Art takes as many forms as there are stars in the sky.
This week I have observed two true artisans plying their trade in the living room of my metamorphosing bunkhouse. Daniel Sr. has laid rock and mortar for 50 years. Daniel Jr. has partnered with his dad for the last 34 years.
The masonry we are using is earth tone limestone cut into roughly 10 by 20 inch sections that are 4 to 6 inches thick and weigh about 40 pounds each. Found in geological abundance in our area, we felt this would imbue a local flavor to our abode and provide the "100 year old" ranch headquarters visual we are seeking.
Applied to the outside, the masons used traditional rock and mortar technique. Moving to the inside for the fireplace and bar front, we asked that they use the "dry stack" method of application.
"Dry stack" is about twice as costly, but the result has been priceless. The masons use their rock hammers to artfully shape each piece so that it will fit adjacent to the next. Mortar is applied the back of the stone, but it is not allowed to squeeze between the joints. Thus, the "dry stack" appearance as though only gravity is holding the rocks on the fireplace.
The actual application is a skill . The selection of which rock to put in what place incurs the evolution of an art form.
My ranch hat is off to Daniel Sr. and Jr. for their version of the Sistine Chapel.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Country Roads
I grew up on a country road in Wright City.
Cars come by so seldom on real country roads that you always look up to see who it is? Yeah, ya usually knew the traveler because the community was small and you had lived there all of your life.
The pace of life was slower and expectations were lower. Nothing much ever happened so you didn't look for a daily flurry of activity.
I started life on a country road and then moved on to a maelstrom whirlwind of "stuff" that caused my life to move faster than the world's fastest Indian.
Fortunately, I have found a measure of peace once again on a country road. County Road 208 in Williamson County is a "connector" road. It's sole claim to fame may be that it includes the front gate of the Tin Star Ranch.
It doesn't really go anywhere. It just lets the few scatter souls along its corridor travel to their homes and access the main highway to town. On the weekend, likely a dozen cars will travel the road during the day. During mid-day of Monday thru Friday, the road is an expanse of empty solitude.
I count lucky my chance to spend the remainder of my days living alongside and in grateful harmony with a peaceful country road.
Cars come by so seldom on real country roads that you always look up to see who it is? Yeah, ya usually knew the traveler because the community was small and you had lived there all of your life.
The pace of life was slower and expectations were lower. Nothing much ever happened so you didn't look for a daily flurry of activity.
I started life on a country road and then moved on to a maelstrom whirlwind of "stuff" that caused my life to move faster than the world's fastest Indian.
Fortunately, I have found a measure of peace once again on a country road. County Road 208 in Williamson County is a "connector" road. It's sole claim to fame may be that it includes the front gate of the Tin Star Ranch.
It doesn't really go anywhere. It just lets the few scatter souls along its corridor travel to their homes and access the main highway to town. On the weekend, likely a dozen cars will travel the road during the day. During mid-day of Monday thru Friday, the road is an expanse of empty solitude.
I count lucky my chance to spend the remainder of my days living alongside and in grateful harmony with a peaceful country road.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Pale Gold
Hunted in the tree stand at my pond this afternoon. Didn't see a deer, but that is always secondary.
Did see a gorgeous sunset followed by the evening star shining as bright as anything I can imagine.
Shortly thereafter a sliver of pale gold moon lazily swam in the sky.
Money can't buy the experiences that nature provides without charge.
Did see a gorgeous sunset followed by the evening star shining as bright as anything I can imagine.
Shortly thereafter a sliver of pale gold moon lazily swam in the sky.
Money can't buy the experiences that nature provides without charge.
Life's Intersections
We all see "homeless" people in our travels. They are the wayward souls who 
haunt city street corners in search of charity. We view them with a mixture of pity, loathing, and fear. Curiously, we wonder how they descended into such a maelstrom of denial. Some of us wonder if it could befall any unwary person.
The ranch hand is here to tell you from personal experience that crawlin' into bed with "homeless" will scare the drawers off ya.
Me and the beautiful bride sold our city house and have been "in process" of building our ranch bunkhouse. Meanwhile, we have been living in a tiny bedroom of the mom-law's house (shudder!).
Due to packing and moving, don't know where anything I own is located (same thing as not owning it). Got no say so over anything. Not the thermostat, menu, toilet paper grade, or TV channel. Due to building the ranch casa, ever durn nickel I got coming is committed to the bank.
Near as I can see, the only difference between your humble ranch hand and them poor miscreants on the street corners is that I do bath on occasion?
Here's the bottom line: Every time I see one from now on I will have to wonder if the nexus to their intersection address was a mother-in-law?
haunt city street corners in search of charity. We view them with a mixture of pity, loathing, and fear. Curiously, we wonder how they descended into such a maelstrom of denial. Some of us wonder if it could befall any unwary person.The ranch hand is here to tell you from personal experience that crawlin' into bed with "homeless" will scare the drawers off ya.
Me and the beautiful bride sold our city house and have been "in process" of building our ranch bunkhouse. Meanwhile, we have been living in a tiny bedroom of the mom-law's house (shudder!).
Due to packing and moving, don't know where anything I own is located (same thing as not owning it). Got no say so over anything. Not the thermostat, menu, toilet paper grade, or TV channel. Due to building the ranch casa, ever durn nickel I got coming is committed to the bank.
Near as I can see, the only difference between your humble ranch hand and them poor miscreants on the street corners is that I do bath on occasion?
Here's the bottom line: Every time I see one from now on I will have to wonder if the nexus to their intersection address was a mother-in-law?
Thursday, December 25, 2008
The Windows of Your Soul
Born with the seeds for teeth, we take them for granted.
Not always so. Mom's parents had few teeth in their mouths from my earliest memory. Papuh had "summer" teeth, as in, summer in his mouth and summer in his pocket. His false choppers were worn out, made a clicking noise, and caused him to whistle when he talked. Granny had neither teeth nor "falsies", but I watched her eat tough fried steak with no apparent loss of efficiency.
I remember my dad having black teeth. Photos of him during that period never included a smile. When he was about 24, he had every tooth in his head pulled. He would go to Dr. Monaghan in Overton at 5AM and have all teeth in the upper half of his mouth pulled. After a few days of healing, he would have the remaining upper teeth pulled, and so forth. Dad had a perfect fit with his store bought ivories, ate well, and SMILED in every photo from that day forward.
Due to the above mentioned family history, I thought I was well schooled on "teeth".
Not so!
My mom-law 'splained to me in great detail this morning how she forms her opinion of others based on their teeth? She mentioned one person who had teeth so crooked they looked like they were throwing up gang signs. She described multi-cavity teeth as looking like dice. And my personal favorite, "He had so many missing teeth, he looked like his tongue was in jail."
She reserved her most vile comments for those unfortunate cretins with brown teeth.
I always heard that the eyes are the windows to the soul. I guess I missed the chapter about tooth color?
Not always so. Mom's parents had few teeth in their mouths from my earliest memory. Papuh had "summer" teeth, as in, summer in his mouth and summer in his pocket. His false choppers were worn out, made a clicking noise, and caused him to whistle when he talked. Granny had neither teeth nor "falsies", but I watched her eat tough fried steak with no apparent loss of efficiency.
I remember my dad having black teeth. Photos of him during that period never included a smile. When he was about 24, he had every tooth in his head pulled. He would go to Dr. Monaghan in Overton at 5AM and have all teeth in the upper half of his mouth pulled. After a few days of healing, he would have the remaining upper teeth pulled, and so forth. Dad had a perfect fit with his store bought ivories, ate well, and SMILED in every photo from that day forward.
Due to the above mentioned family history, I thought I was well schooled on "teeth".
Not so!
My mom-law 'splained to me in great detail this morning how she forms her opinion of others based on their teeth? She mentioned one person who had teeth so crooked they looked like they were throwing up gang signs. She described multi-cavity teeth as looking like dice. And my personal favorite, "He had so many missing teeth, he looked like his tongue was in jail."
She reserved her most vile comments for those unfortunate cretins with brown teeth.
I always heard that the eyes are the windows to the soul. I guess I missed the chapter about tooth color?
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
San Gabriel Sunset
The bride and I decided to usher in Christmas eve on the Tin Star. Good decision.
As we approached the front gate we stopped to watch 33 wild turkeys sauntering along the fence line. Thirty were hens with three toms strutting behind herding their harem with obvious pride. One old tom had a beard hanging from his chest that was near 10 inches.
At the house we found that the rock work on the outside is complete and the sheetrock inside is fully defining the rooms now in a manner which better illustrates the dimensions of our future abode. The "taping" and "floating" is at full speed and we would guess that it will be finished and ready to be textured with our "Monterrey Drag" next week.
We watched the deer feeder until near dark, but the varmits were being shy. Not an issue because as we drove to the gate to leave we stopped and watch sun set into an awesome pink line across the horizon of the San Gabriel river valley.
It's Christmas folks and all is well with the ranch hand and family. My most sincere prayer for the same to be true for my reader.
As we approached the front gate we stopped to watch 33 wild turkeys sauntering along the fence line. Thirty were hens with three toms strutting behind herding their harem with obvious pride. One old tom had a beard hanging from his chest that was near 10 inches.
At the house we found that the rock work on the outside is complete and the sheetrock inside is fully defining the rooms now in a manner which better illustrates the dimensions of our future abode. The "taping" and "floating" is at full speed and we would guess that it will be finished and ready to be textured with our "Monterrey Drag" next week.
We watched the deer feeder until near dark, but the varmits were being shy. Not an issue because as we drove to the gate to leave we stopped and watch sun set into an awesome pink line across the horizon of the San Gabriel river valley.
It's Christmas folks and all is well with the ranch hand and family. My most sincere prayer for the same to be true for my reader.
Elves
Deer - 1, ranch hand - 0, AGAIN.
But, what a glorious morning! A golden crescent moon in the sky, stars as bright as heaven, and aliens.
Now before you start the commitment process, hear me out. My ole butt is sitting in the tree stand before daylight this morn and "lights" started eerily wavering thru the woods.
Rubbed my eyes a time or two, slapped upside my head, and still kept seeing them dang lights motivating around.
Most of the lights were a pale yellow. One was a brilliant, almost blue like the fancy LED flashlights? Almost reminded me of East Texas fireflies, but it weren't?
Don't tell anyone about this or I will be spending Christmas eve in a straight jacket?
Ya'll think it was a scouting party of N. Pole elves, or what?
But, what a glorious morning! A golden crescent moon in the sky, stars as bright as heaven, and aliens.
Now before you start the commitment process, hear me out. My ole butt is sitting in the tree stand before daylight this morn and "lights" started eerily wavering thru the woods.
Rubbed my eyes a time or two, slapped upside my head, and still kept seeing them dang lights motivating around.
Most of the lights were a pale yellow. One was a brilliant, almost blue like the fancy LED flashlights? Almost reminded me of East Texas fireflies, but it weren't?
Don't tell anyone about this or I will be spending Christmas eve in a straight jacket?
Ya'll think it was a scouting party of N. Pole elves, or what?
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
The Winner
Tomorrow is Christmas eve. A special time by any standard in the christian world.
The ranch hand's plan is to ease onto the ranch before daylight and "injun" into the woods in order to silently ascend the deer/buck/trophy acquisition device (hunting stand).
I have plotted the weather, tested the wind, carefully tracked all relevant factors, and generally placed all odds in my hunting favor.
Only thing, the dang deer don't seem to unnerstan my plan. Yeah, I have collected three of the forest ruminates this season, but I am unfathomably greedy.
Tomorrow, the trophy of all trophies shall be mine. Ole horned grandad will walk from the brush, present a side profile, and become a part of the increasing legend of the Tin Star Ranch.
Or I will do my usual and just marvel at the glory of the land, sky, and assorted wildlife. Either way, I win.
Ya gotta love it!
The ranch hand's plan is to ease onto the ranch before daylight and "injun" into the woods in order to silently ascend the deer/buck/trophy acquisition device (hunting stand).
I have plotted the weather, tested the wind, carefully tracked all relevant factors, and generally placed all odds in my hunting favor.
Only thing, the dang deer don't seem to unnerstan my plan. Yeah, I have collected three of the forest ruminates this season, but I am unfathomably greedy.
Tomorrow, the trophy of all trophies shall be mine. Ole horned grandad will walk from the brush, present a side profile, and become a part of the increasing legend of the Tin Star Ranch.
Or I will do my usual and just marvel at the glory of the land, sky, and assorted wildlife. Either way, I win.
Ya gotta love it!
Monday, December 22, 2008
The Perfect Storm
Twas the week of Christmas
And all thru the house
Not a creature was stirring
EXCEPT NANA!
Yeah, my dear mom/law is an American treasure in the wee hours of morn.
I am becoming more like my Dad every day. I'm not sure any of that is positive, but for one thing I wake up and arise long before dawn each day. I like peace, quiet, and stillness for my first hour of absolution. No interruptions, no conversation, and no demands.
Nana hits the floor shortly after me each morning and is near to a Tasmanian devil on crystal meth. Shouting questions (she's deaf as a post), providing me with my orders/instructions/chores for the day, and generally in my face with one BS thing after another.
