to me!” But mama was also filled with music and good humor. As she worked in the house she would sing the songs of Jimmy Rodgers, Woody Guthrie, Bob Wills, and old cowboy folk songs like “Little Joe the Wrangler” and “The Strawberry

Roan.” I smiling at her when she would say things like “When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, don’t come running to me.” “If you don’t eat your vegetables, you’ll never grow up. That vegetable was often something like wild spring-time greens fried in lard and soaked in vinegar. And mama knew about genetics. When I was lazy or trying to manipulate someone else into doing my chores I was just like her brother—my Uncle John. When I was stubborn I was just like my father. Then there were the obvious time worn questions like “Do you think you were born in a barn?” And words of anticipation: “Just wait until your father gets home.” You see, she hardly ever punished us. When things got bad enough my dad would come in from the field hot and tired and dirty and with a sigh would ister the punishment. I think my all time favorite from mama is: “One day you will have kids, and I hope they turn out just like you then you’ll see what it’s like.” But in midst of it all we knew she loved us, would do anything for us, and sometimes did. She was not educated in the academic sense of the word—she left school in the sixth grade to work as a housemaid to help her family. Nevertheless, she knew right from wrong. And she was always ready to lend a helping hand to those less fortunate, even though we were never sure how any one could be less fortunate then we. She was also ive. When I told her, I wanted to ride bareback broncs against her better judgment she called a childhood friend of hers who was a professional bronc rider and asked him to teach me. He did. So, in memory of my mama let me wish all mother’s a happy Mother’s Day.

Cowboy Story: A Found Poem

Jake, the rancher, went out One day to fix a distant fence. The wind was cold and gusty, The clouds rolled gray and dense, As he pounded in the last staples And gathered his tools to go. The temperature had fallen And the snow began to blow. When he finally reached his pickup, He felt with a heavy heart, From the sound of that ignition, He knew it wouldn’t start. So Jake did what most of us would do If we’d have been there He humbly bowed his balding head And sent aloft a prayer. As he turned the key the last time,

He softly cursed his luck. They found him three days later, Frozen stiff in that old truck. Now Jake had been around in life. He had done his share of roamin’. But when he saw Heaven, he was shocked It look just like Wyomin’. Of all the saints in Heaven, His favorite was St. Peter. Now, this line, it ain’t needed But it helps with rhyme and meter. So they set and talked a minute or two, Or maybe it was three. Nobody was keepin’ score In Heaven time is free. “I’ve always heard,” Jake said to Pete, “That God will answer prayers, But the one time I asked for help, Well, He, just plain wasn’t there. Does God answer prayers of some, And ignores the prayers of others?

That don’t seem exactly square. I know all men are brothers. Or does he randomly reply, Without good rhyme or reason? Maybe, it’s the time of day, The weather or the season. Now I ain’t trying to act smart, It’s just the way I feel, And I was wonderin’, could you tell What the heck’s the deal? Peter listened very patiently And when Jake was done, There were smiles of recognition, And he said, “So, you’re the one! That day your truck, it wouldn’t start, And you sent your prayer a flying, You gave us all a real bad time, With hundreds of us a trying. A thousand angels rushed to check The status of your file, But you know, Jake, we hadn’t heard

From you in quite a while And though all prayers are answered, And God ain’t got no quota, He didn’t recognize your voice, So he started a truck in North Dakota.

Good Guys and Bad Guys

When I was horse shopping a while back it led me to a lot of folks with a serious commitment to fine horses. Miss Susan and I visited with one such family, the MacDonald-Thompson family on Biggs Highway near Rising Sun, Maryland. For those of us who know horse people it doesn’t take long to identify folks who are serious in their care and love of the animal. The family has a winning streak in Quarter Horse circles bringing home a number of ribbons. Jim and sister Mary along with her husband Keith took us to the barn and began unwrapping their special animals, proudly showing them off one by one. With their dark bay coats shining, intelligent eyes looking deep into the eye of their beholder, they each seemed to be reserving ancient wisdom garnered as herd animals with an instinct for survival. The experience left Miss Susan and me with a kind of rapturous feeling. It was almost as if we had been to another level in our journey of the spiritual by this encounter with these folks and their horses. We didn’t find a horse to buy at their place, but we made some new friends and met some of the finest equine creatures in the region, bar none. And by the way, the horses weren’t the only winners at the MacDonald-Thompson place. Those folks showing us through their barns and producing horse after horse for our iring eyes are winners, as well. The other side of the coin, so to speak, occurred when Susan and I made a twoday trip through the mountains of northwestern Maryland and southeastern Pennsylvania. We were privileged to the see the fall colors of the regional forests in all their brilliant autumn dress, but the horse hunt was another story. We found a five-year-old sorrel Quarter Horse gelding that could be used as a poster child for the organization. He was everything for which Quarter Horse lovers search. With his blaze face and stockings, he was a beauty. Excellent ground training made him people friendly, attentive, obedient, and gentle. When I asked if I could ride him, the owners said, sure. I went to my old Bronco and

pulled out my dusty roping saddle and put it on him. He turned his head and watched me cinch it up. Before I mounted, they told me he had only been ridden three times. But, he didn’t seem to mind when I swung my leg over and sat down in the saddle. As we moved around the indoor arena slowly, it was clear that this five year old had no training in reining. But, hey, I reasoned, “I can take care of that.” He was, as I said, a beauty, so the owner and I agreed on a price, shook hands, and as Susan and I got ready to leave, they took us out to the pasture fence to show us their other nine horses. This mixture of Halflingers, Arabians, Belgians, and grade animals, were to say the least a mix of beauty and beast. None was shod, the owners proudly said, while I gazed at the rocky pastures. One older dun horse with difficulty keeping weight on obviously needed more serious care than grazing in that pasture, but we thanked them for the opportunity to see their stock and, after being assured that the gelding would have a Coggins test and health certificate before transport arrived, we left for the long trip home. Since I wanted to use the horse in team penning, I realized after getting home that I needed to have the horse vetted. That is, I need his eyes, wind, legs, and hooves checked out. I e-mailed the owner asking for the vet to do this, as well, when he came for the other exams. The response was quick and final. The owner rudely responded “No deal.” The agreement was voided. Why? The assumption is that the poster boy horse has something seriously wrong that a simple health check-up would not reveal. I was a little sorry, but I had a gnawing suspicion as we visited them and saw their stock that they weren’t all they were supposed to be as horse people. There are clearly in the horse world good guys and bad guys. You have to watch out for both. As my daddy used to tell me, “You can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats his horses.”

Horse Mumbling

Having coffee with Tater, Old Beans and Rags, I mentioned I was going to be teaching horsemanship at the local community college. They just looked at me for a minute and then snorted into their cups. “Next thing you know, Rags,” Old Beans said, “He’ll be a clinician.” “Old as he is,” Rags said, “he’ll never be more than a bowlegged pile of old bones.” Trying to save face, I explained to them that a lot of students are interested in or have horses and they all have to have two credit hours of physical education. “Well,” Old Beans said as he limped over to the counter and got another cup of coffee, “Horses will give you a physical education.” “How long is this course?” asked Tater. “Six weeks fall and spring,” I replied as they snorted into the coffee cups again and then began to choke as they laughed out loud. Other folks in the café were staring, so I said in a low, serious voice, “Just teaching the basics.” “I been at this forty some years,” said Rags. “I still don’t know all there is to know about horse-man-ship.” “Just teaching the basics,” I repeated. They were settled down a little now and folks stopped staring at their rowdy laughter. “What’s the final exam,” Old Beans asked. “You gonna buck ‘em out of a chute?” “No,” I was starting to get a little touchy about the whole matter. “The final in the fall is a trail ride. In the spring it is participation in an amateur gymkhana.”

Rags looked at Tater and then at Old Beans and they giggled as Rags said, “Sounds pretty hard. As I tried to explain the curriculum, they ordered doughnut holes to go with their coffee. “Looks like we are in for a long spell,” Beans said as he munched away. “Sounds like we got a horse mumbler here,” Rags said. “More like a horse stumbler,” Tater added munching on a doughnut hole. “What you gonna do in the spring?” Rags wanted to know. “Basics in gymkhana.” The old geezers looked at each other and grinned toothy grins. “Where you going to be doing this teaching?” Rags asked. “We’ll be doing the classroom stuff on campus and the hands on stuff, we call it lab time, we’ll just kick back and do it out at my place a couple of miles from campus.” “You going to make them clean your stalls and hoe your garden?” Beans was wound up. “No.” “How about mowing the lawn?” Rags asked. “No!” I was getting a little testy. “I’m just going to help them work the kinks out with some very agreeable horses. They will learn to ride and relax with a horse. They will learn that horses see things differently than humans and their relationship with us is special.” “Hey, I guess it’s not brain surgery,” Rags said. “So, have fun.” “We will,” I said. As I left the café, they sat there giggling. As I reached the door I heard one of them mutter, “Horse mumbler.” Another snorted and said, “Ride on.”

How Many Are There?

Like meeting a stranger who shares their intimate secrets, my research on horses has uncovered more than I ever wanted or need to know. There are over 207 distinct horse breeds in the world. Granted, some of them are questionable since they have local names, or breed designations, and there may also be more breeds not yet discovered by researchers. It is staggering to think about this variety. Sixty-seven of these breeds are ponies. They are less than 58 inches high. They are distinct from horses because they have shorter legs, sturdier builds, and are stronger pound for pound than their larger cousins. The exception is the ancient Caspian breed and the modern Falabella. These are generally referred to as miniature horses. They are, in fact, closer to their ancient ancestors than others. The Caspians were rediscovered a few years ago on the shores of the Caspian Sea in northern Iran. They look like tiny Arab horses. Some think they are the ancestors of the modern Arabian. Ancient Persian carvings dating from 2,500 years ago portrayed them. Why had they remained so close to their origin. Well, it seems their isolation guaranteed humans or equines would not tamper with them. Since 1965, some have been brought out into the world where they have been carefully protected and bred. The Falabella is a different story. Less than 34 inches tall, they are a modern Argentinean breed that is primarily a bred down Shetland pony. With some, as small as 15 inches they are too small for use and kept primarily as exotic pets. I know dogs bigger than that. There are 36 working horse breeds and some of them are seven feet tall and weigh over a ton. These were developed for agricultural power. For the most part they are magnificent cherished relics of bygone days. My daddy farmed with these kinds of horses until the end of the forties. Some folks who are devoted to the breeds still breed and maintain them. You see them on special occasions. The Budweiser horses are a good example.

The sports horse classification is a whole other world. One hundred and four breeds are classified as sports horses. They include horses used in pleasure riding, hunting, racing, polo, eventing, jumping, and rodeos. Folks with these horses are enthusiastic and ionate about their horses. Where do we find all these breeds? Well, Russia has at least twenty-seven. Great Britain claims nineteen. is third with eighteen. The United States and each claim sixteen breeds. Italy has ten breeds, while Poland has nine. And these are minimum numbers because new breeds are evolving all the time.

Language Lessons

My old friend Rags enlightened me concerning the George W. Bush istration in Washington, D.C. He sat on the back porch with me and ruminated about the whole new language that permeates the executive branch. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Aren’t they just another team of double-talking bureaucrats?” “Nope,” he said. “You got it all wrong. There’s a whole new language running around up there.” “Like what?” “Well, young George, we call him Shrub, brought a lot of pals from Texas and folks not born out in cowboy country may think they talk funny.” “Like you and me,” I said. “Yep. If I said the pickup engine’s runnin’ but ain’t nobody driving, what would you think I meant?” “Not overly-intelligent?” I offered. “You got it. Here’s a test for you, perfessor. As welcome as a skunk at a lawn party means what?” “Well, that’s sort of self explanatory.” “Okay. How about “tighter than bark on a tree.” “Not very generous.” “Right. Big hat, no cattle.” “All talk and no action?” “You are doing good, Vern. Now how about ‘We’ve howdied but we ain’t shook yet.’”

“I think that means we’ve made a brief acquaintance, but not been formally introduced.” “You got it, Hoss. I like to use the one that goes ‘He thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow.” “That means ‘he has a pretty high opinion of himself, doesn’t it?” “It do. Ever hear ‘She’s got tongue enough for 10 rows of teeth?” “Yes. That usually means that woman can sure talk.” “There’s a lot more of them,” Rags said. “My daddy used to say, ‘It’s so dry the trees are bribin’ the dogs’ every time we were short of rain.” “Mine used to say, ‘Just because a chicken has wings doesn’t mean it can fly’ which meant appearances can be deceptive.” “Well, Rags,” I offered, “How do you feel about all the new goings on in Washington?” “Well, I’ll tell you, this ain’t my first rodeo. I’ve been around awhile and things come and go, but not much changes in the long run.” “Ever hear any really hard put-downs?” “Yeah,” Rags grinned. “I always liked the one ‘He looks like the dog’s been keepin’ him under the porch.’” “That’s ugly,” I offered. “How about the one that goes ‘those sinners out there that been eating supper before they say grace.’” Rags grinned. “Ever have anybody tell you that it was time to paint your rear white and run with the antelope? That’s what my daddy used to tell me when I argued instead of doing what I was told. And if my daddy was around he would look at those folks in Washington and say, “You can put your boots in the oven, but that doesn’t make them biscuits.”

My Old Mare

Short and stocky, big butted and bossy, Eyes deep and dark and chestnut glossy,

My old mare was born to chase wild cows, To work the open range, not to pull plows.

No flashy movie type horse, she’s got scars, A plain old pony with a white foot and star.

In a show ring she won’t make judges gawk, But among those who know Bulldog’s there’s talk.

She can run down a calf in a rodeo ring, Or make a tired old rider sit up and sing.

I know she’s hard headed, stubborn and all, She’s faithful, steady and answers the call.

No matter how silly a rider might be, My mare takes it in stride looking after me.

Her four legs settle mind and lift the soul, Bring the best out when you’re feeling old.

So, when asked “What’s a Quarter Horse?” I think long about a teacher’s discourse.

Then, point to my tough, old chestnut mare And say, “That’s one standing over there.”

Nielson Family

Miss Susan and I were selected as a “Nielson Family.” For a week, we wrote down the names of the television programs we watched and for that, they sent us a nice crisp one-dollar bill. Not much profit in it but we did it anyway. However, I am convinced it will throw a kink into the survey’s final results. You see, we are not your usual television viewers. I watch the News Hour on PBS every evening and then turn to the Daily Show with Jon Stewart on Comedy Central to get the real story. Their buffoonery is probably more revealing than anything you get on network news. As soon as the news is over we turn to Hollywood Squares for a mindless flushing of all the junk we have received in the news. Saturday evening we watch British comedy. PBS is our friend. Other than that we tend to watch comedies, movies, professional rodeo, bull riding and the like. I personally like horse operas. I’ll watch about any western if the horses look good. I’m not a John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart or Charlton Heston fan but they do ride some good looking horses and some of the stories are pretty good. I am a fan of Sam Elliot, however, and Harry Carey, Jr., Wilfred Brimley, and the late Richard Farnsworth. Of course, all the Lonesome Dove folks are favorites. I can even stomach Tom Selleck if he is riding a good horse. Exceptionally goodlooking guys put me off. That’s why most of my friends are homely. My favorite among them all is the late Ben Johnson. Raised on a ranch in Oklahoma, discovered by John Ford while wrangling horses for a John Wayne movie, Ben was a true cowboy. He never pretended to be anything else even after he won an Academy Award. He stopped working on films in 1953 to compete full time on the rodeo circuit and won the world’s championship in steer roping. He even established a team roping charity event that continues to this day. After his death, another Oklahoman, Reba McIntire took it on. All of this to say that the Nielson people may be surprised when they get our survey back. I hope it doesn’t upset the wonderful programming that those good old boys in New York and Los Angeles work at developing for us television viewers. The good Lord knows I wouldn’t want to upset them with their sound,

educational, entertaining, wholesome family programming. That said—ride on.

Old Age and Treachery

As some of you know, I teach part-time at Cecil Community College in Maryland. It doesn’t pay much but its better than a regular day job. However, teaching can be frustrating. Especially when you tell stories in class and the students just stare back at you with that distant look in their eyes. That’s a look all teachers experience. It means “I may look like I’m here but I ain’t,” or “If I stare at you long enough you’ll think I get the point but I don’t,” or “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.” For example, this spring I mentioned Cary Grant in ing and noticed that look. “You all know who Cary Grant is, don’t you,” I asked. That look answered my question. There they sat from eighteen to thirty-five years of age and had no idea to whom I was referring. I was in one of my creative retreats, a.k.a. the shower, when I got to thinking about this. I suppose my daughters are right. I have a mind full of odds and ends that no one else can relate to, or simply don’t care about. Now, I’m used to folks looking at me funny when some of my western expressions land in the middle of a conversation. That’s a cultural difference. I know that. But, when age begins to separate understanding and experience I get the blues. In a song by Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson there is a phrase “Old age and treachery always overcomes youth and skill.” Well, I used to think that was true back in simpler times. But, I don’t know anymore. One thing I do know is that young folks are a different breed. For the most part they don’t know much about history or literature. I’m not sure who is to blame for that, but I do know that their lack of knowledge in those and other areas puts them at a disadvantage. So maybe Willie and Waylon are right. I’m not sure of my point but I at the end of Larry McMurty’s novel, Streets of Laredo, the old tough Texas cowman Charlie Goodnight is riding

along with a young cowboy after stopping by to look in on crippled old Woodrow Call at the Parker farm. Goodnight asks the young cowboy why he is looking so peaked and the cowboy starts talking about Captain Call and how he was once the greatest Texas Ranger of the all. “Well,” Goodnight responds, “he had exceptional determination.” The young cowboy then comments on what Call is doing these days, just sitting out at the barn sharpening sickles. Goodnight rides along in silence for a while and then says, “Woodrow Call had his time. It was a long time. Life’s but a knife-edge, anyway. Sooner or later people slip and get cut.” The youngster responds, “Well, you ain’t slipped.” Goodnight laconically replies, “How would you know, son?” So, maybe it’s all right to get older and slower as long as you keep in mind that it’s still your time and your experience gives you an edge. So, all you old timers, “Ride on.”

Political Wisdom

I get some odd things e-mail from time to time. The ones that make me laugh I save. The following are true. They come from a western state that shall remain anonymous unless you can figure it out on your own. This is the state that once had written into its constitution these words concerning voting rights in that state. The law, standing until 1918, said everyone could vote except, “ . . . idiots, imbeciles, aliens, the insane and women…” I thought the quotes that follow might amuse you who complain about political issues and problems in our own area. Pardner, things could be worse. Gib Lewis, Texas Speaker of the House, once said to a group of handicapped people in wheelchairs, “And now, will y’all stand and be recognized?” On another occasion, he said, while defending himself against a charge that he would personally profit from a bill he introduced. “I’d just make a little bit of money; I wouldn’t make a whole lot.” Another day, the Texas Speaker of the House Lewis said in a humble moment, “I am filled with humidity.” On a day of debate about the state budget, he said, “I move we recess to go outside and throw up.” He was a treasure trove of stupid statements and the press loved him for it. Once he said in a speech, “This is unparalyzed in the state’s history.” At the close of one of the Texas Legislature’s session he address the body saying, “I want to thank each and every one of you for having extinguished yourselves this session.” Concerning one proposal to the legislature he said, “We’ll run it up the flagpole and see who salutes that booger.”

Texas Rep. Renal Rosson stated in a speech, “Lemme give ya’ a hypothetic.” Another House Speaker, Wayne Clayton, stood and said,” It’s the sediment of the House that we adjourn.” And another occasion he said, “Let’s do this in one foul sweep.” Former Texas Governor Bill Clements was also noted for his gaffs. When asked if he had been born again, he replied, “No thanks, once was enough.” When Clements was confronted about his lying in the face of the football scandal at Southern Methodist University, he said, “Well, there never was a Bible in the room.” The Commissioner of Agriculture in Texas is an elected position and one of the most colorful and controversial secretaries in the history of the state was Jim Hightower. Part of his problem as commissioner was that he, like Adlai Stevenson of yore, was just too intelligent for his job. But, he provided us with some good quips like, “Ain’t nothin’ in the middle of the road but yellow stripes and dead armadillos.” When Hightower was told that Texas Governor Bill Clements had been studying Spanish, he responded, “Oh good. Now he’ll be bi-ignorant.” And when discussing President George Bush’s policies he stated, “If ignorance ever goes to $40 a barrel, I want drillin’ rights on that man’s head.” A final quote from former Speaker of the House Gib Lewis. “There’s a lot of uncertainty that’s not clear in my mind.” Mine, too.

Running is a Matter of Survival

In Bite the Bullet, one of my all-time favorite western movies, a cowboy played by Gene Hackman is discussing a 700 mile race that is at the center of the story. He explains to another competitor that a horse will run itself to death just to please its rider. But, he says, “a horse don’t give a damn who wins.” That’s the truth. Horses run because it is the nature of a prey animal like a horse to be fleet of foot to escape predators. It is part of the genetic make-up of horse. But, running is not a matter of winning but just being able to elude the pursuer. The most natural way to run is in a herd. So, that’s what is happening when the gates open at a racetrack and the horses charge around the track. My old friend and equine insurance agent Bill Fossett has Thoroughbreds that he races. It probably disturbs him to know that horses don’t care who wins. From what he has told me his horses really don’t care. But, the maintenance, care, and training of a race horse is designed to keep this instinct pent-up, so that when the opportunity comes to lay back their ears and run flat out is in fact an emotional release, as much as anything else. Animal behavioral scientists have studied racehorses and they have come up with some interesting observations. The first is the simple fact that it is unnatural for horses to run at high speed over long distances. No wild horse would ever run at top speed without being in a state of complete panic. Normally when trying to evade a predator the herd moves at a brisk trot. Only if the predator is visible and attacking would the horse break into full gallop. Somewhere, in the racehorse’s mind there is instilled a fantasy of a pursuing killer. And the whip jockeys use must recall from ancient genetic make-up the pain of a predator’s claws from which to escape. So, as the horses burst from the gate in a thundering herd it is just possible that they are simply physically expressing themselves after long periods of restraint and confinement. And maybe, Bill, the character in the movie is right. The horse doesn’t care who wins.

So just ride on.

The Brown Bomber

It was back in ’56 or somewhere thereabout I was getting down on the back of a big bay At a Kansas Flint Hills weekend rodeo All cramped in the chute and ready to play.

I heard the announcer with gusto proclaim, “Folks, this bronc is bad, he likes to buck. Call him Brown Bomber, he’s hurt a few. Drawing him means you’ve lost your luck.

I sat deep in the saddle and stuck my spurs High on his shoulders, shouting, “Let’s go.” The chute gate opened and out we came Brown Bomber sun fished, tearing the sod.

It’s been a long time, but I still The sky and sunshine high above earth. And I felt free as a bird touching the sky

Then banged down hard and deep in the turf.

I tasted Kansas dirt, my breath escaping To places unknown and when my eyes Focused I looked back at the sky where once I was free and trying unwillingly to fly.

The face of a clown was hunkered over me, Painted smile ear to ear covered his frown. “Are you okay boy?” he asked then aloud To the crowd, “You can’t keep a cowboy down!”