For the moment, I think she is a treasure of unintentional humor, charity, and family love. I'll have to get back to you on my position in the future. You see, having sold our house in town, we are now living with Nana until our new house is finished.
It is now pre-dawn and Nana is doing what Nana does: caressing my ears with personal attention.
Pray for my tolerance and patience oh loyal reader as I try to weather the perfect storm for a couple of months.
And all thru the house
Not a creature was stirring
EXCEPT NANA!
Yeah, my dear mom/law is an American treasure in the wee hours of morn.
I am becoming more like my Dad every day. I'm not sure any of that is positive, but for one thing I wake up and arise long before dawn each day. I like peace, quiet, and stillness for my first hour of absolution. No interruptions, no conversation, and no demands.
Nana hits the floor shortly after me each morning and is near to a Tasmanian devil on crystal meth. Shouting questions (she's deaf as a post), providing me with my orders/instructions/chores for the day, and generally in my face with one BS thing after another.
For the moment, I think she is a treasure of unintentional humor, charity, and family love. I'll have to get back to you on my position in the future. You see, having sold our house in town, we are now living with Nana until our new house is finished.
It is now pre-dawn and Nana is doing what Nana does: caressing my ears with personal attention.
Pray for my tolerance and patience oh loyal reader as I try to weather the perfect storm for a couple of months.
Friday, December 19, 2008
House, Bowel, and Other Movements
Thinkin' bout selling your house? Think again cause it ain't all picnic.
First off, ya gotta "de-personalize" that puppy. Yeah, take them grand baby pics and kraft paper with their hand prints off the fridge. Take them photos of EVERYONE down from EVERYWHERE like ya don't have nobody and don't know nobody.
Next, start cleaning the casa like you is guardin' agin the plague. Scrub everything you can eyeball. Hard for an ole fat boy to do initially, DAMN HARD TO KEEP THAT WAY EVER DAY!
Now for the good part. Git your humble abode in the better shape than it has ever been since before you moved in and then listen to A-holes poor mouth it in their attempt to talk down the asking price. This would be a lesson in the Lord's own patience.
It ain't a purty picture and it ain't what I would call peace and tranquility.
However, GLORY HALLELUJAH, we now officially have a legal contract to sell our shack and guess who is most happy about that? I'm thinking I will quit making the fricken bed till hell freezes over, cook some kind of splattery greasy stuff on the cooktop, and let dust bunnies run amok throughout?
All yall pray cause now the ranch hand gotta move this accumulation of memorabilia, treasures, antiques, relics, and just plain shi* to the new house (and my back is already filing a formal protest with the "labor union"?)
First off, ya gotta "de-personalize" that puppy. Yeah, take them grand baby pics and kraft paper with their hand prints off the fridge. Take them photos of EVERYONE down from EVERYWHERE like ya don't have nobody and don't know nobody.
Next, start cleaning the casa like you is guardin' agin the plague. Scrub everything you can eyeball. Hard for an ole fat boy to do initially, DAMN HARD TO KEEP THAT WAY EVER DAY!
Now for the good part. Git your humble abode in the better shape than it has ever been since before you moved in and then listen to A-holes poor mouth it in their attempt to talk down the asking price. This would be a lesson in the Lord's own patience.
It ain't a purty picture and it ain't what I would call peace and tranquility.
However, GLORY HALLELUJAH, we now officially have a legal contract to sell our shack and guess who is most happy about that? I'm thinking I will quit making the fricken bed till hell freezes over, cook some kind of splattery greasy stuff on the cooktop, and let dust bunnies run amok throughout?
All yall pray cause now the ranch hand gotta move this accumulation of memorabilia, treasures, antiques, relics, and just plain shi* to the new house (and my back is already filing a formal protest with the "labor union"?)
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Brewsky Chili
Havin' a plan when making chili is a recipe for disaster (on the scale of runnin' outa beer on Saturday night and actually talking intelligibly for a spell)
Ya just gotta let the creative juices flow and this cultural concoction will cure itself like jerky on a summer day.
Now for foolproof "red", ya gotta start with a six pack of brew. Caress the aluminum tab and start syphoning it into the chef to lubricate the creative process and your glib patter of conversational gems.
Git a pan, pot, culinary utensil or anything that will hold the makings. (try that next aluminum cylinder of cool brewery goodness, if you please, and can actually muster the coordination to perform motor skills?)
(This next part is secret because it would ruin my rep as a manly man) Slick that pot with a dab of extra virgin olive oil (EVOO)(yeah, I know, that is girly fide crapola, but dang if it don't help the taste), get it hot, and then start to brown your favorite protein. Chunk in some beef, venison, sausage, turkey, armadillo, squirrel, hell anything but that damn tofu crap (that's gotta be the devil's own special brand of Spam/potted meat/bologna and oyster rolled into a neat package of gelatinous yuk?)
Add diced sweet onion, salt, cumin (OK, I don't have a clue what cumin is, but I try to be sociable in this traditional process?), and red pepper (for color, style or grace??). Garlic is good for taste and repelling chili eating vampires (trust me, I have never knowingly been "neck sucked" by a vampire)
Next super secret, but impotent step, throw in whatever the hey you got in the spice rack ('cept crap like pumkin spice, ginger and other foofoo wimmen junk) Be adventurous without spillin' none that mix of hops and barley brew into the boil (if you still retain the mental capacity to recognize a "boil"?).
Now the swamp is gitten deeper. This is the Mason-Dixon, North/South, New London vs. Gaston Armageddon. To add a form of tomato or not???? Wars have been fought over this question? Marriages have foundered, children have been disinherited, and tattoos have spawned (a reliable source says the Berlin Wall was built over this issue!!)
Figger the tomato conundrum on its own merits and git on with more impotent stuff like: how many cervezas ya had yet chef? (and how the who did you suddenly start to unnerstan espanol?)
FORGIT BEANS!!!!!!!!!(never forgit cold suds) Chili bean eaters is communist, liars, horse thieves, and afraid to fight fair!!!(an probably champagne drankin' fag tofu pate guzzlers?)
Now as the late Wick Fowler queried, "How long has it been since you had a bowl of chili?
Well, that's too long!"
Nuff said (now can i borrow a brewsky off ya till the boss man brings the paychecks?)
Ya just gotta let the creative juices flow and this cultural concoction will cure itself like jerky on a summer day.
Now for foolproof "red", ya gotta start with a six pack of brew. Caress the aluminum tab and start syphoning it into the chef to lubricate the creative process and your glib patter of conversational gems.
Git a pan, pot, culinary utensil or anything that will hold the makings. (try that next aluminum cylinder of cool brewery goodness, if you please, and can actually muster the coordination to perform motor skills?)
(This next part is secret because it would ruin my rep as a manly man) Slick that pot with a dab of extra virgin olive oil (EVOO)(yeah, I know, that is girly fide crapola, but dang if it don't help the taste), get it hot, and then start to brown your favorite protein. Chunk in some beef, venison, sausage, turkey, armadillo, squirrel, hell anything but that damn tofu crap (that's gotta be the devil's own special brand of Spam/potted meat/bologna and oyster rolled into a neat package of gelatinous yuk?)
Add diced sweet onion, salt, cumin (OK, I don't have a clue what cumin is, but I try to be sociable in this traditional process?), and red pepper (for color, style or grace??). Garlic is good for taste and repelling chili eating vampires (trust me, I have never knowingly been "neck sucked" by a vampire)
Next super secret, but impotent step, throw in whatever the hey you got in the spice rack ('cept crap like pumkin spice, ginger and other foofoo wimmen junk) Be adventurous without spillin' none that mix of hops and barley brew into the boil (if you still retain the mental capacity to recognize a "boil"?).
Now the swamp is gitten deeper. This is the Mason-Dixon, North/South, New London vs. Gaston Armageddon. To add a form of tomato or not???? Wars have been fought over this question? Marriages have foundered, children have been disinherited, and tattoos have spawned (a reliable source says the Berlin Wall was built over this issue!!)
Figger the tomato conundrum on its own merits and git on with more impotent stuff like: how many cervezas ya had yet chef? (and how the who did you suddenly start to unnerstan espanol?)
FORGIT BEANS!!!!!!!!!(never forgit cold suds) Chili bean eaters is communist, liars, horse thieves, and afraid to fight fair!!!(an probably champagne drankin' fag tofu pate guzzlers?)
Now as the late Wick Fowler queried, "How long has it been since you had a bowl of chili?
Well, that's too long!"
Nuff said (now can i borrow a brewsky off ya till the boss man brings the paychecks?)
The Voice of Praise
A long time buddy has been trying for a couple of years to get my sorry butt to come to one of his son-law's Christian music concerts. Being a confirmed daily sinner, I hem-hawed and made worthless excuses ad infinitum; until yesterday.
Last night I attended a David Phelps concert at Baylor University and experienced a soul satisfying glorification of God through the incredible talent of the son-law. I confess I had no idea that such a soothing form of worship could evolve from a public performance of singing praise.
I thank my buddy and his beautiful bride for the courtesy and privilege of the evening. Equally important, I thank my Lord and Savior for revealing this form of worship at a time in my life that I could most benefit from it.
Last night I attended a David Phelps concert at Baylor University and experienced a soul satisfying glorification of God through the incredible talent of the son-law. I confess I had no idea that such a soothing form of worship could evolve from a public performance of singing praise.
I thank my buddy and his beautiful bride for the courtesy and privilege of the evening. Equally important, I thank my Lord and Savior for revealing this form of worship at a time in my life that I could most benefit from it.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Thelda's Humming Birds
As the construction of our ranch bunkhouse continues at a blurring pace, we are being reminded that we are but visitors in a previously pristine wilderness.
The construction workers have been telling us that each day about 4:30PM, an armadillo comes out of its den to casually inspect progress. Sure enough, I have seen that armored critter circling the casa on a couple of afternoons.
The deer repeatedly take nervous glances toward the racket, but continue to come to the corn feeders morning and evening and vacuum the golden protein from the ground with amazing efficiency.
About 10A this morning I went to the build site to confer with the electricians. As I was leaving, I noticed nine wild turkeys on an adjacent ridge surveying our efforts. I assume all met with their approval as they clucked and nodded at each other for a bit and then strutted to their conference destination.
It pleases me that the critters are adopting so easily to our intrusion as I take seriously the privilege to be a responsible steward of our small piece of paradise.
The true test will be when Thelda's humming birds take up residence.
The construction workers have been telling us that each day about 4:30PM, an armadillo comes out of its den to casually inspect progress. Sure enough, I have seen that armored critter circling the casa on a couple of afternoons.
The deer repeatedly take nervous glances toward the racket, but continue to come to the corn feeders morning and evening and vacuum the golden protein from the ground with amazing efficiency.
About 10A this morning I went to the build site to confer with the electricians. As I was leaving, I noticed nine wild turkeys on an adjacent ridge surveying our efforts. I assume all met with their approval as they clucked and nodded at each other for a bit and then strutted to their conference destination.
It pleases me that the critters are adopting so easily to our intrusion as I take seriously the privilege to be a responsible steward of our small piece of paradise.
The true test will be when Thelda's humming birds take up residence.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Blessed Are The Children
"Blessed are the children who walk in the Lord. Blessings and joy shall be theirs. Theirs is the bounty, the fruit of the vine. Theirs is the joy of God's care." (Psalm 128)
Kimberly came into my life with auburn hair, freckles, a shy smile, and the most loving nature that one could imagine. She was eight years old at the time and ready to experience the wonder of all the world had to offer.
In return for her love, I gave Kimberly my name (thru adoption), all that I could be as a father, and my open admiration for her many gifts. I watched her grow and mature over the years, shared her failures, felt joy at her successes, and welcomed the birth of her daughters as my valued grandchildren.
About ten years ago Kimberly became gravely ill with a sickness which robbed her of all but her loving nature. Six days ago Kimberly became whole again, found peace at last, and joined her Heavenly Father by slipping the bonds of this life.
I feel that I have not only lost a child, I have lost a part of what Kimberly represented. When my parents died, I lost a part of the past. In losing Kimberly, I have this helpless feeling of a lost future.
In spite of myself, I am angry because my sense of what is right dictates that parents die before their children. It follows that I feel guilty that I am left to live.
My Lord and Savior will guide me thru this and give me understanding when the time is right. I simply need the prayers of all to help me until that time.
Kimberly came into my life with auburn hair, freckles, a shy smile, and the most loving nature that one could imagine. She was eight years old at the time and ready to experience the wonder of all the world had to offer.
In return for her love, I gave Kimberly my name (thru adoption), all that I could be as a father, and my open admiration for her many gifts. I watched her grow and mature over the years, shared her failures, felt joy at her successes, and welcomed the birth of her daughters as my valued grandchildren.
About ten years ago Kimberly became gravely ill with a sickness which robbed her of all but her loving nature. Six days ago Kimberly became whole again, found peace at last, and joined her Heavenly Father by slipping the bonds of this life.