The announcer said with a plea in his voice, Brown Bomber trotted by, his work done. “Give him a hand, folks that’s all he’ll get.” He smiled at me, that ugly son-of-a-gun.

The Incredible Shrinking Cows and Horses

Well, Inky has gone and done it. It is bad enough that people raise tiny little horses that you can’t ride, but Ink has gone into the tiny little cattle business. Yep, he bought some Dexter cows and then a bull of Irish descent whose average height is 36 to 44 inches. These particular types come from southern Ireland. Some believe they are a cross of Kerry and Devon cattle. They may have been named for a Mr. Dexter who was agent to Lord Hawarden. They’ve been around a while here in the United States. The first 200 were brought over between 1905 and 1915. These cattle tend to be black although some are red or dun colored. The cows are fine and curve forward. The bull’s horns are thick and solid and curved at the tips. Their heads are short and wide between the eyes. But, they have some standard cattle uses. You can raise them for milk or beef. The average daily yield of a milking Dexter is 1 ½ to 2 ½ gallons with a butterfat content of 4 to 5%. In some cases you can ever get as much as a quart of cream in a gallon of milk. The beef animals mature in 18 months and can weigh up to 750 pounds. Small cuts of traditional, high quality lean meat result with an average dress out of 50 to 60 percent. That said, it’s still a little strange for those of us who have chased big cattle in the Flint Hills of Kansas. One thing more that can be a positive aspect of such cattle is that I could probably catch and rope them a lot better than I can the normal size stock. I have been giving this venture of Ink’s a lot of thought and I have come up with an idea. I used to look at miniature horses and wonder, where do they get cowboys little enough to ride them? That’s just silly. In fact, miniature horses are much like the early horse. Once upon a time, they were only ten inches tall. Hunted by carnivores of every ilk it wasn’t long until the evolution into larger creatures made them a tasty treat for the outdoor cookouts of ancient man. That’s right, partner, in the beginning horses were meat providers for every creature that

enjoyed a tasty steak. Seeing a horse early humans would have asked, “How do like your steak, rare or well done?” So, horses have been around for millions of years. It wasn’t until about 7,000 years ago that we decided they could be used as beasts of burden. They were stronger than dogs and faster than oxen. Then cowboys started using them to herd cattle. But, get this. There are still small horses around. They call them miniatures. Being practical, I have often wondered what they could be used for but now I know. Leprechauns! That’s right! Leprechauns ride them to herd those Irish miniature cows. So, to all you leprechauns on St. Patrick’s Day—ride on!

Prejudice

When I hear folks proclaiming that we should send Arabs back where they came from I get nervous. I have a tough time with any kind of prejudice especially that based on fear and ignorance. However, I understand it. Most folks like to have someone to blame for their misfortunes. In the 15th Century, the Spanish thought Native Americans were stupid and lazy but cheap forced labor. Then one day they started marrying the Indians producing Mestizos. Both thought they were better than the full blood Indians of Mexico and the southwest and whenever anything bad happened to them they took it out on the Indians. In the 16th Century, it was English colonists who thought they were superior to the Indians and they began to trick and kill them at will even after the natives of the land taught them how to farm and survive in America. By the 18th Century, prejudices have spread its arms to include not only Native Americans but African-Americans and what English speakers called Pennsylvania Dutch. Each ing century has had its prejudices. There was a time when folks were saying “Let’s send the Irish back where they came from.” Then it was Italians. World War I gave folks Germans to hate. My great-grandfather, grandfather, and father lived in a time when folks wanted to ship my ancestors back to where they came from and their prejudicial hatred caused folks to hang some Germans in the Midwest even though they had known them for twenty years. World War II brought prejudice against Germans and Japanese to new height bringing to life concentration camps for both. My name was enough for a small schoolboy to endure hazing, physical and verbal abuse even though I never quite understood what a Nazi was even as they were calling me that. So, I know something about ignorant prejudicial behavior. I also know that our present tragedy in this country needs to be dealt with, but it

needs rational, clear thinking to deal with it. I know some Arabs and I know something about the Islamic faith. It has the same roots as Judaism and Christianity. Those roots are grounded in a loving God who calls the people to live lives of peace and understanding. Islamic Jihad has the same ignorant proof texting roots as Christianity’s crusades. Both were and are grounded in ignorance and unjustified hatred. So, old friend let’s not take off in a flight of anger that reduces us to the same level as those who visit horrific tragedies on us. A clear eye and a rational mind will get us through this. Take a deep breath and ride on.

Just a Simple Handshake

Rags Bandy came by the other day with a real hang dog look on his face. “What’s eating you?’ I asked. “The way folks live today,” he answered. “Care to illuminate?” He shook his head sadly and said, “I miss the old days when a simple handshake was a man’s bond. You made a deal, you shook hands and it was as good as any contract ever written. Now, it doesn’t mean a thing.” “I’m afraid things have changed,” I commented. “You bet your best buckle they have,” he snorted. Then he told me a story about a lady from Pennsylvania who had called to ask what her options were concerning a handshake horse deal she had been involved in. It seemed she had a beautiful stud horse, but she didn’t have time to ride him. She knew a horsewoman who had been out to her place several times and offered the woman a free lease. All she had to do was take the stud horse home and see that he was cared for and got some work to do. The lady agreed. They shook hands and the stud horse was taken to his new temporary home. Some months later, the owner got a phone call from a stranger. The woman on the line wanted to know if she could get the registration papers for a one-eyed gelding she bought at an auction. The stud horse’s owner said she hadn’t sold a horse at the auction. The new owner described the horse and said, “Are you sure?” The horse she described was the woman’s stud horse. It seemed it had an accident and lost an eye and the woman who had taken him on a free lease had gelded him. Then, casually took him to an auction and sold

him. You see they don’t brand horses back east, so ownership is pretty tenuous in legal cases. The owner of the former stud horse drove to the new owner’s home to look at the horse. Yep. The one-eyed gelding was her former stallion. She refused to transfer the registration papers and filed a complaint with the local district attorney. She was told there was nothing they could do since no one had signed a contract, or a bill of sale. It’s a sad story. But times have changed. As a boy living in the west, like Rags I was taught a simple handshake was a man’s bond. My horse trading daddy lived by that rule—a simple handshake was all it took. Now you have to have contracts covering everything. Rags said it best. “Seems like trust is a thing of the past just like a lot of other things.” “I guess your right, Rags,” I said. He shook his head again. “Gelded that woman’s stud horse, poked out his eye and sold him,” he said sadly. Then he turned around headed out to his old pick-em-up truck, got in and stuck his head out the window and shouted,”Ride on, pard, ride on.”

God Dogs

For some folks horses are a person’s best friend. This was especially true in the old days, but the same kind of relational connections exist today. Part of the reason is that horses are gregarious animals. They like company. If they are kept alone they usually become nervous and conjure up all kinds of things to fear. So, whenever there are no other horses around they choose us as second best. Like humans they are also creatures of habit. Left to their own devices they will water at the same place day after day. In fact, in the wild they will often by perfectly good watering holes to reach the one they habitually use. Range mares tend to drop their foals in the same place year after year. Horses were once so important to folks that possession was a major issue. Once discovered horses became a kind of game for my Native American cousins. Stealing one from a fellow tribesman was unthinkable. Stealing from another tribe was a mark of courage and daring. It was like a medal of valor. Some Indians called them “God-Dogs.” Others called horses “watch-dogs,” because horses were such good sentinels. They were a measure of a man’s courage. But they were also a measure of one’s wealth. They were given away to selected persons at special events. They were used to convince parents to allow their daughter to marry a selected young man. The more horses given to the girl’s dad in exchange for her hand in marriage the more impressive the engagement and wedding. A young man with lots of horses was a good catch. Some folks claimed the reason Indians and horses connected so well was they were both close to nature and understood each other better than they understood white folks. For example, when guiding tourists on a trail ride out west a few years ago my old mare would spot deer and other wildlife long before anyone else could see them. She would stop flick both ears forward as if to point to the deer. Today she stands in my paddock with her ears flicking back and forth as she sorts out traffic sounds, children’s laughter, dogs barking and other sounds. I think about selling her every now and then just to ease the burden of time and expense to care for her. But, we connected out west long before I bought her and had her transported to my place. She talks to me with snuffles and snorts,

whinnies and a toss of the head. I speak softly and she listens as I blow a breath into her nostrils. We communicate. That’s just the way we are with one another. I hope you and your God-Dog do the same. Ride on.

Conversation with My Old Mare

I talk to my old mare a lot. Most horse people talk to their horses, although they won’t it it. One year when the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association in cooperation with the American Quarter Horse Association nominated and elected the top rodeo performance horses, I took their pictures out to the barn and showed them to my sixteen-year-old mare, BH High Hopes a.k.a. “Ginger”. I wanted her to know some of them are older than she is and I want her to realize what she could be doing to earn me some big money. For instance, the top calf roping horse for 2001 was a sorrel gelding named Leos San Bar a.k.a. Easy. He was born in 1984 and was a year older than my old mare. He was ridden by some of the best calf ropers in the business: Herbert Theriot (his owner) of Poplarville, Mississippi, and Jerome Schneeberger of Ponca City, Oklahoma. To make matters more challenging the top steer wrestling horse for 2001 was a bay gelding named Bad Motorscooter a.k.a. Scooter. Ridden in competition by Steve Duhon of Maurive, Louisiana, Jimmy Powers of Sonora, Texas owned him. This horse was born in 1981. That made him twenty years old. And in 1998, at the age of seventeen he won the same honors. Other top horses were youngsters compared with those two. The top team roping heeling horse was a roan named Boons Smooth Val a.k.a. “Roany”. Born in 1987 he was a couple of years younger than my old mare. Owned and ridden by Rich Skelton of Llano, Texas, this old pony won the same honors in 1997, 1998, and 1999. The top team roping heading horse is a palomino gelding named Smoothly Anchored a.k.a. “Calhoon.” Now this horse was a baby compared with those previously mentioned. He was only ten years old. His owner and rider is Richard Eiguren, Jr. of Jordon Valley, Oregon.

Steer ropers picked a fourteen-year-old brown gelding named Two D Ole Man a.k.a. “Jeremiah” as the best steer roping horse of the year. He had that honor before back in 1999 and 2000 when he was twelve and thirteen. His owner and rider is Guy Allen of Santa Anna, Texas. Then there was the 2001 baby of the bunch. A gray barrel racing mare owned and ridden by Pueblo, Colorado, barrel racer Kelly Ann Yates named Firewater Fiesta a.k.a. “Fiesta,” she was only seven years old and received these same honors in 2000. If I can just convince my old mare that she has to live up to these kinds of standards we’ll be in tall clover in the spring. She can be pretty stubborn about some things. Heck, she won’t even stand still until my harangues are over. She snorts and walks away and I imagine her saying, “What about you. I don’t see you out making big bucks at rodeos.” Oh, well, ride on.

Joe and Me and the Band

At first, we called ourselves “The Subterraneans.” It was during my “Beat” period. We played gigs in hotels, dance halls and bars. We had a drummer who didn’t know how to drum rock and roll. A lead guitarist who at that time didn’t know how to lead. A rhythm guitarist who eventually became a good bass man. A piano player who was on his own wavelength. We were, to be kind, pitiful. But, we were the only rock group in the area and it took a while before folks caught on to how pitiful we were. Some got out while the getting out was good. The rest of us evolved into a tight knit group of guys who hung out together even when we weren’t playing gigs. Our name changed, too. We became Vernon Lee and the Rebs. That’s right, Lee is my middle name. I was the lead singer and if you had asked me I would have told you I was cool. To prove how cool we were, I bought a robin egg blue Studebaker and we painted flaming letters on the side proclaiming “Vernon Lee and the Rebs.” That was a sight to behold if you didn’t fall down laughing. Oh, I worked with other bands as the boy rock and roll singer: Wayne Brillhart and His Orchestra (got top billing with that one); Kenny Vail and the Osage Ramblers (we played seven jobs a week at five Kansas bars and two Oklahoma nightclubs); Johnny Garner’s All-Stars (Missouri and Oklahoma nightclubs). But, there was never a closeness that we few felt in those first bands. All of this is to preface the fact that all of the Rebs and Subterraneans are dead now except for Joe Prater and me. I’ve mentioned Joe before. He and I always go out to Jim Bob’s and eat barbeque when I’m in Joplin. Well, Joe and his wife, Ruth, stopped by a while ago for a visit. We try to see each other every year. Joe is an accomplished artist. He paints in oils and watercolors. I have four pieces of his work in my house. You can check out his web page for other work that is for sale (joeprater.com). We are good friends. More like brothers, we have been through bad times and good times together. We it that our wives saved our lives.

Our visits used to take the shape of ing. We stopped doing that when we realized that nearly everyone we would bring up had beat us to the barn. Now we talk about our kids and our aches and pains. Eat out a lot. We’re trying to make up for the food we missed when we were “rock and roll stars” in those little Kansas bars. We don’t have to say too much most of the time. We look at each other and just know. That’s the way with real friends. They just keep riding and rocking on.

A Memorable Christmas

We all have a Christmas we recall in moments of reverie. One of mine occurred fifty years ago on the snow burdened cold high plains of Nebraska. My best friend in the army was Chuck Wiggins. We served together in the military police at Fort Carson, Colorado. We were the only two cowboy types in the unit. I was a wannabe bronc rider. He was a rancher’s son who loved to rope. When Christmas rolled around in 1953, we studied what we would do with our holiday leave time. Chuck had the answer. We would go to his home for Christmas. So, on Christmas we got in his Buick convertible with the top up and head north and west out of Colorado, across the corner of Wyoming and into the high rolling plains of Nebraska. It was a long night and finally we came to a tiny snow filled road off the back country highway we had been traveling. Chuck stopped the car and we sat looking up the tracks in the snow that seemed to lead to nowhere. He had a pleasant smile on his face. He was home for Christmas. Then we began to drive up those tracks that lead into the long white darkness. We had gone a couple of miles or so when the Buick spun out and refused to move. Church said, “No problem.” Then got out of the car and walked off into the white darkness. I sat there wondering if I would die of frostbite that Christmas eve. After an hour or so a tractor appeared in the darkness with two grinning Wiggins boys aboard. Chuck’s brother hooked a chain to the front of the Buick and pulled us on into the Wiggins homestead. We fell into bed and slept until Christmas morning. The smell of breakfast cooking and the chatter of young girls awakened me while it was still dark. I rolled out bed and pulled on my jeans, flannel shirt and boots and clomped down the stairs. There was Chuck, his brother, dad, mother and sisters all bright eyed and cheery. As I entered the room a chorus of voices shouted “Merry Christmas.” We ate a quick breakfast of beef sausage, eggs, hotcakes, and coffee and headed to the barn.

With a team of horses pulling a wagon stacked high with hay we drove across the prairie scattering the hay among herds of milling Hereford cattle. When the chore was finished we headed into the house. It was time to open presents. I don’t know where they found the after shave they wrapped in bright paper and topped with a bow. But I shall never forget that Christmas gift, or that day. We spent part of the day riding green broke horses in the round pen and then Chuck and I saddled up and headed across the icy prairie. There was a girl on a neighboring ranch he wanted to see. There were few fences, but when we came to one Chuck dismounted, took his fencing tools out of his saddlebag and pulled the staples. We held down the barbed wire and led the horses across and he hammered in the staples. After a short howdy and a Merry Christmas at the other ranch we headed back to the Wiggins place.

The Summer of Our Sorrow

The farm machinery and equipment was lined up in the pasture near the house. Everything from the dairy barn sparkled in bright summer sunshine. Cattle, horses, pigs and chickens were penned and ready for the auctioneer. Even familiar household items were arranged on the lawn for friends, neighbors and strangers alike to poke through. By nightfall, we would no longer be farmers. The old Plymouth would hold all that was left: a mattress lashed to the top, and a trunk stuffed with personal belongings. All my father ever wanted to be was a farmer. Born and reared on a farm, he had leave in his late teens to work the lead and zinc mines of southeast Kansas and Northeast Oklahoma. He eventually bought a dump truck and tried to strike out on his own just as the Great Depression took hold of the nation and the Dust Bowl broke the back of the Great Plains. Not easily defeated, my father remained proud and determined. By 1940, he was ready to move to a farm. Unable to buy a farm, my father rented one and then another and another. Finally, in 1946, he found the dream farm. It had a magnificent stone barn as well as a towering white milk barn. A sprawling lawn and circle driveway gave the white frame farmhouse a hint of elegance. We loved the farm, and showed our love by working harder than ever. Our dairy herd grew. The crops were lush and abundant. Pastures were always green, and water was plentiful. We prospered in our hearts and souls. But beneath all the joy and promise lurked federally guaranteed loans for dairy cattle, and bank loans for various farming needs. And then one spring after planting, the sky opened up. It rained and rained and rained. The crops were ruined, and the debt could not be paid on time. We had to sell. That spring broke my father’s spirit, cracked the family pride, shoved failure into our faces and permanently changed our lives and behavior.

No preacher came to pray with us. No Easter promise danced before us. Only a sense of deep and eternal loss rode beside us as we drove out of the county and the state to start all over again. We in our collective sense of failure would never recover from the loss. Our dreams would always be filled with memories of horses, cattle, fishing in the creek, gathering crawdads in the pond, smelling sweet, new-mown hay and fresh-baked bread, waiting beside a pregnant mare on cold winter nights, tasting fresh vegetables born of summer sweat and toil and picking gooseberries and blackberries in the woods. We would never speak of the failure, but only of the joys, hopes, and good times. And, most of all, we never talked about our pain. Today more and more farmers who have been broken on the torturous wheel of national economic policies and are living out their failures. Their pain is as deep as their hopes were once high. Monetary help—such as that raised by Farm Aid —is essential; it feeds hungry people and provides clothing and shelter. But more important are comionate, listening hearts, for being torn from the land seems to cut deeper than ordinary failure. People of the land feel such failure with a depth that their urban brothers and sisters have difficulty understanding. For they are one with the land itself. The water is one with their blood; the grass and the grain are one with their heart; the sun and the stars are one with their soul. A break in this kinship is not easily healed. At nearly ninety, my father still bore the emotional and psychological scares of that summer of our sorrow. He and my mother are buried in the same rich Kansas earth that they worked years ago. My sisters—though some were too young to really that day—nevertheless carry marks of that painful family experience. And I, oldest of the siblings, find myself still working through the pain of that long ago day in Kansas. There is something about being one with the land that transcends what psychologists and counselors say. It is, perhaps, better understood in the light of the Native American relationship to the land. Breaking such a relationship kills the fragile heart of creation and fractures the ancient soul that sings in the arms of the land. The nation’s destiny may well be determined by how well it cares for the farmer. Such wounding of the spirit does not enhance a people unless they respond with alacrity to the cries of the wounded and broken hearts. There is little time for

gamesmanship in congressional halls or White House think tanks; this crisis will not wait for rational political solutions. Daniel Webster’s comment that “farmers are the founders of civilization” has little meaning in a time when farm families are slipping into despairing anonymity. But civilization may well feel the rumbling of destruction if it fails to reach out a healing hand to the people of the land.

A Singing Fool

They used to call Will Rogers “the roping fool.” Well, I like to sing. You might call me “a singin’ fool.” Trouble is I don’t know if folks like to hear me sing. Nevertheless, I’ve been singing since I was child. Mostly to myself, because I like to hear me. I picked up my love of singing from my momma. She sang while doing housework and cooking. Her songs included tunes by Woody Guthrie, Jimmy Rodgers, Bob Wills, Hank Williams, and a lot of old time cowboy songs. In the fifties, I jumped on the rock and roll wagon covering Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis, Gene Vincent, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, and a lot of others including some kid named Elvis. Some ten years of my life was spent rocking and rolling with bands in Oklahoma, Missouri, Kansas, and Colorado. Crowds liked us. I’m not sure how good I was singing, but of course the music was so loud that I might have just been experiencing good cover. But, I liked it because I like to sing. I started out singing in the First Baptist Church Choir in Parsons, Kansas. In seminary in Kansas City, I sang with the school choir. Now and then through the years, I have picked up a few chords on the guitar and banjo and sing at various gatherings and at church. I still don’t know how good I am. One year I sang a little at the Christmas Eve service at Principio United Methodist Church. Afterwards, Ric Taylor, a professional musician and singer from the congregation exited with these words. “You didn’t stink.” Now, that’s plumb encouraging for an old geezer like me. Cowboys used to sing while they worked and while they sat around the campfire at night. You didn’t have to be good, just entertaining. Still, they had their critics. They would say things like “He had an E-String voice that sounded like a rusty gate swinging.” They claim one old boy’s singing made the cook stop the chuck wagon to look for a dry axle. Another, they said, had voice like a burro with a bad cold. One time, the story goes, a cowboy was singing so well that the coyotes gathered and

laid off their howling just to listen. But, criticism doesn’t slow me down. I sing to myself every morning before I start writing. And I’ll tell you, I like to hear me because I don’t stink. I’m a singing fool. Give me a call if you want an experience and ride on.

Cowboy Boots

There is a story that someone stole from someone else about a boy and his cowboy boots. I am going to tell you the straight story. Back when I was a boy going to school in a one-room southeast Kansas schoolhouse one of the first graders, Tater Johnson wore cowboy boots to school everyday. I wanted to but my mama made me wear farmer brogans. Well, one day the teacher was helping Tater put on his cowboy boots. He did not usually ask for help but this day it just seemed like he could not get them on. Therefore, he asked our teacher to help him. Well, even with her pulling and him pushing, the little boots still did not want to go on. Finally, when the second boot was on, she had worked up a terrible sweat. I know, women do not sweat they glow. Nevertheless, this teacher was sweating. She almost broke down and cried when Tater said, “Teacher, they’re on the wrong feet.” She looked at his feet and sure enough, they were on the wrong feet. It was not any easier pulling the boots off than it was putting them on. However, she managed to keep her cool as together they worked to get the boots back on, this time on the right feet. Then, Tater announced, “These aren’t my boots.” The teacher bit her tongue so she would not wind up screaming in face. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” She said quietly and she bent to help him once again struggled to get out of the ill-fitting boots. She struggled to get the boots off and Tater said, “They’re my brother’s boots. My Mom made me wear ‘em.” Now the teacher was very close to a break down at this point. She did not know if she should laugh, cry, or kill Tater. Nevertheless, she mustered up the grace

and courage she had left to wrestle the boots onto his feet again. Then, helping him into his coat, she asked, “Now, where are your mittens?” To which Tater replied, “I stuffed ‘em in the toes of my boots.” The teacher is still resting quietly at a Kansas home for the emotionally disturbed and Tater still has a lump on his head.