I feel that I have not only lost a child, I have lost a part of what Kimberly represented. When my parents died, I lost a part of the past. In losing Kimberly, I have this helpless feeling of a lost future.
In spite of myself, I am angry because my sense of what is right dictates that parents die before their children. It follows that I feel guilty that I am left to live.
My Lord and Savior will guide me thru this and give me understanding when the time is right. I simply need the prayers of all to help me until that time.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Redemption
Redemption is sweet.
I recently razzed my bride's beautimous baby sister bout serving her best home recipe (store bought lasagna). However, being an equal opportunity razzer, I must now proclaim on the world wide web that she makes the bestest chicken and dumplins that I can imagine.
Sunday night's spread would make a hawg want to hug a hound with its rib ticklin' goodness. Just the memory jump starts my salivary glands and makes me rub my considerable tummy with the pleasure of a well fed moochin' in-law.
Now if I can just convince her to label that next kiddo by the front name of the ole ranch hand, my spot in hawg heaven will be assured.
I recently razzed my bride's beautimous baby sister bout serving her best home recipe (store bought lasagna). However, being an equal opportunity razzer, I must now proclaim on the world wide web that she makes the bestest chicken and dumplins that I can imagine.
Sunday night's spread would make a hawg want to hug a hound with its rib ticklin' goodness. Just the memory jump starts my salivary glands and makes me rub my considerable tummy with the pleasure of a well fed moochin' in-law.
Now if I can just convince her to label that next kiddo by the front name of the ole ranch hand, my spot in hawg heaven will be assured.
Heartbroken, But Now at Peace
Turbo is no more.
I previously mentioned my theory that my late neighbor's Labrador was grieving unto death over the loss of his master.
The effort to save Turbo included several days at the veterinary research center at Texas A&M. I'm sure the learned ones rendered professional judgement as to what caused Turbo's ultimate demise.
However, let it be simply said that he died of a broken heart.
I previously mentioned my theory that my late neighbor's Labrador was grieving unto death over the loss of his master.
The effort to save Turbo included several days at the veterinary research center at Texas A&M. I'm sure the learned ones rendered professional judgement as to what caused Turbo's ultimate demise.
However, let it be simply said that he died of a broken heart.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
ART
Art takes expression in many forms.
The bride and I have embarked on that deeply personal mode of expression known as custom home building. We have found it to be simultaneously exhilarating and nerve wracking. It creates an eager anticipation not unlike a child experiences on Christmas eve. However, it also fosters a fear of failure as our collective planning thoughts become a concrete and lumber edifice.
To date, our hopes and dreams for "artistic" success have been far exceeded. We have viewed the completion stage of framing and by week's end will have windows set, exterior doors hung, and HVAC infrastructure installed.
If all continues on its current path, we are confident in the achievement of eye appeal and substantial creature comforts.
Lord, we humbly pray for your continued blessing and guiding Hand in this life changing endeavor.
The bride and I have embarked on that deeply personal mode of expression known as custom home building. We have found it to be simultaneously exhilarating and nerve wracking. It creates an eager anticipation not unlike a child experiences on Christmas eve. However, it also fosters a fear of failure as our collective planning thoughts become a concrete and lumber edifice.
To date, our hopes and dreams for "artistic" success have been far exceeded. We have viewed the completion stage of framing and by week's end will have windows set, exterior doors hung, and HVAC infrastructure installed.
If all continues on its current path, we are confident in the achievement of eye appeal and substantial creature comforts.
Lord, we humbly pray for your continued blessing and guiding Hand in this life changing endeavor.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Side Notes
The beautiful bride and I spent four days in Gabriel Mills this recent holiday weekend.
The quiet peaceful life there is so subtle that it really takes a couple of days for us city folk to slow down and begin to fully appreciate it. By the third consecutive day, you can sense tension and concern fleeing from your body while being replaced with a soothing calmness.
I hunted on three of those days. Time spent in solitude with a front row seat to all nature has to offer. I watched dozens of crows feed, fuss, and loudly communicate in their raucous caws. I observed squirrels eagerly racing back and forth in preparation for the winter to come. I enjoyed the aerial skill of hawks, buzzards, and all manner of bird variety. All accompanied by the serenade of wind in the trees.
As an almost unimportant side note, I killed a seven point buck that now resides in the freezer. The real joy was simply being alive and a part of nature at the pace that it is best enjoyed.
Thank you Lord for our Tin Star Ranch with its rich bounty of blessings.
The quiet peaceful life there is so subtle that it really takes a couple of days for us city folk to slow down and begin to fully appreciate it. By the third consecutive day, you can sense tension and concern fleeing from your body while being replaced with a soothing calmness.
I hunted on three of those days. Time spent in solitude with a front row seat to all nature has to offer. I watched dozens of crows feed, fuss, and loudly communicate in their raucous caws. I observed squirrels eagerly racing back and forth in preparation for the winter to come. I enjoyed the aerial skill of hawks, buzzards, and all manner of bird variety. All accompanied by the serenade of wind in the trees.
As an almost unimportant side note, I killed a seven point buck that now resides in the freezer. The real joy was simply being alive and a part of nature at the pace that it is best enjoyed.
Thank you Lord for our Tin Star Ranch with its rich bounty of blessings.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
God's Creatures
My neighbor (Luie) came home one day with a black Lab puppy.
Over time, Turbo grew from a puppy to a huge magnificent canine with a coat as sleek as ebony.
Only one thing existed in Turbo's world and that was Luie. Luie was Turbo's alpha dog, mother, father, leader, and food source. If Luie took a step, Turbo took that step. If Luie spoke, Turbo focused full attention to try to please Luie with his response.
A month ago Luie passed to his heavenly reward by slipping the bonds of earthly matters.
For the first week after we lost Luie, Turbo sat in his master's chair in the living room and refused to budge (Turbo had never been allowed in that chair in his life). For the next week, Turbo alternated between pacing in the house and pacing the yard while constantly searching for the companion he worshipped.
For the last two weeks, Turbo has been in visible decline. His hair is falling out in clumps, his eyes are mournful, he refuses to eat, and he is all but lifeless.
Today I visited Turbo and he had not the strength to rise to greet me. I feel that Turbo has made the decision to stop living due to inconsolable remorse and that he is near accomplishing that "decision".
I guess my point is that there are a lot of things about God's creatures that we don't fully understand or appreciate. Makes ya think?
Over time, Turbo grew from a puppy to a huge magnificent canine with a coat as sleek as ebony.
Only one thing existed in Turbo's world and that was Luie. Luie was Turbo's alpha dog, mother, father, leader, and food source. If Luie took a step, Turbo took that step. If Luie spoke, Turbo focused full attention to try to please Luie with his response.
A month ago Luie passed to his heavenly reward by slipping the bonds of earthly matters.
For the first week after we lost Luie, Turbo sat in his master's chair in the living room and refused to budge (Turbo had never been allowed in that chair in his life). For the next week, Turbo alternated between pacing in the house and pacing the yard while constantly searching for the companion he worshipped.
For the last two weeks, Turbo has been in visible decline. His hair is falling out in clumps, his eyes are mournful, he refuses to eat, and he is all but lifeless.
Today I visited Turbo and he had not the strength to rise to greet me. I feel that Turbo has made the decision to stop living due to inconsolable remorse and that he is near accomplishing that "decision".
I guess my point is that there are a lot of things about God's creatures that we don't fully understand or appreciate. Makes ya think?
Monday, November 24, 2008
Big Dawg
Partnering with my tractor, Big Dawg, is an activity which sets my spirit free and allows mellow to creep into my soul as a soothing blanket of calm.
The baritone reservoir of the pulsing diesel mated to the heavy lugs of the agricultural treads transfer a sense of power to my control which is both aesthetically satisfying and production oriented.
While perched on my orange Kubota throne, I forget that any other world exists and feel a deep sense of peace and accomplishment.
Oh that the world could be reduced to such a simple pleasure in all things.
The baritone reservoir of the pulsing diesel mated to the heavy lugs of the agricultural treads transfer a sense of power to my control which is both aesthetically satisfying and production oriented.
While perched on my orange Kubota throne, I forget that any other world exists and feel a deep sense of peace and accomplishment.
Oh that the world could be reduced to such a simple pleasure in all things.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Houdini
The Tin Star Ranch has the world's most perfect deer sanctuary.
Tucked in the Southwest corner of this Eden is a pond which provides thirst slaking elixir. Adjacent to the pond is a corn feeder and the obligatory protein blocks. Surrounding all you will find adequate trees, brush and easy access.
Scouting the area will on any day produce a fresh jumble of crisp tracks, untold mounds of fresh shiny deer droppings, and heavily worn trails where the antlered ones have trod for years to this sustenance mecca.
Aint but one problem. In all my time of thrashing around in this little hunting paradise, I have yet to lay eyes on as much as a fawn? I've come early, stayed late, and climbed trees. I've laid in the brush, relocated to a distant vantage, and eased in on stealthy pads from the backside. Nothin'.
Sure, I've cogitated on the possibilities:
1. These are invisible deer.
2. My neighbor uses a set of deer legs to stomp around my tank to give the appearance of a vast herd.
3. There is a deer cave under the pond where they hide.
4. This has all been an hallucination?
Here's my prediction. Tomorrow bout 6AM, I'm gonna climb into my trusty camouflaged aerial ordnance tree stand at the pond. In the icy black beforn dawn, I will plan the timely demise of Ole Mossback. The Houdini sucker that has eluded me all these years will soon be mere table fare topped by a horned wall decoration.
Its just you and me Bucky so tread light, keep your eyes open, and prepare to meet the owner of the Tin Star in a most abrupt manner.
Tucked in the Southwest corner of this Eden is a pond which provides thirst slaking elixir. Adjacent to the pond is a corn feeder and the obligatory protein blocks. Surrounding all you will find adequate trees, brush and easy access.
Scouting the area will on any day produce a fresh jumble of crisp tracks, untold mounds of fresh shiny deer droppings, and heavily worn trails where the antlered ones have trod for years to this sustenance mecca.
Aint but one problem. In all my time of thrashing around in this little hunting paradise, I have yet to lay eyes on as much as a fawn? I've come early, stayed late, and climbed trees. I've laid in the brush, relocated to a distant vantage, and eased in on stealthy pads from the backside. Nothin'.
Sure, I've cogitated on the possibilities:
1. These are invisible deer.
2. My neighbor uses a set of deer legs to stomp around my tank to give the appearance of a vast herd.
3. There is a deer cave under the pond where they hide.
4. This has all been an hallucination?
Here's my prediction. Tomorrow bout 6AM, I'm gonna climb into my trusty camouflaged aerial ordnance tree stand at the pond. In the icy black beforn dawn, I will plan the timely demise of Ole Mossback. The Houdini sucker that has eluded me all these years will soon be mere table fare topped by a horned wall decoration.
Its just you and me Bucky so tread light, keep your eyes open, and prepare to meet the owner of the Tin Star in a most abrupt manner.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Life After Death
For my loyal reader, the latest word is that I have experienced redemption and glory after surviving my trip to that nether region below the "bottom of the barrel".
Yes sports fans, there is life after "death" as I can testify to after spending Friday through Sunday hugging the toilet preachin' to "Ralph" about a "Buick" while wondering if my other end would be best suited attached to the porcelain?
Once I get past the weakness (and backache from being abed for so long) I'll resume my blogalicious repartee.
Damn, gettin' old ain't for the faint of heart.
Yes sports fans, there is life after "death" as I can testify to after spending Friday through Sunday hugging the toilet preachin' to "Ralph" about a "Buick" while wondering if my other end would be best suited attached to the porcelain?
Once I get past the weakness (and backache from being abed for so long) I'll resume my blogalicious repartee.
Damn, gettin' old ain't for the faint of heart.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Rented Mules
Some folks would lead ya to believe that purgatory is an intermediate state after death employed for purification.
I tend to support the Catholic version that portrays purgatory as a temporary state of misery. This isn't a statement of religious belief on my part. It is more a personal quagmire I have endured since long before dawn this morning.
My self-diagnosis is that I have the "flu". Regardless, it has been a day of hades induced perdition that early on led me to pray to my Lord and Savior for His healing hand for my body and soul.
Now before you start jawin' about me gettin' soft in my dotage, consider the following:
I feel like if I fell into a pond, I could skim off miserable for a week.
I feel like a basket of rear ends with the best ones already picked out and my muscles feel like I was beat with a sack of bent nickels.
I swear I ran a 40 yard dash in a 30 yard gym last night because my bones, eyes, hair, and brain are swollen and aching.
Now for the good part. I only had the "dry heaves" for four hours and the diarrhea should dissipate in a few days (or not?).
Now I know how rented mules must feel after a week with no-accounts.
I tend to support the Catholic version that portrays purgatory as a temporary state of misery. This isn't a statement of religious belief on my part. It is more a personal quagmire I have endured since long before dawn this morning.
My self-diagnosis is that I have the "flu". Regardless, it has been a day of hades induced perdition that early on led me to pray to my Lord and Savior for His healing hand for my body and soul.