Backyard Creation Story

On the first day, God created the cow. God said, “You must go to the field with the farmer all day long and suffer under the sun, have calves and give milk to the farmer, I will give you a life span of sixty years.” Cow said, “That’s a kind of a tough life you want me to live for sixty years. Let me have twenty years and I’ll give back the other forty.” God agreed. On the second day, God created the dog. God said, “Sit all day by the door of your house and bark at anyone who comes in or walks past. I will give you a life span of twenty years.” Dog said, “That’s too long to be barking. Give me ten years and I’ll give back the other ten.” God agreed. On the third day, God created the monkey. God said, “Entertain people, do monkey tricks make them laugh. I’ll give you a twenty year lifespan.” Monkey said, “How boring, monkey tricks for twenty years? I don’t think so. Dog gave you back ten, so that’s what I’ll do too, okay?” God agreed. On the fourth day, God created man. God said, “Eat, sleep, play, have sex, enjoy. Do nothing, just enjoy, and enjoy. I’ll give you twenty years.” Man said, “What? Only twenty years? No way man. Tell you what, I’ll take my

twenty, and the forty cow gave back, and the ten monkey gave back and the ten dog gave back. That makes eighty, okay?” God agreed. So that is why for the first twenty years we eat, sleep, play, have sex, enjoy, and do nothing. For the next forty years, we slave in the sun to our family. For the next ten years, we do monkey tricks to entertain our grandchildren. For the last ten years, we sit in front of the house and bark at everybody.

Cowboy Cures

I was sitting on the back porch visiting with my old buddy Rags when we got on the subject of cures for horse illnesses. “I once heard of a man who cured a horse of colic and gas problems by inserting a lighted match into the horse,” he said. “Relief was sudden,” they say, “but the horse stampeded.” I looked at him with disbelief and then he said, “Heard of a cure for lockjaw in a horse, too.” “What’s that,” I asked with some trepidation. “You drive a nail into the horse’s skull.” “That’s crazy, to say nothing about the cruelty,” I said. “Well,” he grinned. “It’s a sure enough cure unless the nail kills the horse.” “Absolute insanity,” I proclaimed as I reached for my knife and started to whittle. “Heard a whole bunch of cowboy ways to cure human ailments, too, when I was working on cattle ranches out west,” Rags went on. “I’m almost afraid to hear them,” I said. “Some folks swear by them,” he said. “For instance, if a person has asthma you catch a frog. Then you pry open the frog’s mouth and have them blow their breath into the frog’s mouth. You have to be careful to do this before daylight. Then the frog will die at sundown and take your asthma with it.” “Nuts!” I said. “Maybe, but you never know. The old vaqueros used to swallow Jalapeno peppers whole to get rid of a cold.”

“Did it work?” “Must have. Never saw one with a cold.” “Well, that’s not very scientific but I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “Ever get the hiccups?” “Of course, everybody has?” “Well, a sure cure is to have somebody pull out your tongue until it begins to bleed a little. That’ll stop them.” “I guess so. How do you stop the bleeding?” “Just wait a spell it’ll subside.” “These are really strange cures,” I said. “They’re cowboy cures. What do you expect? Got some more you’ll appreciate. If you get the hives, make a tea of sheep manure and drink it while it’s hot.” “Now, that’s really sick!” “Cowboy cures, hoss. Cowboy cures. I got more. If you get indigestion, eat the dried lining of a chicken gizzard and if you get lockjaw, drink cockroach tea.” “This has been a very unpleasant afternoon,” I said. “Must be the company I keep.” “Hey, I represent that! Besides I’m just trying to help you get along in life without a whole lot of trouble. If you know someone who gets the measles, have them roast a mouse and eat it. That’ll cure them. Might take several days, but it’ll cure them. And if you get rheumatism, mix half a bottle of vinegar with a handful of red ants and drink it down. You’ll be good as new.” “That’s about all the help I need,” I said. “Believe I’ll just mosey on into the house and take a nap.” “Hope you ain’t got a tape worm,” Rags said as I stood up, “But, if you do eat ground glass that’ll kill the little sucker.”

With that, he headed for his pickup and the last thing I heard from him was a snicker and “Ride on!”

Cowboy Time

(I stole this idea from Baxter Black)

You call your farrier and make an appointment for him to come and shoe your horses on Wednesday. You take the day off from work and wait all day and he doesn’t show. You call and he says, “Oh, did you mean this Wednesday?” Cowboy time! You call your vet and set up a time and date for your horse’s checkups or annual inoculations and after hours of waiting the vet comes racing into your driveway looking overworked and serious. Cowboy time! Well, you shouldn’t be too upset because a lot of farriers and vets, as well as some of my friends and family, are like God. They function on cowboy time. You know the kind. A friend shows up saying he is going to visit for a few days and the next thing you know he’s camped out on your couch for weeks, or even months. When we have family get togethers out in Kansas I have a sister who just sort of shows up when it strikes her to do so. We used to think it was because she had six children, but the kids are all grown and gone now and she still shows up— whenever. The love of my life, Miss Susan, has a little of the cowboy time in her own makeup. I used to tease her about 7 p.m. appointments meant be there at seven not leave the house at seven. So, let me explain how cowboy time is like God’s time. I believe in God. I also believe the two stories of creation found in Genesis. However, I am a reasonable person with a modicum of intelligence, so the Genesis stories used to leave me in a quandary because I also believe in scientific fact. Carbon dating, for instance, is an accurate method of determining the age of things. And carbon dating proves human existence in these here United States at least 25,000 years

ago to say nothing of the millions of years old dinosaurs and horses. I lived with this conundrum throughout my life until I heard a cowboy poet explain it. According to that cowboy poet-theologian Baxter Black, God operates on cowboy time. Like cowboys, God was determined to create the world in six days no matter how long it took. That cleared up a lot of my confusion.

Cowboy Insults

Having moved east after spending most of my life west of the Mississippi I found myself in meetings with suits saying things like, “I feel like I’ve been rode hard and put away wet.” The standard response to such sayings was blank stares. I quickly learned that I was, in fact, speaking a foreign language. I sort of sublimated it after a while, but the phrases and thoughts and linguistic peculiarities remained with me. I like them. They say a lot about certain situations that would be hard to describe in “polite language.” Cowboy insults are a lot like the put-downs that youngsters do in the city. Not meant to be really injurious they just state the obvious in mean ways. For instance, observing some old boy who just can’t seem to do his job well you might say, “He couldn’t track a wagon through a bog hole.” Uncertainty can always be explained by saying, “You never can tell which way a pickle’s going to squirt.” Really homely fellers were really in for it. “He was ugly as burnt boot.” Dirty mustache: “His mustache smelled like a mildewed saddle blanket after it had been rid on a sore back hoss three hundred miles in August.” To you nonhorseman let me say that is pretty stinking bad. “His face was puckered like wet sheepskin before a hot fire.” But, it is not just men who get referenced regarding their looks. One saying goes, “She’s so ugly, she could back a buzzard off a gut-wagon.” One I heard frequently as a boy was, “She is so ugly she has to sneak up on a dipper to get a drink of water.” Regarding intelligence, my daddy used to say things like “He can’t tell skunks from house cats.” There are lots of others that refer to a fellow’s intelligence. “He was so dumb he couldn’t drive nails in a snow bank.” Or, “He don’t know as much about it as a hog does about a sidesaddle.” And its cousin, “He knows as much about it as a

hog does a hip pocket in a bathing suit.” Then there’s “He don’t know dung from wild honey.” And, “He didn’t have nothin’ under his hat but hair.” I especially like “His brain cavity wouldn’t make a drinking cup for a canary bird.” Overweight folks might be referred to in this manner: “He is so fat; you’d have to throw a diamond hitch just to keep him in the saddle.” Meanness got a different kind of approach. They might say about a fighting man, “He is so mean; he’s fight a rattler and give him the first bite.” Or, “He was mean enough to eat off the same plate as a snake.” These kinds of insults go on and on and sometimes right in man’s face. Some just laughed, others would get downright angry. How would you like to be told, “You are a shy of brains as a terrapin is of feathers.” Or, the one I heard now and then “You’re as crazy as popcorn on a hot stove.” How about, “You couldn’t hit the ground with your hat in three throws.” Weather got its share of insulting references. “It was so windy yesterday that a hen setting against the wind laid the same egg five times!” Another good one I heard about the hot Kansas summers was, “I ain’t afraid of hell I spent a summer in Kansas.” Honesty was always an issue with most country folk. I heard one man tell another, “That old boy is so crooked, he could swaller nails and spit out corkscrews.” How about this one. “He was as crooked as a snake in a cactus patch.” Don’t like to work? They had an expression for folks like that, as well. “He was so lazy, molasses wouldn’t run down his legs.” Another old cowboy insult refers to a man’s background. “His family tree was a shrub.” And so it goes.

Educashun

My cousin Charlie sent me along a piece of history he uncovered. It reminded me of the one-room schools I attended as a boy when we rode our horses to school and took a county final exam to go on to high school. Take a look at this a copy of the actual test used in 1895 by one school system in the Smoky River Valley of Kansas. It certainly puts new meaning into the whole idea of testing at the elementary level. I read the questions to a college class I teach and they were dumbfounded. Thought you might like to see how you measure up to what once required of eighth graders.

Grammar (Time, one hour)

1. Give nine rules for the use of Capital Letters. 2. Name the Parts of Speech and define those that have no modifications. 3. Define Verse, Stanza and Paragraph. 4. What are the Principal Parts of a verb? Give Principal Parts of do, lie, lay and run. 5. Define Case, Illustrate each Case. 6. What is Punctuation? Give rules for principal marks of Punctuation. 7.-10. Write a composition of about 150 words and show therein that you understand the practical use of the rules of grammar.

Arithmetic (Time, 1.25 hours)

1. Name and define the Fundamental Rules of Arithmetic. 2. A wagon box is 2 ft. deep, 10 feet long, and 3 ft. wide. How many bushels of wheat will it hold? 3. If a load of wheat weighs 3942 lbs., what is it worth at 50 cents per bushel., deducting 1050 lbs. for tare? 4. District No. 33 has a valuation of $35,000. What is the necessary levy to carry on a school seven months at $50 per month, and have $104 for incidentals? 5. Find cost of 6720 lbs. coal at $6.00 per ton. 6. Find the interest of $512.60 for 8 months and 18 days at 7 percent. 7. What is the cost of 40 boards 12 inches wide and 16 ft. long at $20 per running foot. 8. Find bank discount on $300 for 90 days (no grace) at 10 percent. 9. What is the cost of a square farm at $15 per are, the distance around which is 640 rods? 10. Write a Bank Check, a Promissory Note, and a Receipt.

U.S. History (Time, 45 minutes)

1. Give the epochs into which U.S. History is divided. 2. Relate the causes and results of the Revolutionary War. 3. Show the territorial growth of the United States.

4. Tell what you can of the history of Kansas. 5. Describe three of the most prominent battles of the Rebellion. 6. Who were the following: Morse, Whitney, Fulton, Bell, Lincoln, Penn, and Howe? 8. Name events connected with the following dates: 1607, 1620, 1800, 1849, 1865.

Orthography (Time, one hour)

1. What is meant by the following: Alphabet, phonetic, orthography, etymology, syllabication? 2. What are elementary sounds? How classified? 3. What are the following, and give examples of each: Trigraph, subvocals, diphthong, cognate letters, linguals? 4. Give four substitutes for caret ‘u’. 5. Give two rules for spelling words with final ‘e’. Name two exceptions under each rule. 6. Give two uses of silent letters in spelling. Illustrate each. 7. Define the following prefixes and use in connection with a word: Bi, dis, mis, pre, semi, post, non, inter, mono,super. 8. Mark diacritically and divide into syllables the following, and name the sign that indicates the sound: Card, ball, mercy, sir, odd,cell, rise, blood, fare, last. 9. Use the following correctly in sentences: Cite, site, sight, fane, fain, feign, vane, vain, vein, raze, raise, rays.

10. Write 10 words frequently mispronounced and indicate pronunciation by use of diacritical marks and by syllabication.

Geography (Time, one hour)

1. What is climate? Upon what does climate depend? 2. How do you for the extremes of climate in Kansas? 3. Of what use are rivers? Of what use is the ocean? 4. Describe the mountains of North America. 5. Name and describe the following: Monrovia, Odessa, Denver, Manitoba, Hecla, Yukon, St. Helena, Juan Fermandez, Aspinwall and Orinoco. 6. Name and locate the principal trade centers of the U.S. 7. Name all the republics of Europe and give capital of each. 8. Why is the Atlantic Coast colder than the Pacific in the same latitude? 9. Describe the process by which the water of the ocean returns to the sources of rivers. 10. Describe the movements of the earth. Give inclination of the earth.

Imagine a college student who went to public school trying to this test, even if the few outdated questions were modernized. Gives the saying of an early 20th century person that “she/he only had an 8th grade education” and the present day term “the dumbing down of America” whole new meanings! Meanwhile, ride on.

Excuses, Excuses

Horses need a lot of attention. They need to be worked. They have to have something to do to keep them trim and alert. However, a lot of horse folks use a lot of funny excuses for not working their horses. Like a lot of you, I’ve heard a bunch of odd excuses. And every time I think I’ve heard them all I hear a new one. Thought I’d share some with you, so here goes and if the shoe fits, you know the drill.

• I lost my whip! • My horse is bad during a full moon! • I’m getting too old for everyday riding! • The wind is blowing too hard, my horse might spook! • It’s to dry out, my horse’s skin may rash! • My trainer isn’t here to tell me what to do! • I can’t get my boots on! • My horse doesn’t like arenas! • I haven’t had a lesson this week! • The sun is to bright, it may bleach my horse’s coat! • My horse isn’t in a good mood! • I forgot to bring carrots today! • My horse needs new shoes!

• My horse just got new shoes! • It might rain! • It’s too cold! • It’s too hot! • There are too many people watching! • I haven’t ridden all week! • No body else is riding today! • It’s to close to feeding time. • Riding may wear me out, I have to go to the gym later!

Family Ties

For over thirty years, Miss Susan and I have been researching our family histories. We discovered a few years ago that my great-grandparents, John Milton Amrine and Catherine Pressler Amrine, raised Steel Dust horses in Illinois before and during the Civil War. One distant relative called them Gold Dust horses, but obviously was lacking horse sense. It seems that while great-grandfather was off fighting in the Civil War greatgrandmother took special care of the horses. One story goes that whenever troops were in the neighborhood confiscating food they were always looking for horses for the cavalry. So, she would take the Steel Dusts a.k.a. Quarter Horses into the Illinois woods and hide them until danger had ed. When John Milton got home from the war she had pretty much held together the farm and then opportunity for land, new beginnings arose, and they headed for the high plains of Kansas to homestead. After establishing the family there they left some of them and headed west for more free land in southeastern Colorado. My mama always said her family had gypsy blood. One thing was sure they moved around a lot. But, back to the Steel Dusts. The name supposedly came from a stallion that produced a particular kind of horse. There is some question about that but one thing is sure the fast, hard working Quarter Horse was highly desired. In colonial times, they were raced on quarter mile tracks, especially down in Virginia. They would haul the family to church on Sunday morning and go win races on Sunday afternoon. The Steel Dust could turn with abrupt speed and turn it off again in the wink of an eye. They could carry a big man like myself with a heavy stock saddle all-day and still have the juice to go into town for a Saturday night hooraw. In other words, they were tough and versatile. They perform without constant direction and become true partners with the human sitting on their back. They

endeared themselves to farmers, cattlemen, and cowboys across the country. They traditionally have a low center of gravity, heavy muscles, deep “v” between their forelegs, powerful hindquarters, good bone and foot, a quiet trainable disposition, a high degree of intelligence, and natural cow sense. This is what distinguished the Quarter Horse or “Bulldog” as they are sometimes called, from other equine breeds. I have owned and ridden several of them and although I love all horses, there is a special place in my heart for the Quarter Horse. It must be the old family ties. Anyway, you-all ride on.

Good Eatin’

Every time the fall and winter holidays start rolling around I get a sensory memory regarding food. These are the kind of meals that health conscious folks today spurn. Well, let them spurn away, I’ll eat what they dismiss as fattening and unhealthy. Such folks should move to California and munch away on low fat, low salt, and low sugar delicacies. I like the old holiday foods that stick to your ribs. My people took Old World food and combined it with New World stuff like corn, turkey, raccoon, and an occasional possum. Then they threw in food from Africa like watermelon and okra. Mostly, I that most of the food was homegrown. No fast food, no frozen food, no calorie counting. Just good eatin’. Garden or barnyard, it didn’t matter from where it came. Techno-grown, processed and genetically alter just doesn’t measure up. That’s most of the food you find in the supermarkets these days. The kind of food I’m talking about is real. And the cooking process is slow. You just didn’t whip up a big meal in those days. You had to clear your calendar for the cooking. Ham, as an example took about a year to cure, overnight to soak, hours to glaze and cook. Now that ain’t fast food, but its goooooood! Sweets and deserts didn’t come in a box. And condiments were canned last summer in a hot kitchen filled with wonderful smells. Miss Susan bakes pies like no one else I have ever known. Her apple and cherry pies are down-right scrumptious, but her punkin pies leave you speechless. There is no way to describe how great they taste. She learned how to bake the old-timey way and it shows. Now, I have to it and she agrees that she can’t touch my mother’s homemade bread. I know a lot of great bread makers around here but momma’s was special. Miss Susan tried to learn how to make it like mamma, but it never worked. But, you put mommas’s homemade bread and Miss Susan’s pies on the table

with fresh baked turkey and dressing with a lot of sage and onion in it and you got food that make your senses sing. Add to that homemade butter, gravy made from pan drippings, real mashed potatoes like you get at cuppers, a pitcher of buttermilk and another pitcher of iced tea and you have to loosen your belt and get ready for a trip to nirvana. I hope your holiday dinners (that’s lunch to you eastern folk) bring you that kind of joy.

Good Old Days Revisited

Those of you who read my columns or listen to me speak know about my old friend, Tater Johnson. Well, we were sitting on the back porch spitting and whittling the other day when the conversation turned to current events. I made the mistake of asking him what he thought about things in general. And that got him started. He replied: “Heck, Vern, I was born before television, penicillin, polio shots, frozen foods, Xerox, lenses, Frisbees and the pill. There weren’t things like radar, credit cards, laser beams or ballpoint pens. They hadn’t even invented pantyhose, dishwashers, clothes dryers, electric blankets, air conditioners and nobody walked on the moon.” “My wife, Effie, and me got married first then lived together and until I was 25 I called every man older than me ‘sir.’” “Sunday was set aside for family, helping those in need, and just visiting with your neighbors.” “That was before gay-rights, computer dating, dual careers, day-care centers, and group therapy. Our lives were pretty much governed by good judgment and common sense. We were taught to know the difference between right and wrong, and to stand up and take responsibility for our actions.” “We thought fast food was what you ate during Lent. Having a meaningful relationship meant getting along with your cousins. And time sharing meant time the family spent together, not condominiums.” “We never heard of FM radio, tape decks, CD’s, electric typewriters, artificial hearts, word processors, yogurt or guys wearing ear rings. We listened to ‘big bands’, the Lone Ranger, Jack Benny, the Grand Ol’ Opry and the President’s speeches on the radio. “If you saw anything with ‘Made in Japan’ on it, it was junk! The term ‘making out’ referred to how you did on your school exam. Pizza’s, McDonald’s and instant coffee were unheard of.” “We had 5 and 10 cent stores where you could

buy things for 5 and 10 cents. Ice cream cones, phone calls, rides on a streetcar, and a cola were all a nickel. And if you didn’t want to ‘splurge,’ you could spend your nickel on enough stamps to mail a letter and two postcards.” I thought he was wound down, but he kicked into second gear and went on. “You could buy a new Chevy Coupe for $600 if you had $600, which I didn’t. And that was too bad, because gas was only 11 cents!” “In my day ‘grass’ was mowed, ‘coke’ was a cold drink, ‘pot’ was something your mother cooked in, and ‘rock music’ was your grandmother’s lullaby. A ‘chip’ meant a piece of wood, ‘hardware’ was found in a hardware store and software wasn’t even a word.” “We were not before the difference between the sexes was discovered, but we were surely before the sex change. And we were the last generation that was so dumb as to think you needed a husband to have a baby. No wonder people today call me old and confused.” He paused looked out across the trees toward the setting sun and muttered. “You know, Vern, there really is a generation gap, but as you say, ‘Ride on.’”

The Black Mare and the Cowboy

There are all kinds of stories in the west about horses who performed extraordinary feats. One I like is about a black and her cowboy rider. It seems that back in 1832 some cowboys were on a mustang hunt near the Trinity River in Texas. They finally found herd of about 100 horses and as they approached the herd they were amazed that the herd showed no fear of humans. As the cowboys sat there in the tall grass puzzling over this phenomenon Comanche suddenly appeared on the backs of these horses. The cowboys turned tail and headed for the nearest town some ten miles away with a hundred Indians pursuing them. Soon the Indians were in two columns flanking the cowboys. They were riding along at top speed with a column of Indians on each side and then the cowboys saw it—a ravine straight ahead. It could not be crossed. The Indians were bearing down on them and it seemed that there was no escape. One man riding a black mare turned sharply to the left while his companions were all trapped, killed and were being scalped the warriors. The man on the black mare had an arrow sticking in him and the mare had one in her neck. Arrows continued to fly around them as they dashed for a stand of timber. The man began to weaken. He dropped his rifle but had enough strength to pull the arrow out of the mare’s neck. When she tired, he stopped, got off, loosened the cinch and let her blow even as the Indians got closer. He shucked his jacket and boots to lighten her load, remounted and headed for the timber just as the Indians began to close in on him. There another surprise awaited him. Fifteen to twenty foot high bluffs lined the river. The Indians were closing the gap, the mare snorted and then leaped off the bluff into the river. She began to swim across the river with her rider hanging on and the Indians watching from the bluff. Nearly across the river, the black mare gave out a groan and died. The rider was able to swim to the far bank and safety. With tears in his eyes, the old Texas cowboy told the story for years around campfires and by the stove on a cold night. All listened with reverence for they understood the tie that binds man and

horse. Ride on, my friends, ride on.

The Red Mule

The old guide sat silent beside the barn. Dusty hat pushed back, he started the yarn

About a mule he knew for a good many years, Red with two socks and gray-tipped ears.

In a raspy cowpoke voice he something to say. Never missed a step, never lost his way,

The red mule, he said, could be trusted. Reliable, sure-footed, never once busted.

When a mistake would hurt or kill you He kept his head, walked a way that was true.

All those years guiding hunters and fishermen I never had cause to speak harshly to him.

Always thought of him as one with myself. But, he ran out his string, the old guide said.

Like all of us his time came. He knew it. Surveyed his failing body, the vet affirmed

Time to put him down, ease his misery. I wanted to take him to high country.

Do it there. Let him die in a place He knew so well. He should be one

With the wild; recycled if you will. I cannot do that the vet said. State law.

If a veterinarian puts down an animal They must be buried. So, I did it myself.

I loaded the old red mule in a horse trailer. Took my rifle and drove into the San Juan’s.

It had to be done, the old guide whispered. He pulled his hat low. I’m gonna miss him.