Now before you start jawin' about me gettin' soft in my dotage, consider the following:
I feel like if I fell into a pond, I could skim off miserable for a week.
I feel like a basket of rear ends with the best ones already picked out and my muscles feel like I was beat with a sack of bent nickels.
I swear I ran a 40 yard dash in a 30 yard gym last night because my bones, eyes, hair, and brain are swollen and aching.
Now for the good part. I only had the "dry heaves" for four hours and the diarrhea should dissipate in a few days (or not?).
Now I know how rented mules must feel after a week with no-accounts.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Two Dollar Watches
Me and the beautiful bride have mostly kept our humble abode fairly respectable.
We swab the deck, dump the trash, and whack the weeds ever chance we get (and have for more than two lustrums). I reckon we thought we were maintaining the nest in a most respectable manner.
A while back we decided it was time to place our prized Austin real estate on the market and withdraw our equity for application to the Tin Star Ranch mortgage. No problem. Call a real estate agent, slap that metal "FOR SALE" sign in the yard, and wait for the rubes to lather their cash on ya.
One problem. Ya gotta spick and span that sucka like it has never seen before. I'm talking on your knees to wash the baseboards, up a ladder to dust the light fixtures, and behind the potty to make all shine?
Worse problem. You get it that way and ya don't want to do it but once.
You want to cook a meal; NOPE! Makes a mess and you don't even want to think bout the clean up. Chunk your clothes on the floor and climb in the bed at night; NOPE! Ya might fergit in the morn and a "buyer" will show up while you are gone and, yup, blow the sale? Don't leave the mornin' paper on the dining table, don't let your shoes dawdle by the front door, and for gosh sakes, don't leave one dang dish in the kitchen sink. (did I mention scrub that potty ever time you walk by?)
Just thinkin' bout it gets me wound up tighter than a two dollar watch? I'm sayin' this show quality house business is just thick in the middle and poor on both ends??
All ya'll pray for a quick sell because I feel like an unwelcome guest in my own house with a stranger bout to walk in at any minute and pass critical judgement on our personal investment of time and effort.
We swab the deck, dump the trash, and whack the weeds ever chance we get (and have for more than two lustrums). I reckon we thought we were maintaining the nest in a most respectable manner.
A while back we decided it was time to place our prized Austin real estate on the market and withdraw our equity for application to the Tin Star Ranch mortgage. No problem. Call a real estate agent, slap that metal "FOR SALE" sign in the yard, and wait for the rubes to lather their cash on ya.
One problem. Ya gotta spick and span that sucka like it has never seen before. I'm talking on your knees to wash the baseboards, up a ladder to dust the light fixtures, and behind the potty to make all shine?
Worse problem. You get it that way and ya don't want to do it but once.
You want to cook a meal; NOPE! Makes a mess and you don't even want to think bout the clean up. Chunk your clothes on the floor and climb in the bed at night; NOPE! Ya might fergit in the morn and a "buyer" will show up while you are gone and, yup, blow the sale? Don't leave the mornin' paper on the dining table, don't let your shoes dawdle by the front door, and for gosh sakes, don't leave one dang dish in the kitchen sink. (did I mention scrub that potty ever time you walk by?)
Just thinkin' bout it gets me wound up tighter than a two dollar watch? I'm sayin' this show quality house business is just thick in the middle and poor on both ends??
All ya'll pray for a quick sell because I feel like an unwelcome guest in my own house with a stranger bout to walk in at any minute and pass critical judgement on our personal investment of time and effort.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Invulnerability
OK sports fans, I'm thinkin' this might be a repeat, but at my age, I get the privilege of a few Alzheimer "do-overs"?
I was anointed a TEXAS HIGHWAY PATROL TROOPER at the ripe ole age of 20 years.
I was sent from the grandiose east tx piney woods to what I called "south texas" (San Antonio) after completion of Armageddon (Trooper academy).
My first partner was the oldest (39) and most senior (17 years) Trooper in the district.
Jim was already called "the old man" by the other Troopers. I naturally was called "the boy".
Kinda hard for me to imagine in my dotage that I was once thought of as a babe among men in a challenging profession, but I reckon all things come full circle?
These days, I am likely bout as smooth as a pig on stilts and often feel like I got ate by a bear and pooped off a cliff, but my mind still remembers that slim athletic "boy" that took care of business on the south side of ole San Antone.
Shore glad I did it when I could and can now bask in the memory of youth and invulnerability.
I was anointed a TEXAS HIGHWAY PATROL TROOPER at the ripe ole age of 20 years.
I was sent from the grandiose east tx piney woods to what I called "south texas" (San Antonio) after completion of Armageddon (Trooper academy).
My first partner was the oldest (39) and most senior (17 years) Trooper in the district.
Jim was already called "the old man" by the other Troopers. I naturally was called "the boy".
Kinda hard for me to imagine in my dotage that I was once thought of as a babe among men in a challenging profession, but I reckon all things come full circle?
These days, I am likely bout as smooth as a pig on stilts and often feel like I got ate by a bear and pooped off a cliff, but my mind still remembers that slim athletic "boy" that took care of business on the south side of ole San Antone.
Shore glad I did it when I could and can now bask in the memory of youth and invulnerability.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Priceless
November 1, 2008: Opening day of deer season
6:15AM: 55 degrees, no wind, clear sky, no moon, the stars are so bright that they are almost overwhelming in their brilliance
6:45AM: In the deer stand on the East side of the ranch adjacent to the oat patch
7:05AM: A ghostly buck(?) is easing along the road parallel to the back fence following the scent of a doe, but it is too dark to see anything but the hint of horns
7:10AM: A turkey gobbles in the San Gabriel River valley to the West signalling the time for the flock to leave the roosting tree for a day of foraging
7:15AM: Two doe are feeding at the protein block about 112 yards to the East and the tops of the distant trees begin to look like asparagus tops as the sun musters its courage to ease over the horizon
7:20AM: The river valley turkeys are engaged in multiples arias of operatic duelling solos
7:25AM: I am watching 10 does feed at the protein blocks, the corn feeder, and the winter oats patch with no care but the acquisition of groceries for the day
7:30AM: I remember that every year I wait til the last weekend of deer season to shoot my "sausage doe" and then they all hide in a deer "cave
7:31AM: I make a perfect "neck" shot on the largest doe at 88 yards with my recently acquired Remington model 700BDL .270
7:50AM: I remember why I haven't shot a deer in many years as I am "field dressing" the sausage material and up to my elbows in the entrails.
9:15AM: I pay the $85 deposit at the venison processing place and wonder how much the principle will be in addition to the "deposit" (it don't pay to figger the per pound cost)
10:30AM: Breakfast tacos at El Charrito in Florence with extra hot sauce and four cups of strong coffee
Total dollar cost for the day: ????? Value and positive influence on my psyche: PRICELESS
6:15AM: 55 degrees, no wind, clear sky, no moon, the stars are so bright that they are almost overwhelming in their brilliance
6:45AM: In the deer stand on the East side of the ranch adjacent to the oat patch
7:05AM: A ghostly buck(?) is easing along the road parallel to the back fence following the scent of a doe, but it is too dark to see anything but the hint of horns
7:10AM: A turkey gobbles in the San Gabriel River valley to the West signalling the time for the flock to leave the roosting tree for a day of foraging
7:15AM: Two doe are feeding at the protein block about 112 yards to the East and the tops of the distant trees begin to look like asparagus tops as the sun musters its courage to ease over the horizon
7:20AM: The river valley turkeys are engaged in multiples arias of operatic duelling solos
7:25AM: I am watching 10 does feed at the protein blocks, the corn feeder, and the winter oats patch with no care but the acquisition of groceries for the day
7:30AM: I remember that every year I wait til the last weekend of deer season to shoot my "sausage doe" and then they all hide in a deer "cave
7:31AM: I make a perfect "neck" shot on the largest doe at 88 yards with my recently acquired Remington model 700BDL .270
7:50AM: I remember why I haven't shot a deer in many years as I am "field dressing" the sausage material and up to my elbows in the entrails.
9:15AM: I pay the $85 deposit at the venison processing place and wonder how much the principle will be in addition to the "deposit" (it don't pay to figger the per pound cost)
10:30AM: Breakfast tacos at El Charrito in Florence with extra hot sauce and four cups of strong coffee
Total dollar cost for the day: ????? Value and positive influence on my psyche: PRICELESS
Friday, October 31, 2008
Apoochie Bellies
Yeah I know, yall,s breath has been steady baited fer a bit o' news bout the bunkhouse progress.
Well here tis': we got twice by four "stud" walls ever-where 'cept the gee-rodge. (and my wallet is slimmin' down like the Titanic on a greased skid?) Pictures to foller for sure. I reckon bout the second tuesday in next week them carpentry suckas will start throwin' the rafters toward heaven, slap down a roof, and afore ya know it - who cares if it rains or not? (anybody got a tarpoleein i coulds wrap around the sides?)
Now iffen it will jest turn out as purty as aunt B's Apoochie Belly shack, we'uns will grin like possums eatin' JRM's garden groceries. Dang its fine to be WC country literate.
Well here tis': we got twice by four "stud" walls ever-where 'cept the gee-rodge. (and my wallet is slimmin' down like the Titanic on a greased skid?) Pictures to foller for sure. I reckon bout the second tuesday in next week them carpentry suckas will start throwin' the rafters toward heaven, slap down a roof, and afore ya know it - who cares if it rains or not? (anybody got a tarpoleein i coulds wrap around the sides?)
Now iffen it will jest turn out as purty as aunt B's Apoochie Belly shack, we'uns will grin like possums eatin' JRM's garden groceries. Dang its fine to be WC country literate.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Icing
I hunted on a deer lease in Fredericksburg for 11 years. The lease was a hill country panorama of hills, cliffs, creeks, mixed trees, and wildlife.
I used to love to go before the season started to "scout" the deer, fill the feeders, repair the blinds, and clean the cabin. We would spend entire days roaming hill and dale while talking about past experiences on the lease.
At nightfall, we would build a fire in the iron potbelly stove and sit around it telling tall tales and generally being men in the company of other men with similar interests.
When the season started, more of the same. We would leave work on Friday and race to the hill country. We would stay on our private hunting preserve until Sunday night and then reluctantly drive back to Austin to our lives of normalcy.
I have rekindled this experience at the Tin Star. The last two months have been a pleasure of filling the corn feeders, putting out protein blocks, and preparing the deer stands. With each visit, I have taken pleasure in searching for tracks, examining droppings, and finding "rubs" on the trees where the bucks wore the velvet off their antler headdresses.
To be honest, on occasion I have actually "hunted" for deer, but that ancillary activity is nothing more than icing on the cake.
I used to love to go before the season started to "scout" the deer, fill the feeders, repair the blinds, and clean the cabin. We would spend entire days roaming hill and dale while talking about past experiences on the lease.
At nightfall, we would build a fire in the iron potbelly stove and sit around it telling tall tales and generally being men in the company of other men with similar interests.
When the season started, more of the same. We would leave work on Friday and race to the hill country. We would stay on our private hunting preserve until Sunday night and then reluctantly drive back to Austin to our lives of normalcy.
I have rekindled this experience at the Tin Star. The last two months have been a pleasure of filling the corn feeders, putting out protein blocks, and preparing the deer stands. With each visit, I have taken pleasure in searching for tracks, examining droppings, and finding "rubs" on the trees where the bucks wore the velvet off their antler headdresses.
To be honest, on occasion I have actually "hunted" for deer, but that ancillary activity is nothing more than icing on the cake.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Ladder Combs
When I was a yonker in East Tx, we all lived back in the sticks with town just a distant urban mystery.
Don't know how many people had locks on the exterior doors of their home, but I do know that absolutely no one I knew ever locked up their house. Not during the night. Not when they left on a trip. Never.
My Mom's Dad (Papuh) had a hasp lock his front door. One time he put a padlock on that door when he left the state. Thing is, he drove a nail beside the lock and put the key on the nail. I ask why and he said, "The lock will keep an honest man out of my house, the key will keep a crook from tearing up my door."
Hard to argue with old time country logic. Plus, if he had caught anyone triflin', he would have put a knot on their head so tall they would have to climb a ladder to comb their hair.
In all the days of my youth, I don't remember anyone ever reporting anything stolen from their house. Part of that is because we were so dang poor that we didn't have anything worth stealing. The other part was that it was a different time and a different moral code.
Oh yeah, folks would naturally stomp a mud hole in you if you diddled in such a way. A man would have to have more guts than you could hang on a fence if he chose to take from another's family.
The point of this rambling is that today we had a steel "safe room" bolted to the slab of the bunkhouse we are building on the ranch. We added this costly "luxury" in part so we could step in when a storm threatens to level the earth and all in our vicinity.
Nother part of it is that my bride wanted a sanctuary in the event some immoral varmit tries to break into our house. I go along with that part too. I don't want my better half hit with ricochets while I'm pumping lead into the ignorant son-of-a-bitch with the foolish audacity to enter my house without a proper invite.