War Horses

There were many famous horses during the War Between the States.Beauregard was at Appomattox with Capt. W.I. Rasin and survived until 1883. Fleeter was ridden by the spy, Belle Boyd. Gen. William Bate rode the popular mount, Black hawk. Dixie, a well loved mare, was killed at Perryville. Gen. Richard Richard Ewell loved his mount, Rifle. The southern cavalry mosquito in the Union’s ear for much of the war, Nathan Bedford Forrest had three mounts as favorites: King Philip, Roderick, and Highlander. Not all officers in the armies of the Confederacy and the Union were good horsemen. However, Confederate officers were probably more skilled equestrians than Union Officers because it was part of their culture. Be that as it may, officers had to be mounted so could they move quickly to direct battles. There are many stories about the role of horses that are of interest. The Fourteenth Virginia Cavalry was ordered to move out at night and be prepared to fight the enemy at dawn. They were ready and willing to fight. They had already been in two-dozen engagements, but they had a problem. They could not obey the orders given them because all their horses had been turned out to graze and they couldn’t round them up and get them ready in time. Confederate Captain S. Isadore Guillet rode the same horse that three of his brothers had ridden in battle. All three brothers had been killed. However, he climbed aboard that horse and rode into battle only to be shot dead off the back of the animal. Horses were valuable, so he had the horse listed in his will leaving it to a nephew. No one ever knew if that nephew chose to ride the horse or not. Another horse thought to be jinxed was the one ridden by Captain Moses Urquhart of the Ninety-Eighth Ohio Regiment. He led his troops into battle and was shot out the saddle. Capt. Armstrong Thomas took command mounted the same horse and was shot dead within minutes. Capt. John Lochry then took command. Mounted the horse and was killed immediately. Three dead officers seem to be enough. But Lieutenant Milliner was now in charge. He mounted the horse and led the troops. He was not killed but for the rest of his life he suffered from a minie ball that shattered his arm while he was in the saddle.

Sometimes it was the other way around. Many officers on both sides lost several mounts in battle. Union General John McClernand had three mounts shot out from under him in one battle at Belmont, Missouri. Col. Henry Hunt had three shot killed at Malvern Hill. Gen. Grenville Dodge had three horses shot from under him. One took twenty balls before it fell. At Antietim Union Gen. Daniel Ullman lost three mounts. Gen. William T. Sherman had three horse shot from under him on the first day of the battle at Shiloh. Confederate Gen. Joe Wheeler probably established a record with sixteen horses being killed under him. There were lots of other officers who lost numerous horses during battles. All in all horses proved to be an invaluable part of the battlefield and remained so in the United States until World War II. How come we do not have a memorial to them on the Washington Mall?

The Most Important Meal of the Day

I like breakfast. One of my favorites is a Mexican kind of breakfast. Here’s the menu per person. Fry three over easy eggs. Place them on a large plate. Pile on a huge helping of mashed, refried pinto beans. Next to that, pile on a large amount of genuine salsa. Any kind is all right as long as it is not made in New York City! On a medium hot skillet, or flat iron cover on the stove, heat up a pile of tortillas, flour or corn, it makes no difference. Pour a big cup of coffee and settle back and enjoy. You may not have to eat for a couple of days. Now, there are some things you need to know about such a breakfast. Meat can be added, but it’s really not necessary if you use corn tortillas. Corn and beans combined provide you with the amino acids your body craves and needs. The beauty of refried beans is that you can cook a big pot full and just keep reheating them until they are used up. Put some bacon fat in an iron skillet add the mashed up beans and let them heat at a medium temperature. Now, that’s good eating. Tortillas are easy to come by these days with all the yuppies making fajitas and the like. They are in most super markets. In the old days my neighbor women made them by hand. They had a special taste, but the store brands are all right. My second favorite comes right off my folks tenant farm in Kansas. We butchered our own hogs, so pork was always available. Here’s that menu per person. Fry three over easy eggs. Place them on a large plate. Add sausage patties. Links are some guy’s idea of cool, but they’re just not right. Pile on a huge helping of fried potatoes and onions. My daddy liked the potatoes and onions with dark Karo syrup poured over them. I on that. Add hot, homemade biscuits, butter

right out the churn, homemade jelly and jam, and hot coffee, or better yet, a big glass of cold milk. Once again, you may not have to eat for a couple of days, but it is an eye-opening morning you will .

The Truth about Tools

So, you want to know the truth about tools. I know a lot about tools. I grew up on a farm. Was a member of the Future Farmers of America and took shop in high school, where I learned, among other things, blacksmithing, basic welding and concrete work. A hammer was originally used as a weapon of war. Nowadays, it is used as a kind of divining rod to locate expensive parts not far from the object we are trying to hit. A knife is used to open and slice through the contents of cardboard cartons delivered to your front door; particularly clothing and other sensitive items. An electric hand drill is normally used for spinning steel Pop rivets in their holes until you die of old age, but it also works great for drilling holes in some sensitive area in the wall like a pipe. Pliers are designed to round off bolt heads, while a family favorite, the hacksaw, is clearly a cutting tool built on the Augustinian original sin principle. It transforms human energy into a crooked, unpredictable motion, and the more you attempt to influence its course, the more dismal your future becomes. And then there is a must for every toolbox, vice grips. They are also used to round off bolt heads. If nothing else is available, they can be used to transfer intense welding heat to the palm of your hand. Oxyacetylene torch is usually used for lighting various flammable objects in your garage or shop on fire. Also handy for igniting the grease inside a brake drum you’re trying to get the bearing race out of. They once used Whitworth sockets to work on older British cars and motorcycles. They are now used mainly for impersonating that 9/16” or 1/2” socket you’ve been searching for the last 15 minutes. Then there is the drill press. A tall upright machine useful for suddenly snatching

flat metal bar stock out of your hands so that it smacks you in the chest and flings your coffee across the room, splattering it against that freshly painted part you were drying. A wire wheel cleans rust off old bolts and then throws them somewhere under the workbench with the speed of light. In addition, removes fingerprint whorls and hard-earned guitar calluses in about the time it takes you to say, “Ouch.” Hydraulic floor jacks are another wonderful invention. They are used for lowering a pick-em-up truck to the ground after you have installed your new front disk brake setup, trapping the jack handle firmly under the front fender. Lumber is also important as a tool. An eight-foot long two by four can be used as a lever to raise your pick-em-up truck up off the hydraulic jack. One tool that needs to be in every toolbox is a pair of tweezers. It is used for removing wood splinters you get from trying to lift your pick-em-up truck off the jack with a two by four. I hope that helps some of you folks who have long harbored important questions about tools.

The Sight

My maternal grandma had what hill-folks call “The Sight.” Tradition holds that she often understood signs in a way that was mystical. My mama told about a time when grandma and the girls went out late at night for a final trip to the outhouse. On the way, the clouds split and a bright light descended on the little group, hesitated for a moment, and then disappeared. Grandma told her daughters that an aunt had died. The next day they received word that confirmed just that. Another event my mama told me about occurred on a summer day when a strange wet spot appeared beneath a tree outside their little house. Grandma turned to her daughters and said, “Get the house cleaned up and clean sheets on the bed. Something has happened to your daddy and they’ll be bringing him home soon.” Sure enough within a short time some men came into the yard carrying grandpa. He was injured in an explosion at the rock quarry where he worked as a powder monkey. My mama had some of “the sight” as well. Telephone calls would often come when I or someone else in the family had been ill. She would simply ask how we were and then comment that she had a feeling. That’s what she called it—a feeling. I used to smile at her mystical enterprises and the stories about grandma. I prided myself on being a reasonable person, a logical person. Nevertheless, as I get older I am less inclined to make light of it. Sometimes I get “feelings,” too.

California Chili: A Found Poem

I make chili con carne almost every week, summer and winter. I like it hot. It keeps sharing it down to a minimum. I use chili beans, pintos that is. No real chili con carne connoisseur ever uses kidney beans. Uggh. I ran onto a recipe somewhere for California chili con carne. Having nothing else to do when the snow hit I wrote what is called a found poem about California chili con carne. I came up with a real unique name for the poem: California Chili: A Found Poem. Hope you like it, cooked or otherwise.

Simmer tomatoes, one large onion Celery, salt, and pepper. Set aside. In lard, pig grease, sauté onions Green pepper garlic. Set aside. Brown cubed steak, lean pork. Add flour, more lard. Set aside. Add chili powder, brown sugar Oregano, vinegar, tomato sauce. Simmer. Add cheese, olives. Simmer. Serve with onions Chopped fine. Set aside.

Real chili con carne uses real chilies, Whatever meat at hand. Onions, Of course, and tomatoes served With tortillas slapped to shape That morning and set aside.

Beef—It’s What’s for Dinner

Having spent a lot of years as a single man I was forced to learn to cook. Heck, I even worked for a while at a steak house in north central Kansas where I stood at a grill for an eight-hour shift and cooked steaks. I had helpers who prepared the vegetables, the salads, fixed up the plates real pretty and carried them to the window where the waitresses took them into the dining room. I hated the job, but I learned a lot about cooking steaks. Some of them I had never heard of until I got that job. Needless to say, I didn’t keep that job very long. It’s hard work. And folks who know me know how I feel about hard work. However, I have learned a lot about cooking in my time. My mother used to fix steak or hamburger that she called “well done.” Now, in her lexicon that meant cooked until it curled like a shoe sole. There was no pink inside. It was brown clear through and sometimes bordered on black. However, that job I had taught me there are other ways to cook a steak. I like them grilled and I like them seasoned with a little garlic powder. The old cocineros out west would blanch at that. But, that’s how I like them. I also like fat Texas size fries with them or lots of Miss Susan’s potato salad. My most interesting encounter with beef, however, was not steaks. It was Christmas 1952. I went home with an army buddy to his family ranch in the sand hills of Nebraska. We drove up a long snowy lane with drifts everywhere. As I the ranch house was about three miles up that road leading into a white never-never land. We finally got stuck and Chuck got out of his 1951 Buick convertible and walked the last mile or so to the ranch house and got his brother out bed to come tow us in behind a tractor. This is before four wheelers were growing out of every garage in America. That was some night. Christmas morning dawned early on the ranch. There were chores to do, but first

presents were unwrapped. I didn’t get much. They didn’t know I was coming. But, somewhere in the house they found after shave and some things like and wrapped them for me, so Santa Claus wouldn’t overlook me. It was fun. They were a nice family. Then it was on to breakfast. Now, these folks raised beef cattle by the hundreds. So, for breakfast that morning we had hot home-made biscuits fresh from the over (not Grands!) with lots of butter and home-made jam, eggs by the platter full, and an endless pile of ground beef patties. No “other white meat” on that place. We filled up on that hot breakfast, pulled on our boots and coats and headed out to feed and hay hundreds of cattle on the range. And that breakfast stuck to our ribs all day. I don’t where you are these days, Chuck, but ride on.

Advance and Retreat

One day when I was clipping the beard off Miss Susan’s mare a butterfly came soaring across the corral and into the face of the mare. Her first reaction was to swing her head violently away from the “adverse stimulus.” Her head slammed me in the chest and sent me reeling. My first thought was “Now I can write a column about having my ribs broken by a butterfly.” However, nothing was broken and once I regained my breath, we completed our barbershop appointment. There is no way to desensitize a horse from things like a butterfly in the eye, but there are methods that can be used to take of many other “spooky” things. In a time when the rhetoric of war permeates our senses I could not help but think on an old horse training method called “Advance and Retreat.” Unlike the hawks of war and their language advance and retreat in horse training is not an aggressive action. Advance and retreat is the method you use to accustom horses to different kinds of things that frighten them. Scary or adverse stimuli make for an uncomfortable relationship between horse and horse person. Anyone who has tried to use fly spray, load or use clippers on a horse unaccustomed to those activities understands all too well the adverse stimulus idea. Stimulus is any environmental factor that motivates a horse to action. If the stimulus frightens the horse anything can happen. If, for instance, your horse shies from fly spray the desired outcome is that the horse will stand quietly and let you spray him. It may the sound of the spray or the feeling of it hitting the horses’ hide, or even the smell that creates an adverse stimulus. It doesn’t really matter what causes the fear, it is an honest feeling and the horse should not be reprimanded for being afraid. Instead, the horse should be conditioned to be unafraid of said stimulus. The advance theory is that you apply the stimulus as close as possible to the animal. Get as close as possible until the horse begins to tense up. Stop. Continue applying the stimulus from a distance and when close enough for the horse to be frightened allow him to be frightened. Let him move as fast as he

wants around you. Do not try to impede his movement. That is a natural act and we should not be into the habit of “breaking” a horse of being a horse. What about retreat? You do that when the horse holds still. He will discover that making the right response provides him with a reward. You stop spraying. Turn your back on the horse and walk away a few steps. Allow him to breath and relax. He understands that when he stops moving his feet the thing he is afraid of goes away. You then repeat the whole process. What the horse learns from all of this is that if he holds still the spooky thing goes away. Gradually you will diffuse his fear altogether. The critical thing is that you never advance farther than the point where he accepts the stimulus. Too much too soon will traumatize a horse and his natural reaction in the future is terror. Advance and retreat applied with good timing and calmness helps a horse learn to accept those things once found scary. This desensitization will make you better partners.

Geezers

Someone called me a “Geezer” the other day. I don’t care. I like being a “Geezer.” We are easy to spot at sporting events holding our caps and hats over our hearts during the playing of the National Anthem. Most of us even know the words and believe them. And most of us the Great Depression, although I never figured out what was so great about it. Then there is World War II, Pearl Harbor, Guadalcanal, Normandy, the Atomic Age, the Korean War, the Cold War, the Jet Age, the Moon Landing, and Vietnam. That’s a lot of memories mixed in with family and friends and an ache or two. Bump into a Geezer on the sidewalk and chances are he’ll apologize whether he caused it or not. He nods and tips his hat to a lady, holds the door for the next person and always walks between the lady and the street, so she won’t have mud or water slopped onto her by a ing buggy or wagon. Geezers get embarrassed if someone curses in front of women and children. They tend to have moral courage and find little reason to brag, unless its about children or grandchildren. Just in case you are wondering, this country needs “Geezers” with their values and common sense, now more than ever.

The Rockefeller Center Incident

Eddie Ming is a rancher out on the high plains of southeastern Colorado. He met Joyce, his wife, at Colorado State when they were students there. He likes to say that he and wife jinxed the Colorado State football team. It seems the team had the longest running loss record in college football until he and Joyce enrolled and the team won a game. But, that’s not the point of this story. Joyce, a health care professional, had to attend a training session in New Jersey and spouses were invited to come along. For a special treat the company took the forty couples to Manhattan for a big todo. They saw the Broadway show “Annie” and went to dinner at the Rainbow Room at the top of Rockefeller Center. That’s when things got exciting. They were seated at a table with a young woman from Canada. Her steak arrived barely warmed. She couldn’t eat it, but she was too shy to say anything to the waiter. Eddie, being a gentleman, interceded on her behalf. He called the waiter over and said, “Take this lady’s steak back and burn it. I have treated cattle in that condition and they got well.” The waiter said, “We can’t do that, sir.” Eddie responded,” You better, or you’ll have the biggest stink you can imagine right here in your fancy restaurant.” The waiter took the steak back to have it cooked. Then, Eddie asked for directions to the men’s room. When he got to the men’s room he said it looked a fancy horse barn with dozens of shiny stalls. There was only one other gent in the place. He went up to one of the stalls to relieve his bladder and the other gent came over and flushed the urinal for him so the water would be running while he used it. Eddie said he thought “if that ole boy wanted to use the stall that bad he would just move down a couple”. And he did. No sooner was he ready in the other stall than this other fellow came over and turned the water on in Eddie’s stall.

Eddie looked him up and down and said, “Feller, you better back off a few steps if you know what’s good for you.” The other man backed off. Eddie finished his business and left the room. He headed straight for the man who organized this Manhattan adventure and told him about the strange acting man in the men’s room. He was told that was the man’s job and the man was looking get a tip. Eddie, the cowboy, said, “If he hadn’t backed off I would have tipped him real good.” The moral: You can send a cowboy to town but you can’t do much with him once he’s there.

Summertime and the Living are Sweating

Folks who complain about summer heat make me smile. My old truck and I cross the high plains of Kansas and Colorado on a regular basis in the summer where it can reach 115 degrees in the shade. And there ain’t no shade. The heat is no surprise to me, of course. Miss Susan and I spent much of our lives in Kansas where during summertime the best parking place is determined by shade instead of distance. Out here in the summer, hot water comes out of both taps. We were reminded of it again when we stopped in Kansas to spend the night with my cousin Ted and his wife, Carrie Jo. Stepping out the truck into the Kansas twilight was like stepping into a Turkish bath. Out there, you can make instant sun tea and you learn that a seat belt makes a pretty good branding iron. The temperature drops below 95 and you feel a bit chilly. In fact, Old Beans once told me he wasn’t afraid of hell because he had spent summer in Kansas. You discover that in July it takes only two fingers to drive your car and you can get sunburn through your car window. In fact, you can actually burn you hand opening the car door. When Ted took me out to see his Quarter Horses at 7 a.m. we broke a sweat walking to the barn. Needless to say, no one these days, would dream of not having air conditioning although we had nothing like it when I was a boy. I witnessed a tough old farmer who was helping my dad hay one summer, they did that in those days, and he collapsed. Had to be dragged into the shade of an elm tree to recover. No one called an ambulance in the good old days. Your biggest bicycle wreck fear is “What if I get knocked out and end up lying on the pavement and cook to death”? Other realities include: Asphalt has a liquid state on the road. Birds have to use potholders to pull worms out of the ground. Potatoes cook underground and all you have to do to have lunch is to pull one out and add butter, salt and pepper. Farmers feed their chickens crushed ice to

keep them from laying hard-boiled eggs. Cows give evaporated milk. Trees whistle for the dogs. In fact, Tater Johnson’s daddy once prayed, “Lord, I wish it would rain—not so much for me, cuz I’ve seen it, but for my 7-year old who ain’t never seen a drop.” Well, enough about the heat. Just wanted to say it seems real to me, wherever I might be.

Ute Trail

On vacation one year, Miss Susan and I spent time in the upper Arkansas River Valley where I lived many years. We drove up a spiraling one way gravel road to the top of a small mountain overlooking Salida, Colorado. As we sat there looking over the valley toward the mountains that stand over 14,000 feet I pointed out arroyos along the Ute Trail. “That,” I said, “is where I spent many days on horseback as a teenager.” As we sat there looking at part of my history I ed the poem I had written about that very experience. It was published in a collection of my work titled Kissing Moctezuma’s Serpent. It goes like this:

Ute Trail

At sixteen on my bay horse, I rode trails Leading from the Arkansas River Down arroyos, up canyons, Into the foot hills and mountains

Imagining a single file of painted Ute Warriors following my way In search of game and, if luck

Rode with us, an enemy to fight.

This was our land. This place The whites would call Colorado. No challenger came to these mountains, These long valleys where pronghorn,

And buffalo waded belly deep in long grass. Where deer and elk found their retreat In tall forests, splendid against mountainside, Where generations sought to exist.

The party I led was proud, unknowing, That Colorado’s white governor called For the total extermination of the people. This was a time when we were free.

Today I drove to a high point along U.S. 50, Looked toward those places I had ridden Wondered if my war party still existed In those far canyons cut deep in time.

The Poor Boy and the Mud Ponies

A story for the kids to share. It tells how the Pawnee came to acquire horses. It seems a long time ago the dogs helped the people carry their burdens. In one Pawnee village a very poor little boy lived hand to mouth. He begged food and sometimes folks would chase him away and sometimes they took him in and fed him. One of those who cared for the boy was a great chief. This chief felt sorry for him and gave him gifts. Sometimes the chief gave him moccasins; another time he gave him fine leggings. When people complained to the chief he would say, “The Great Spirit knows this boy is alive among us, so we must care for him.” Nevertheless, the people laughed at the chief and his wisdom. And the boy, he had a dream about ponies. He dreamed that two ponies would drop down from heaven for him. Then one day he decided that he would make ponies out of mud. Whenever the village moved he put the mud ponies in his robe and move them, as well. Before the village was set up again, he would place the mud ponies on the outskirts of the village. And each morning, he would take the mud ponies to the stream and pretend they were drinking. He also took the mud ponies to where the grass was tall and green, so they could eat. One night the poor boy dreamed again that the Great Spirit dropped two ponies from heaven for him. In his dream he heard the Great Spirit singing a song, so when he awakened he went to a high hill and sang the song just as he had heard in his dream. The people in the village heard him singing and wondered what the song he was singing meant. And while the boy was singing a voice spoke to him and said, “This song was given to you by the Great Spirit. You shall become a great chief.

Go this night to where your mud ponies are and there you will find real live ponies.” That night when the boy went to where he had left the mud ponies and two live ponies came to meet him. The people came to see the ponies and they were amazed. They were the first ponies they had ever seen and from that day forward, the Pawnee became great horsemen hunting all over the Great Plains. And the boy became a great chieftain.

The Daddy of ’Em All

Late in July one year, I ed Miss Susan, her sister, Barbara Jane, and Barbara’s husband, Ernest Moon in Cheyenne, Wyoming, for Cheyenne Frontier Days. Miss Susan had been there twice before, but I never made it until that year. I guess the in-laws got tired of my whining “When I die I want my tombstone to read, “He never got to see the Daddy of ‘Em All.” The “Daddy of ‘Em All” is what they call ten days of bronc riding, calf and steer roping, bull riding, steer wrestling, barrel racing, pancake breakfasts, Indian encampments, parades, and other hoopla. Cheyenne, along with several other western towns, claim to have the first organized rodeo in the country. It is a tossup between some of them, but it is a fun way to exercise bragging rights. Rodeo began when cowboys from different ranches would compete against one another after roundup. In those days it was primarily saddle bronc riding, steer wrestling and roping. Bill Picket, a black Texas cowboy, is sort of the daddy of steer wrestling. They used to call it bulldogging. Picket had seen a bulldog bring a steer down by grabbing its nose and lips with its teeth. He bet he could do it. And did. Hence the term “bulldogging.” Saddle bronc riding was not an eight-second exercise like it is today. The old cowboys rode bucking horses almost daily. The competition was to see who could stay until the baddest of the bad horses quit bucking. Roping? Well, ropers still exist. Oklahoma cowboy Will Rogers made trick roping famous in his vaudeville comedy act by billing himself as “The Ropin’ Fool.” Ropers are a different breed. They start young and will rope anything that exists. I’ve seen them rope barn cats and dogs, grandmas and cousins. I am not a died in the wool roper, but I’ve even roped noisy nephews and an occasional horseback

rider. Why? ‘Cause I felt the urge. Ropers will even rope stuff that isn’t alive. Fence posts, little plastic steer heads stuck in a bale of hay, their own boots while sitting down. Odd fellows, those ropers. Anyhow, I got to see some of the best at Cheyenne. Wish you had been with me. Meanwhile. Ride on.

Other Books available by Vernon Schmid

Showdown at Chalk Creek On-line from Xlibris.com (discounted price) or any, online or local book seller.

Seven Days of the Dog On-line from Xlibris.com (discounted price) or any, online or local book seller.

Kissing Moctezuma’s Serpent ($12.95 soft cover. $13.95 CD version. Both for $19.95. Shipping and handling $3.65 for one copy. Add .65 per additional copy.) Northwoods Press, P.O. Box 298, Thomaston ME

Hog Killers and Other Poems ($13.95 soft cover. Shipping and handling $3.65. Add .65 for each additional copy.)

Northwoods Press, P.O. Box 298, Thomaston ME

Sleeping with Zapata ($10 postpaid. Soft cover.) From the author at© 90 Hudler Lane North East MD 21901-2033