I guess a lot of things have changed in this old world, but I confess to wishin' everyone could still leave their house unlocked and sleep sound at night.
Don't know how many people had locks on the exterior doors of their home, but I do know that absolutely no one I knew ever locked up their house. Not during the night. Not when they left on a trip. Never.
My Mom's Dad (Papuh) had a hasp lock his front door. One time he put a padlock on that door when he left the state. Thing is, he drove a nail beside the lock and put the key on the nail. I ask why and he said, "The lock will keep an honest man out of my house, the key will keep a crook from tearing up my door."
Hard to argue with old time country logic. Plus, if he had caught anyone triflin', he would have put a knot on their head so tall they would have to climb a ladder to comb their hair.
In all the days of my youth, I don't remember anyone ever reporting anything stolen from their house. Part of that is because we were so dang poor that we didn't have anything worth stealing. The other part was that it was a different time and a different moral code.
Oh yeah, folks would naturally stomp a mud hole in you if you diddled in such a way. A man would have to have more guts than you could hang on a fence if he chose to take from another's family.
The point of this rambling is that today we had a steel "safe room" bolted to the slab of the bunkhouse we are building on the ranch. We added this costly "luxury" in part so we could step in when a storm threatens to level the earth and all in our vicinity.
Nother part of it is that my bride wanted a sanctuary in the event some immoral varmit tries to break into our house. I go along with that part too. I don't want my better half hit with ricochets while I'm pumping lead into the ignorant son-of-a-bitch with the foolish audacity to enter my house without a proper invite.
I guess a lot of things have changed in this old world, but I confess to wishin' everyone could still leave their house unlocked and sleep sound at night.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Slabbin' Charm
My bro-law called at daylight this morn to say that he drove by the ranch and concrete trucks were lined up at the site of the house.
Bout noon-thirty, I drove out to investigate and observed the construction crew pumping the last bit into the garage area.
We be slabbin'.
Tomorrow they claim to be starting the framing.
The best news: We can't change the location of the house any more. I guess the TENTH time we moved it was the "charm"?
Bout noon-thirty, I drove out to investigate and observed the construction crew pumping the last bit into the garage area.
We be slabbin'.
Tomorrow they claim to be starting the framing.
The best news: We can't change the location of the house any more. I guess the TENTH time we moved it was the "charm"?
Monday, October 27, 2008
The Front Porch
Tomorrow the bunkhouse slab will be poured and Wednesday the builder will start throwing lumber at it.
Don't know if I mentioned, but we oriented the front porch toward the West. It is intentionally wide enough for two rocking chairs, one on either side of the front door. It is also conveniently located so that we can glance toward the pond to see what might come to water and see the deer come to the corn feeder placed there. Look straight ahead and you will be steady eyeballin' the San Gabriel River valley with magnificent copses of oak trees.
We have sat in lawn chairs at our front porch location over the years and watched wild turkey stroll calmly by, fawns stealthily hide in the weeds, and hawks cartwheel over the pasture in pursuit of prey.
Reckon I am already in the mood to point them rocking chairs toward the West and just drink in the sunset glory.
Don't know if I mentioned, but we oriented the front porch toward the West. It is intentionally wide enough for two rocking chairs, one on either side of the front door. It is also conveniently located so that we can glance toward the pond to see what might come to water and see the deer come to the corn feeder placed there. Look straight ahead and you will be steady eyeballin' the San Gabriel River valley with magnificent copses of oak trees.
We have sat in lawn chairs at our front porch location over the years and watched wild turkey stroll calmly by, fawns stealthily hide in the weeds, and hawks cartwheel over the pasture in pursuit of prey.
Reckon I am already in the mood to point them rocking chairs toward the West and just drink in the sunset glory.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Hammer Down
Visited our beloved Tin Star yesterday and found that we are fully "plumbed" and the inspector has blessed us with his green "approval" ribbon on the PVC network.
Today's labor of love is supposed to include digging the trenches for the concrete slab beams and placing the reinforcing steel.
The slab pour is scheduled for next Tuesday.
The beautiful bride is picking out the appliances and plumbing fixtures this morning (which would explain the loud sucking noise coming from the vicinity of my bank account).
It would seem that we are full bore, hammer down, bunkhouse building with a passion!
Today's labor of love is supposed to include digging the trenches for the concrete slab beams and placing the reinforcing steel.
The slab pour is scheduled for next Tuesday.
The beautiful bride is picking out the appliances and plumbing fixtures this morning (which would explain the loud sucking noise coming from the vicinity of my bank account).
It would seem that we are full bore, hammer down, bunkhouse building with a passion!
Monday, October 20, 2008
Bunk House Progress Report
Whooeee doggies!
The wooden forms for the slab are finished and the base material has been compacted in the forms.
This week is supposed to include plumbing, rebar, and concrete pouring (Friday?).
As soon as the slab "cures", they will start throwing lumber at that puppy from can til cain't. With luck, we can have it "dried in" before the winter rains start.
My beautiful bride is meeting with the builder's "choice" person once per week to "choose" all the colors, finishes, fixtures, etc., so they can be purchased and available immediately when needed.
I'm actually beginning to think that the ole ranch hand might pull this one off.
The wooden forms for the slab are finished and the base material has been compacted in the forms.
This week is supposed to include plumbing, rebar, and concrete pouring (Friday?).
As soon as the slab "cures", they will start throwing lumber at that puppy from can til cain't. With luck, we can have it "dried in" before the winter rains start.
My beautiful bride is meeting with the builder's "choice" person once per week to "choose" all the colors, finishes, fixtures, etc., so they can be purchased and available immediately when needed.
I'm actually beginning to think that the ole ranch hand might pull this one off.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Family, Faith, and FRIENDS
Friends: Iffen you is one, button up your bullitt proof vest, cross your laigs, and just weather the following storm.
I been cogitatin' this week bout my "friends". Mostly bout what they might have in common (and how the hell I have such magnificent privilege of their occasional company?).
I ain't talkin' bout beer suckin', Sunday only, drugstore friends; I'm talkin' cover your back, eliminate your enemies, gooder'n snuff and half as dusty, strong as a garlic milkshake, friends til you die "friends".
Yeah, I know, the best sermons is lived, not preached.
My soul buddies all seem to have rhinoceros hide, screw the world, bear breath, gonna "say what they think" kinda attitudes. They are redneck, conservative, all day, every day, manly tougher than a two dollar steak, right is right, and the rest of the world be damned, flag waving, rough-ass, patriot, sons-of-beloved-mothers that they respect eternally. They would wear a pair of pork chop panties and run thru a lion's den grinning bout the thrill. They share my heart felt philosophy that if you so much as touch the people I love, I will rip off your head and shit down your neck with the most cruel pleasure you can imagine.
If you knew my friends like I know my friends, all of the above would be obvious. If you walked in my shoes a spell, there are other things that you might never surmise.
These incredibly durable, strong, stare a hole in your soul men, all have a huge heart below their armadillo armor and a tender spot for wives, family, children and their Lord and Savior that forms the base of their character and loyalty to friends.
This ain't pissy-ass sentiment, senile dribble, or a concession to the liberal butt world that is consuming the obvious passion of those looking for a free lunch.
It is simply a statement to commemorate my appreciation for the MEN I have had the privilege of knowing who have kept the faith of character, honor, loyalty, and doing the right things for the right reasons, at the right time, every time, no matter the circumstances or challenge.
Gentlemen, I salute you with the most humble posture imaginable.
You are my wealth.
I been cogitatin' this week bout my "friends". Mostly bout what they might have in common (and how the hell I have such magnificent privilege of their occasional company?).
I ain't talkin' bout beer suckin', Sunday only, drugstore friends; I'm talkin' cover your back, eliminate your enemies, gooder'n snuff and half as dusty, strong as a garlic milkshake, friends til you die "friends".
Yeah, I know, the best sermons is lived, not preached.
My soul buddies all seem to have rhinoceros hide, screw the world, bear breath, gonna "say what they think" kinda attitudes. They are redneck, conservative, all day, every day, manly tougher than a two dollar steak, right is right, and the rest of the world be damned, flag waving, rough-ass, patriot, sons-of-beloved-mothers that they respect eternally. They would wear a pair of pork chop panties and run thru a lion's den grinning bout the thrill. They share my heart felt philosophy that if you so much as touch the people I love, I will rip off your head and shit down your neck with the most cruel pleasure you can imagine.
If you knew my friends like I know my friends, all of the above would be obvious. If you walked in my shoes a spell, there are other things that you might never surmise.
These incredibly durable, strong, stare a hole in your soul men, all have a huge heart below their armadillo armor and a tender spot for wives, family, children and their Lord and Savior that forms the base of their character and loyalty to friends.
This ain't pissy-ass sentiment, senile dribble, or a concession to the liberal butt world that is consuming the obvious passion of those looking for a free lunch.
It is simply a statement to commemorate my appreciation for the MEN I have had the privilege of knowing who have kept the faith of character, honor, loyalty, and doing the right things for the right reasons, at the right time, every time, no matter the circumstances or challenge.
Gentlemen, I salute you with the most humble posture imaginable.
You are my wealth.
Homeless
A minor detail of moving to the Tin Star involves divesting our present abode.
We been bustin' you know what for the last month to "fix it up" and to unclutter it.
"Fix it up" has included painting, flower bed work, minor repairs, purchases (new oven), and endless hours of backbreaking, sweaty stuff that we should have been doing anyway.
"Unclutter" has been to haul a load of treasures (trash?) to the barn each time we go and to fill the garbage each week. For clothes, if we ain't wore it in a year, it goes to Goodwill. For all else, if we forgot we owned it, can't remember the last time we used it, or just hesitate on keeping it, it gets chunked.
We have only lived in this house for 13 years, but we seem to have a century of crap piled up?
This weekend is supposed to be the most awesome weather of the year for Austin. Yep, gonna spend the whole sucka pounding on the house with the goal of putting a "FOR SALE" sign out front the first week of November.
That's right sports fans, if my plan works out, we will be homeless from the time the Austin house sells until we move into the new house. Anybody got any spare cardboard so we can make some signs and stand at a street intersection?
We been bustin' you know what for the last month to "fix it up" and to unclutter it.
"Fix it up" has included painting, flower bed work, minor repairs, purchases (new oven), and endless hours of backbreaking, sweaty stuff that we should have been doing anyway.
"Unclutter" has been to haul a load of treasures (trash?) to the barn each time we go and to fill the garbage each week. For clothes, if we ain't wore it in a year, it goes to Goodwill. For all else, if we forgot we owned it, can't remember the last time we used it, or just hesitate on keeping it, it gets chunked.
We have only lived in this house for 13 years, but we seem to have a century of crap piled up?
This weekend is supposed to be the most awesome weather of the year for Austin. Yep, gonna spend the whole sucka pounding on the house with the goal of putting a "FOR SALE" sign out front the first week of November.
That's right sports fans, if my plan works out, we will be homeless from the time the Austin house sells until we move into the new house. Anybody got any spare cardboard so we can make some signs and stand at a street intersection?
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Old Friend
When my Dad died in 1999, I served as the spokesperson at the "funeral". We chose to have graveside only. My bro-law Robert offered prayer. I offered my words to commemorate the life of my best friend ever.
Although I have done public speaking hundreds of times over almost four decades, that day represents the toughest speaking challenge I have ever faced.
The second greatest challenge came today. After the preacher did his part, I chose to address those gathered at the services for my friend, Luie. In a few humble words, I simply told those present that I loved him and would miss him.
It's hard to imagine that merely speaking can be such a trial and effort, but I managed to say my piece.
May God bless and keep you old friend.
Although I have done public speaking hundreds of times over almost four decades, that day represents the toughest speaking challenge I have ever faced.
The second greatest challenge came today. After the preacher did his part, I chose to address those gathered at the services for my friend, Luie. In a few humble words, I simply told those present that I loved him and would miss him.
It's hard to imagine that merely speaking can be such a trial and effort, but I managed to say my piece.
May God bless and keep you old friend.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
New Frontiers
In the ongoing saga of epic new frontier exploration, we will sojourn at the Georgetown title company manana and sign the paperwork to commemorate our latest financial obligation.
That's right sports fans, we will have reached the River Styx, crossed over into Jordan, and refused to glance rearward to Sodom and Gomorrah lest we morph to pillars of salt. Nother words, we be full steam with no return building a bunk house on the rancho.
Ya gotta love it.
Again, pray for continued drought til the house is dried in, and then pray for flood to fill our new lake. Aw hell, just pray and we will be proud of however it all turns out.
That's right sports fans, we will have reached the River Styx, crossed over into Jordan, and refused to glance rearward to Sodom and Gomorrah lest we morph to pillars of salt. Nother words, we be full steam with no return building a bunk house on the rancho.
Ya gotta love it.
Again, pray for continued drought til the house is dried in, and then pray for flood to fill our new lake. Aw hell, just pray and we will be proud of however it all turns out.
Monday, October 13, 2008
LUIE
My neighbor has been a bull of a man. Big and strong in his body and stronger in his convictions.
We have been extremely close friends for the 13 years that I have lived across the street. He has been the kind of friend that I knew would do anything in his power to help me and who would defend me and my family with violence if called upon to do so by circumstances.
A few months ago he told me that he had been diagnosed with a degenerative lung disease.
A few weeks ago he told me he would have to carry an oxygen bottle around in order to breathe.
Last week he told me he was going to need a lung transplant if he could get healthy enough to be considered.
A few days ago, he went into the intensive care unit of a local hospital due to pneumonia and an infection that was ravaging his body.
After a few days in ICU, his wife called me to say that Luie wanted to see me. With tremendous effort, he lifted his oxygen mask and said he wanted to tell me goodbye.
Full grown, redneck, manly men don't cry in public, hold each other's hand, or say, "I love you" to each other.
Together we shed a river of salty tears for mutual respect, unspoken admiration, and sadness for the end of our time together. Then we held each other's hand and said to each other with trembling voices, "I love you".
My friend slipped the bonds of earth today and my heart is aching. I wish he was here again so that I could hold his hand and tell him that I love him as one of the best friends I ever had.
We have been extremely close friends for the 13 years that I have lived across the street. He has been the kind of friend that I knew would do anything in his power to help me and who would defend me and my family with violence if called upon to do so by circumstances.
A few months ago he told me that he had been diagnosed with a degenerative lung disease.
A few weeks ago he told me he would have to carry an oxygen bottle around in order to breathe.
Last week he told me he was going to need a lung transplant if he could get healthy enough to be considered.
A few days ago, he went into the intensive care unit of a local hospital due to pneumonia and an infection that was ravaging his body.
After a few days in ICU, his wife called me to say that Luie wanted to see me. With tremendous effort, he lifted his oxygen mask and said he wanted to tell me goodbye.
Full grown, redneck, manly men don't cry in public, hold each other's hand, or say, "I love you" to each other.
Together we shed a river of salty tears for mutual respect, unspoken admiration, and sadness for the end of our time together. Then we held each other's hand and said to each other with trembling voices, "I love you".
My friend slipped the bonds of earth today and my heart is aching. I wish he was here again so that I could hold his hand and tell him that I love him as one of the best friends I ever had.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
ALPHA DAWG
On occasion I feel the testosterone driven urge to assert my considerable manhood as a manly man.
At a recent meeting with our builder, I loudly proclaimed in a gruff voice that I would settle for no less than four walls, a roof, and that our new house be warm and dry.
I then meekly pointed to my beautiful bride and allowed that she would be making all other decisions.
Guess I showed them who the alpha dawg is in this wolf pack.
Yesterday, the bride picked our limestone masonry, shingle color, windows, and narrowed down the choices on the stucco and sheetrock finishes.
I'm not impressed. I already made all the hard choices bout walls and such.
At a recent meeting with our builder, I loudly proclaimed in a gruff voice that I would settle for no less than four walls, a roof, and that our new house be warm and dry.
I then meekly pointed to my beautiful bride and allowed that she would be making all other decisions.
Guess I showed them who the alpha dawg is in this wolf pack.
Yesterday, the bride picked our limestone masonry, shingle color, windows, and narrowed down the choices on the stucco and sheetrock finishes.
I'm not impressed. I already made all the hard choices bout walls and such.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Lake Fillin'
Whoop-dee-damn-doo!
The machinery started scratching in the dirt on the Tin Star today as the construction crew knocked down a tree or two and leveled the bunk house building site!!!!!!!
Before dark, they squared off the corners, drove stakes in the ground, and started up with the forms that the slab will be poured in.
Pretty exciting stuff for a couple of poor country bumpkins that are shooting for the big time with this new ranch residence.
All ya'll pray for dry weather til "dry in", then a flood til the new lake fills, and the lowest mortgage interest rates in history.
The machinery started scratching in the dirt on the Tin Star today as the construction crew knocked down a tree or two and leveled the bunk house building site!!!!!!!
Before dark, they squared off the corners, drove stakes in the ground, and started up with the forms that the slab will be poured in.
Pretty exciting stuff for a couple of poor country bumpkins that are shooting for the big time with this new ranch residence.
All ya'll pray for dry weather til "dry in", then a flood til the new lake fills, and the lowest mortgage interest rates in history.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Santa Claus
I spent the past weekend trimming limbs and shredding weeds with Big Dawg on the Tin Star and that rural acreage is now purtier than pig nipples. The best part is that it should stay that way til spring.
As we pulled out of the gate to drive back to Austin yesterday, a flock of 23 wild turkeys walked along beside the fence as if to say they would watch the place for us while we were gone.
Life is good, and it will soon include our new address on County Road 208.
We feel like two kids waiting for Santa Claus to visit!
As we pulled out of the gate to drive back to Austin yesterday, a flock of 23 wild turkeys walked along beside the fence as if to say they would watch the place for us while we were gone.
Life is good, and it will soon include our new address on County Road 208.
We feel like two kids waiting for Santa Claus to visit!
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
The Artist
Big "R" is my bro-law.
He is one of my best friends ever, has a charitable heart the size of TEXAS, fathered our absolutely awesome nephew, and he is one of the most talented people I have ever known.
This renaissance man I have the privilege of calling my friend is a mechanic, welder, fabricator, rancher, truck driver, plumber, electrician, fence builder, calf-puller, (8 millimeter film star????), raconteur, expert operator of all things motorized, and all around great guy.
Today I learned that he is a world class ARTIST with a dozer blade. At my pleading, Big "R" was kind enough to "clean" and "shape" our modest pond on the Tin Star Ranch.
Lord have mercy on my soul! I drove by and looked at that puppy today and my jaw dropped to my knees. Our humble stock tank is now a full 1/2 acre, deep as the river Jordan, and shaped like an exquisite piece of Hopi pottery. It is a piece of art, sculpted by the careful hand of an artist. I'm talkin' prettier than a speckled pup under a wagon with his tongue hangin' out!
I'm not sure why an old fat man like me is so dadgum fortunate to have the pleasure of the friendship and companion of Big "R", but I feel truly blessed.
He is one of my best friends ever, has a charitable heart the size of TEXAS, fathered our absolutely awesome nephew, and he is one of the most talented people I have ever known.
This renaissance man I have the privilege of calling my friend is a mechanic, welder, fabricator, rancher, truck driver, plumber, electrician, fence builder, calf-puller, (8 millimeter film star????), raconteur, expert operator of all things motorized, and all around great guy.
Today I learned that he is a world class ARTIST with a dozer blade. At my pleading, Big "R" was kind enough to "clean" and "shape" our modest pond on the Tin Star Ranch.
Lord have mercy on my soul! I drove by and looked at that puppy today and my jaw dropped to my knees. Our humble stock tank is now a full 1/2 acre, deep as the river Jordan, and shaped like an exquisite piece of Hopi pottery. It is a piece of art, sculpted by the careful hand of an artist. I'm talkin' prettier than a speckled pup under a wagon with his tongue hangin' out!
I'm not sure why an old fat man like me is so dadgum fortunate to have the pleasure of the friendship and companion of Big "R", but I feel truly blessed.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The Race
Now the race is on
And here comes pride in the backstretch
Heartaches goin' to the inside
My tears are holdin' back, they're tryin' not to fall.
My hearts out of the runnin'
True love's scratched for another's sake
The race is on and it looks like heartache
And the winner loses all.
(George Jones,, 1972)
I don't know about the tears and heartache part, but the race is dang sure on and the world's fastest Indian will have trouble keeping up.
Me and the beautiful bride signed our "John Henry's" to a contract yesterday to build our ranch bunk house and the builder is crowin' bout starting next week.
My dearly departed Daddy would have fainted if he knew the cost, but I figgered out a long time ago that marriage is an expensive way for a man to get his laundry done for free?
Lord willin' and the creek don't rise, we expect to be living on the Tin Star Ranch come April 2009.
Come to think of it, we had the pond cleaned out this week by a dozer operator and the creek risin' would be a blessing to that endeavor.
And here comes pride in the backstretch
Heartaches goin' to the inside
My tears are holdin' back, they're tryin' not to fall.
My hearts out of the runnin'
True love's scratched for another's sake
The race is on and it looks like heartache
And the winner loses all.
(George Jones,, 1972)
I don't know about the tears and heartache part, but the race is dang sure on and the world's fastest Indian will have trouble keeping up.
Me and the beautiful bride signed our "John Henry's" to a contract yesterday to build our ranch bunk house and the builder is crowin' bout starting next week.
My dearly departed Daddy would have fainted if he knew the cost, but I figgered out a long time ago that marriage is an expensive way for a man to get his laundry done for free?
Lord willin' and the creek don't rise, we expect to be living on the Tin Star Ranch come April 2009.
Come to think of it, we had the pond cleaned out this week by a dozer operator and the creek risin' would be a blessing to that endeavor.
Friday, September 26, 2008
The Truth
I love my wife's baby sister.
She is purty, true blue, dedicated to family, an awesome mom, SMART, and one of my best friends ever.
Did I mention that she speaks the truth with every word that comes out of her mouth? If you ask her a question, get ready. Good, bad, or indifferent: truth.
Thing is, that is one of the things I most admire about her. No window dressing, no smoke blowing, just tell it like it is.
I have only known one other person like that in my life. If a woman wasn't no beauty queen, my Dad would tell her (unasked) that her face would make a freight train take a dirt road.
Anyway, the point of this is that Lil Bit told me recently that on occasion I obviously run out of something blogalicious and resort to a story from "30 years ago" to grace the Ranch Hand editorials.
This would be my public confession that yet again, M-Mc has done tole tha "TRUTH"!
She is purty, true blue, dedicated to family, an awesome mom, SMART, and one of my best friends ever.
Did I mention that she speaks the truth with every word that comes out of her mouth? If you ask her a question, get ready. Good, bad, or indifferent: truth.
Thing is, that is one of the things I most admire about her. No window dressing, no smoke blowing, just tell it like it is.
I have only known one other person like that in my life. If a woman wasn't no beauty queen, my Dad would tell her (unasked) that her face would make a freight train take a dirt road.
Anyway, the point of this is that Lil Bit told me recently that on occasion I obviously run out of something blogalicious and resort to a story from "30 years ago" to grace the Ranch Hand editorials.
This would be my public confession that yet again, M-Mc has done tole tha "TRUTH"!
The Windshield
Unless you are a heart and soul gun enthusiest, don't even bother with this one because it will bore you worse than watching a pig on stilts.
This week me and my pardner eased to Florence to the 1.000 acre state firearms range and immersed ourselves into pure nirvana.
We opened the dance by sighting in my ole trusty 30-30 for "short shots" at the pond from my tree stand and gracefully transitioned to the 100 yard line to drive tacks with my newest venision acquisition device (Remington model 700 BDL .270) topped by a Nikon Buckmaster 3X14 (and you thought I was funnin' about the "don't bother to read this" part?)
We then eagerly broke out the .308 M-1 Garand and M-16 .223 and proceeded to shoot the cojones from mosquitos at unimaginable range.
Not being content with the sport of mere mortals, we ascended to the manly art of shooting at steel sillouettes with .40 cal pistols at 100 yards (kinda like an ant trying to rape a tall elephant)??????????/
When that intoxicating elixar of male testerone evoking activity concluded, we settled into the business at hand to spend the afternoon running, rolling, ducking, dodging (huffing/puffing) through the State Trooper police combat course.
If you ain't switched to a commercial or gone potty yet, you read the last part right. The ranch hand spent an afternoon running with the kids and big dawgs like the old days (and I held my own)>
Hell, some days you are the bug, but this week, I WAS THE WINDSHIELD.
This week me and my pardner eased to Florence to the 1.000 acre state firearms range and immersed ourselves into pure nirvana.
We opened the dance by sighting in my ole trusty 30-30 for "short shots" at the pond from my tree stand and gracefully transitioned to the 100 yard line to drive tacks with my newest venision acquisition device (Remington model 700 BDL .270) topped by a Nikon Buckmaster 3X14 (and you thought I was funnin' about the "don't bother to read this" part?)
We then eagerly broke out the .308 M-1 Garand and M-16 .223 and proceeded to shoot the cojones from mosquitos at unimaginable range.
Not being content with the sport of mere mortals, we ascended to the manly art of shooting at steel sillouettes with .40 cal pistols at 100 yards (kinda like an ant trying to rape a tall elephant)??????????/
When that intoxicating elixar of male testerone evoking activity concluded, we settled into the business at hand to spend the afternoon running, rolling, ducking, dodging (huffing/puffing) through the State Trooper police combat course.
If you ain't switched to a commercial or gone potty yet, you read the last part right. The ranch hand spent an afternoon running with the kids and big dawgs like the old days (and I held my own)>
Hell, some days you are the bug, but this week, I WAS THE WINDSHIELD.
Let Us Pray
OK loyal sports fans,
I know you have been as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs about the next stage of the infamous ranch house build.
Truth is, we been near bout drownin' in details while trying to construct the specifications that we will ink our signatures on. This part is mostly like drinkin' from a fire hydrant and ugly as a mole on a pig's butt. Reckon we gotta hang in whether it comes in geysers or pounds sand because it ain't gonna happen otherwise?
Monday afternoon we are scheduled to take a big gulp (pray), fortify with adult beverage (pray), and sign on the dotted line with a builder for an unspeakable sum (I glad Daddy ain't around to know this part as he would have the big one for sure). Then we mosey to the mortgage lender to get a "permanent financing commitment letter" (fancy butt word for saying that they are dum enuff to take a 30 year mortgage on an old fat man after the construction financing). We dosie doh, turn around twice, and amble to the bank to (fill out another frickin' mountain of paper work, sign our lives away) do the construction loan stuff and then:
WE START SCRATCHING IN THE DIRT AND BUILD FROM THE GROUND UP!
The ole ranch hand is guess-timating that we will start construction by November 1st. The builder is promising move-in by May 1st.
Let us pray.
I know you have been as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs about the next stage of the infamous ranch house build.
Truth is, we been near bout drownin' in details while trying to construct the specifications that we will ink our signatures on. This part is mostly like drinkin' from a fire hydrant and ugly as a mole on a pig's butt. Reckon we gotta hang in whether it comes in geysers or pounds sand because it ain't gonna happen otherwise?
Monday afternoon we are scheduled to take a big gulp (pray), fortify with adult beverage (pray), and sign on the dotted line with a builder for an unspeakable sum (I glad Daddy ain't around to know this part as he would have the big one for sure). Then we mosey to the mortgage lender to get a "permanent financing commitment letter" (fancy butt word for saying that they are dum enuff to take a 30 year mortgage on an old fat man after the construction financing). We dosie doh, turn around twice, and amble to the bank to (fill out another frickin' mountain of paper work, sign our lives away) do the construction loan stuff and then:
WE START SCRATCHING IN THE DIRT AND BUILD FROM THE GROUND UP!
The ole ranch hand is guess-timating that we will start construction by November 1st. The builder is promising move-in by May 1st.
Let us pray.
Monday, September 22, 2008
WHEELS
Saturday afternoon we eased to Gabriel Mills to spend the night with the mom-law at her beautifully appointed new house on County Road 207 (the Big "R" done good on this one!).
An unexpected treat included the bride's baby sister whuppin' up her best ole family recipe (HEB frozen lasagna) and hosting the evening at their mountain-top forest estate and cow-pie pasture heaven.
Course the nephew was in fine form as he RAN (that young 'un don't walk no-where, no-how) and jabbered, laughed, played, and generally provided priceless entertainment for the small price of an audience.
Saturday night blissfully dissolved into a cushioned wicker couch on Nana's new sun room with a glass of merlot and the soft cooing (foghorn) of Nana expressing her opinion on everthing from her new toilets (that don't flush tha' paper to her obvious high standards) to the number one problem facing America (her need for curtain rod hangers and a sucker son-law to put them on the new walls?)
Sunday morning dawned with the ole gray haired ranch hand on the East facing sun room watching a (University of Texas) burnt orange magnificent globe slowly rising into the clear, crisp morning sky as the master and ruler of all surveyed.
The morning progressed with the old fat boy easing to the West front porch to sip a cup of mud in the cool air and wonder if cars ever drove by on the road. As my soul became attuned with the peaceful solitude, I listened to the mournful plaint of doves, the breeze in the trees, and the silent sound of stress fleeing my feeble soul. (The praying mantis and "walking stick" insects patrolling the porch were oblivious)
Lord, I pray that you will allow your humble servant to remain earthly bound for sufficient days to enjoy the bounty of your masterpiece of nature and calm in Gabriel Mills, Texas after the completion of our casa on the Tin Star.
Oh yeah, we moved the location of the house six feet South on Sunday; the ninth damn time we have relocated that sucka. I'm starting to think we need to build the house foundation on wheels?
An unexpected treat included the bride's baby sister whuppin' up her best ole family recipe (HEB frozen lasagna) and hosting the evening at their mountain-top forest estate and cow-pie pasture heaven.
Course the nephew was in fine form as he RAN (that young 'un don't walk no-where, no-how) and jabbered, laughed, played, and generally provided priceless entertainment for the small price of an audience.
Saturday night blissfully dissolved into a cushioned wicker couch on Nana's new sun room with a glass of merlot and the soft cooing (foghorn) of Nana expressing her opinion on everthing from her new toilets (that don't flush tha' paper to her obvious high standards) to the number one problem facing America (her need for curtain rod hangers and a sucker son-law to put them on the new walls?)
Sunday morning dawned with the ole gray haired ranch hand on the East facing sun room watching a (University of Texas) burnt orange magnificent globe slowly rising into the clear, crisp morning sky as the master and ruler of all surveyed.
The morning progressed with the old fat boy easing to the West front porch to sip a cup of mud in the cool air and wonder if cars ever drove by on the road. As my soul became attuned with the peaceful solitude, I listened to the mournful plaint of doves, the breeze in the trees, and the silent sound of stress fleeing my feeble soul. (The praying mantis and "walking stick" insects patrolling the porch were oblivious)
Lord, I pray that you will allow your humble servant to remain earthly bound for sufficient days to enjoy the bounty of your masterpiece of nature and calm in Gabriel Mills, Texas after the completion of our casa on the Tin Star.
Oh yeah, we moved the location of the house six feet South on Sunday; the ninth damn time we have relocated that sucka. I'm starting to think we need to build the house foundation on wheels?
Friday, September 19, 2008
UNBROKEN STRING
Custom home building is like a yo-yo. It's up, down, and sometimes the string breaks?
Yesterday was definitely up! We spent two hours in the builder's office intently poring over details small (cabinet knobs), large (steel versus shingle roof), and sublime (matte versus glossy finishes???). All the while maintaining a keen edge on the budget knife.
Just before I cratered with detail overdose, we adjourned to the land to talk with the builder and his construction superintendent about the essentials of life, liberty, and the American Dream in the following order of priority:
1. SEPTIC SYSTEM!!!!!
2. Water
3. Electricity
4. Slab engineering
The builder is saying we will be living in the house by April/May 2009. Let's all pray the "string" don't break.
Yesterday was definitely up! We spent two hours in the builder's office intently poring over details small (cabinet knobs), large (steel versus shingle roof), and sublime (matte versus glossy finishes???). All the while maintaining a keen edge on the budget knife.
Just before I cratered with detail overdose, we adjourned to the land to talk with the builder and his construction superintendent about the essentials of life, liberty, and the American Dream in the following order of priority:
1. SEPTIC SYSTEM!!!!!
2. Water
3. Electricity
4. Slab engineering
The builder is saying we will be living in the house by April/May 2009. Let's all pray the "string" don't break.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
THE "DASH" REVISITED
Yesterday marked another milestone in our quest to erect the bunk house on our ranch.
We have now officially submitted our construction loan and mortgage applications and moseyed down the paper trail of documentation required for that dance.
We also interviewed two custom home builders yesterday and looked at a couple of model homes to evaluate the builder's work.
Next we have to schedule a site visit to our land with the builders to develop specifications and ultimately their dollar bids to build the house.
At this point, I would say we remain on target to be settled in the new house by June 2009.
One of my past blogs commented on the meaning of the "dash" between one's date of birth and date of death on a tombstone. Essentially, my point was that when you are born and when you "pass on down among them" (as my Dad used to say) doesn't matter. What matters is the quality of the time spent between those dates (the "dash").
I now reckon that we can contemplate June 2009 - ????
Here's to making that "dash" the best part our lives while lavishing in the bounty of our beloved Tin Star Ranch.
We have now officially submitted our construction loan and mortgage applications and moseyed down the paper trail of documentation required for that dance.
We also interviewed two custom home builders yesterday and looked at a couple of model homes to evaluate the builder's work.
Next we have to schedule a site visit to our land with the builders to develop specifications and ultimately their dollar bids to build the house.
At this point, I would say we remain on target to be settled in the new house by June 2009.
One of my past blogs commented on the meaning of the "dash" between one's date of birth and date of death on a tombstone. Essentially, my point was that when you are born and when you "pass on down among them" (as my Dad used to say) doesn't matter. What matters is the quality of the time spent between those dates (the "dash").
I now reckon that we can contemplate June 2009 - ????
Here's to making that "dash" the best part our lives while lavishing in the bounty of our beloved Tin Star Ranch.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
RAW POWER
During 1970 I had the privilege of being a TEXAS HIGHWAY PATROL TROOPER.
A part of that "privilege" was to drive a 1968 Plymouth 440 cubic inch (rocket ship) black/white Trooper ride.
This was before concern of gas prices, greenhouse gases, or whatever?
This was the day of pure speed, power, and the wind blowing your ear lobes off!
I remember the ROAR of the engine, the "sucking" sound of the carburetor, and the G-force pushing me back into the seat when I "pressed the pedal to the metal" to accelerate.
OK, the brakes wouldn't stop the dang thing, and it was not zactly air or water tight, but that sucka would shoot a hole in the wind for a young sprout that wasn't afraid of nuthin' or the devil and would drive to the limit of the car (see any Gene Waller genes here?)
I have personal knowledge that ole wore out 1968 Plymouth would "run" 148 mile per hour (I didn't never do no quarter mile Hallville "stuff" Ms. Lindsay, but it was a "rush" back when?)
Ain't it a shame my eyes/reflexes would be challenged to duplicate that at half speed today?
A part of that "privilege" was to drive a 1968 Plymouth 440 cubic inch (rocket ship) black/white Trooper ride.
This was before concern of gas prices, greenhouse gases, or whatever?
This was the day of pure speed, power, and the wind blowing your ear lobes off!
I remember the ROAR of the engine, the "sucking" sound of the carburetor, and the G-force pushing me back into the seat when I "pressed the pedal to the metal" to accelerate.
OK, the brakes wouldn't stop the dang thing, and it was not zactly air or water tight, but that sucka would shoot a hole in the wind for a young sprout that wasn't afraid of nuthin' or the devil and would drive to the limit of the car (see any Gene Waller genes here?)
I have personal knowledge that ole wore out 1968 Plymouth would "run" 148 mile per hour (I didn't never do no quarter mile Hallville "stuff" Ms. Lindsay, but it was a "rush" back when?)
Ain't it a shame my eyes/reflexes would be challenged to duplicate that at half speed today?
CONFESSION
Ever been lost?
I mean don't know up from down, left from right, in the dark of night, downright lost?
Bout 1978 I was the Highway Patrol supervisor for Marshall. One night I decided to "roam" a bit and started patrolling east toward Louisiana in the Caddo Lake area near Karnack.
We are talkin' bout a moonless, cloudy night that was as dark as the bottom of a dirty inkwell in the back of a closet of a shuttered rusty shack in the middle of hell's own swamp.
Now I know I'm slower than a herd of turtles stampedin' thru peanut butter, but after a bit of "patrolling", it didn't take me long to figger out that I didn't have one clue where "town" was????
Use my handy-dandy po-lice radio to get directions? Back in them days, sport fans, the communications network didn't go much past the city limits of town.
I was on my own and not in particularly good "injun" hands as far as a natural sense of direction?
I drove this way and that thru the moss covered trees with increasing frustration and soon began to wonder if I would spend the night in the seemingly prehistoric "Jurassic Park" precursor with a sheepish morning explanation of how the "boss" got lost.
Happy ending. Through sheer luck (after many hours of being "lost") I meandered my way back to town and until this moment have never revealed to another person that a full grown "bear" spent a night on the road lost as a goose.
Don't know if confession is "good for the soul", but reckon this 'un won't hurt none?
I mean don't know up from down, left from right, in the dark of night, downright lost?
Bout 1978 I was the Highway Patrol supervisor for Marshall. One night I decided to "roam" a bit and started patrolling east toward Louisiana in the Caddo Lake area near Karnack.
We are talkin' bout a moonless, cloudy night that was as dark as the bottom of a dirty inkwell in the back of a closet of a shuttered rusty shack in the middle of hell's own swamp.
Now I know I'm slower than a herd of turtles stampedin' thru peanut butter, but after a bit of "patrolling", it didn't take me long to figger out that I didn't have one clue where "town" was????
Use my handy-dandy po-lice radio to get directions? Back in them days, sport fans, the communications network didn't go much past the city limits of town.
I was on my own and not in particularly good "injun" hands as far as a natural sense of direction?
I drove this way and that thru the moss covered trees with increasing frustration and soon began to wonder if I would spend the night in the seemingly prehistoric "Jurassic Park" precursor with a sheepish morning explanation of how the "boss" got lost.
Happy ending. Through sheer luck (after many hours of being "lost") I meandered my way back to town and until this moment have never revealed to another person that a full grown "bear" spent a night on the road lost as a goose.
Don't know if confession is "good for the soul", but reckon this 'un won't hurt none?
Thursday, September 11, 2008
THE STORM
This is an old story, but re-telling a dab may have a purpose?
More than 38 years ago, I was a baby Trooper and got called at home in the middle of the night (I honestly didn't know that mid-night calls would be my life for a long time to come). Seems a hurricane had hit Corpus Christi and I was assigned to disaster duty until further notice.
I spent a couple of weeks there working the 6PM to 6AM shift. I was perpetually lost as all road signs were blown away, obtaining food and water quickly became an issue, fuel for my full grown black/white bear ride was scarce, and the hurricane inspired floods drove all of God's creatures that bite or sting you from their lair into the world of humans.
There were an endless stream of such environmentally inspired challenges in my career, but at long last I retired after 33 years to live a life of luxury like a fat dawg on the porch.
Now fast forward a few short years down the "porch" road and I woke to find I agreed to strap on my crime fighting costume once again and answer late night/early morning calls for service.
This week I have come full circle.
Hurricane IKE is bearing down on Texas with 100 mph winds and promise of 15 to 20 inches of rain in a sorrowful short spell.
Today I spent 12 hours in crisis management meetings attempting to mitigate the effect of this perfect storm. At this point it appears that my home will receive little more than some much needed rain and a bit of wind. However, our community will host a sufficient share of the multitude of evacuees from all along the Texas Gulf Coast and this will greatly impact many things I am responsible for maintaining.
I reckon it is merely a statement of fact that I have spent my entire adult life running toward the storm.
More than 38 years ago, I was a baby Trooper and got called at home in the middle of the night (I honestly didn't know that mid-night calls would be my life for a long time to come). Seems a hurricane had hit Corpus Christi and I was assigned to disaster duty until further notice.
I spent a couple of weeks there working the 6PM to 6AM shift. I was perpetually lost as all road signs were blown away, obtaining food and water quickly became an issue, fuel for my full grown black/white bear ride was scarce, and the hurricane inspired floods drove all of God's creatures that bite or sting you from their lair into the world of humans.
There were an endless stream of such environmentally inspired challenges in my career, but at long last I retired after 33 years to live a life of luxury like a fat dawg on the porch.
Now fast forward a few short years down the "porch" road and I woke to find I agreed to strap on my crime fighting costume once again and answer late night/early morning calls for service.
This week I have come full circle.
Hurricane IKE is bearing down on Texas with 100 mph winds and promise of 15 to 20 inches of rain in a sorrowful short spell.
Today I spent 12 hours in crisis management meetings attempting to mitigate the effect of this perfect storm. At this point it appears that my home will receive little more than some much needed rain and a bit of wind. However, our community will host a sufficient share of the multitude of evacuees from all along the Texas Gulf Coast and this will greatly impact many things I am responsible for maintaining.
I reckon it is merely a statement of fact that I have spent my entire adult life running toward the storm.
Monday, September 8, 2008
BACK YARD ASPIRATIONS
This might not exactly be "blogalicious", but it is true.
I hit my yard "running" this morn bout 8:30A and mowed that puppy with my ever faithful internal combustion grassolator. I then followed as always with the weedeater thing and the leaf blower hoodie doo after a spell of shrub trimming.
That was likely sufficient for an old fat boy to do in one morning, but I don't ever seem to be satisfied.
Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit cuz out came that dangnable power limb saw and I attacked the trees in the backyard like WWIII.
After bout four hours of that "stuff", the ole ranch hand dang near cratered. I am now licking my wounds (I'm scratched up worse than a blind berry picker) and trying to figger if I will ever be able to finish the last few trees in order to get this small piece of "paradise" into appropriate curb appeal shape to sell prior to moving to the Tin Star?
Ya'll pray for rain, (championships for the Longhorns and the Cowboys), and sufficient strength for this ole fat man to endure his back yard aspirations. I'm telling ya that I will be happier than a june bug on a tomato plant when this chore is done.
I hit my yard "running" this morn bout 8:30A and mowed that puppy with my ever faithful internal combustion grassolator. I then followed as always with the weedeater thing and the leaf blower hoodie doo after a spell of shrub trimming.
That was likely sufficient for an old fat boy to do in one morning, but I don't ever seem to be satisfied.
Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit cuz out came that dangnable power limb saw and I attacked the trees in the backyard like WWIII.
After bout four hours of that "stuff", the ole ranch hand dang near cratered. I am now licking my wounds (I'm scratched up worse than a blind berry picker) and trying to figger if I will ever be able to finish the last few trees in order to get this small piece of "paradise" into appropriate curb appeal shape to sell prior to moving to the Tin Star?
Ya'll pray for rain, (championships for the Longhorns and the Cowboys), and sufficient strength for this ole fat man to endure his back yard aspirations. I'm telling ya that I will be happier than a june bug on a tomato plant when this chore is done.
Friday, September 5, 2008
ENDEAVOR TO PERSEVERE
My eternal methodology for accomplishment has been to carefully set a worthwhile goal, develop a cognizant plan, work like hell, and follow the plan.
Today we sought professional counseling concerning the logistics of building a custom home on our beloved ranch.
To say a show dawg couldn't jump over the pile of documents, requirements, ought to's, shouldn't oughta's, maybe shoulda's, and just plain friendly advice would be a serious understatement.
I figgered sufficient energy, enthusiasm and sweat equity on my part would equal a record time from start to move-in. I now am slowly absorbing the reality of a step by step, hurry up and wait, market driven process.
Reckon I will assume a bunker mentality of dealing with one day at a time and not letting delays ever be on my side of the ledger.
Today we got the counseling, next week we take the first real proactive ACTIONS and thereafter we will "endeavor to persevere" (Chief Dan George, "The Outlaw Josey Wales").
Along the way, we be gonna try to enjoy ever sip of this that we can possibly squeeze from the lemon tree of reality.
Today we sought professional counseling concerning the logistics of building a custom home on our beloved ranch.
To say a show dawg couldn't jump over the pile of documents, requirements, ought to's, shouldn't oughta's, maybe shoulda's, and just plain friendly advice would be a serious understatement.
I figgered sufficient energy, enthusiasm and sweat equity on my part would equal a record time from start to move-in. I now am slowly absorbing the reality of a step by step, hurry up and wait, market driven process.
Reckon I will assume a bunker mentality of dealing with one day at a time and not letting delays ever be on my side of the ledger.
Today we got the counseling, next week we take the first real proactive ACTIONS and thereafter we will "endeavor to persevere" (Chief Dan George, "The Outlaw Josey Wales").
Along the way, we be gonna try to enjoy ever sip of this that we can possibly squeeze from the lemon tree of reality.
Hmmmm?
Might write a book when this is over, "Custom Home Building For Dumass Ranch Hands"?
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
MAGNIFICENT BOUNTY
On Friday we have an appointment at a bank in Georgetown to apply for a construction loan to begin the process of building our ranch house.
Our goal is to be in our rural abode by June of 2009. I suspect a ton of disappointments, delays, and pleasant surprises are in store for us as we wade through the waves of this ocean. We are determined to relax, enjoy the experience to the max, and then stand back and grin when it is over.
Lord, give us the wisdom to make good decisions, give us the strength to endure the process, and give us the common sense to appreciate this magnificent bounty to its fullest extent for the rest of our lives.
WHOOOEEEEEEE DOGGIES, YEHAW!!
Our goal is to be in our rural abode by June of 2009. I suspect a ton of disappointments, delays, and pleasant surprises are in store for us as we wade through the waves of this ocean. We are determined to relax, enjoy the experience to the max, and then stand back and grin when it is over.
Lord, give us the wisdom to make good decisions, give us the strength to endure the process, and give us the common sense to appreciate this magnificent bounty to its fullest extent for the rest of our lives.
WHOOOEEEEEEE DOGGIES, YEHAW!!
Monday, September 1, 2008
PRECIOUS MOMENTS
I spent Sunday in Andice moving my mom-laws "stuff" from my barn to her newly constructed house. Tough, humid, hot day, but got a lot done for an old fat man?
Due to extreme fatigue, we spent the night with the bride's baby sister on their 400 acre ranch casa atop a tall hillside overlooking the San Gabriel River valley.
This morning I eased from the sack to grab a cup of coffee and sit on their back porch to watch the golden eastern sun rise from its overnight slumber and assume prominence in the morning sky.
This magnificent spectacle was accompanied by the cooing of doves, the occasional caw of a blue jay, and the frenzied buzz of humming birds seeking their morning nectar.
In rare moments, the Lord's infinite blessing allows us to be as one with nature, slow our heartbeat, and truly feel the glory of his creations. This morning was such an experience.
My prayer is to build our Tin Star Ranch abode, live (healthy) for as long as is God's will, and totally absorb the wonder from each precious moment.
Due to extreme fatigue, we spent the night with the bride's baby sister on their 400 acre ranch casa atop a tall hillside overlooking the San Gabriel River valley.
This morning I eased from the sack to grab a cup of coffee and sit on their back porch to watch the golden eastern sun rise from its overnight slumber and assume prominence in the morning sky.
This magnificent spectacle was accompanied by the cooing of doves, the occasional caw of a blue jay, and the frenzied buzz of humming birds seeking their morning nectar.
In rare moments, the Lord's infinite blessing allows us to be as one with nature, slow our heartbeat, and truly feel the glory of his creations. This morning was such an experience.
My prayer is to build our Tin Star Ranch abode, live (healthy) for as long as is God's will, and totally absorb the wonder from each precious moment.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
SURGEON OR BUTCHER?
An artist often faces a taunting blank canvas while yearning to evolve artistry for future beholders.
An artist I ain't. I have, however, spent the last three or four Saturdays "whacking" on the trees in my front yard. I'd like to think I have created a landscape masterpiece. My perfect yard image includes woven threads of color, composition, and dimension of true curb appeal. Imagine an arboreal wonderland. More likely I have created a likeness to the butcher job haircuts I used to get for 50 cents in Wright City????
I can testify that the immediate result has been that one old fat ranch hand has tuckered himself to the point of exhaustion while wielding the saw and dragging the limbs to a pile. Yeah, I know, when ya wallow with pigs ya gotta expect to get dirty, but this project has got had me busier that a borrowed mule?
Besides that, a tree is kinda like a milk cow, they don't stay milked. Them dang limbs will start growing next spring like a linebacker on steroids and to some extent, I will have it to do over again?
I reckon evaluation of the artistic aspect of my labors must be left to others less emotionally involved in the process.
An artist I ain't. I have, however, spent the last three or four Saturdays "whacking" on the trees in my front yard. I'd like to think I have created a landscape masterpiece. My perfect yard image includes woven threads of color, composition, and dimension of true curb appeal. Imagine an arboreal wonderland. More likely I have created a likeness to the butcher job haircuts I used to get for 50 cents in Wright City????
I can testify that the immediate result has been that one old fat ranch hand has tuckered himself to the point of exhaustion while wielding the saw and dragging the limbs to a pile. Yeah, I know, when ya wallow with pigs ya gotta expect to get dirty, but this project has got had me busier that a borrowed mule?
Besides that, a tree is kinda like a milk cow, they don't stay milked. Them dang limbs will start growing next spring like a linebacker on steroids and to some extent, I will have it to do over again?
I reckon evaluation of the artistic aspect of my labors must be left to others less emotionally involved in the process.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
SIMPLE PLEASURE
Yesterday I put 350 pounds of additional corn in my TSR deer feeders. I also put out a couple of protein blocks for the nutritional advantage of my "pet" deer.
A few days ago I blogged about the pleasure of the "process" of deer hunting. I reckon I am in that same vein as I truly enjoy the "process" of venison season.
I have hunted on the ranch for four seasons. I have taken one shot that harvested a nine point buck to display on my office wall. I have enjoyed the voyeur perspective of watching hundreds of deer traversing my special paradise as I gave no thought of bustin' the primer on a shell.
I humbly acknowledge that I have no words for the simplistic joy of the "process" of deer "hunting".
I simply aver that I find it soul satisfying, basic to the nature of man, and a pleasure that might rival any other for its fortitude to my sense of well being.
A few days ago I blogged about the pleasure of the "process" of deer hunting. I reckon I am in that same vein as I truly enjoy the "process" of venison season.
I have hunted on the ranch for four seasons. I have taken one shot that harvested a nine point buck to display on my office wall. I have enjoyed the voyeur perspective of watching hundreds of deer traversing my special paradise as I gave no thought of bustin' the primer on a shell.
I humbly acknowledge that I have no words for the simplistic joy of the "process" of deer "hunting".
I simply aver that I find it soul satisfying, basic to the nature of man, and a pleasure that might rival any other for its fortitude to my sense of well being.
TSR POSSE
Last month I boasted of moving the location for our humble ranch abode for the (SEVENTH) last time prior to starting the building process.
Loyal fan(s), I must report that yesterday we moved that sucka again?????
We are now in the EIGHTH iteration of slab movement in that it will be 12 feet to the North of our last report in July.
I gotta git my butt in gear and pour some concrete or this house will be wore out from fidgetin' before we can move in?
Stay tuned for more excitin' progress reports of the Tin Star Ranch bunk house and the continuing adventure of the TSR posse.
Loyal fan(s), I must report that yesterday we moved that sucka again?????
We are now in the EIGHTH iteration of slab movement in that it will be 12 feet to the North of our last report in July.
I gotta git my butt in gear and pour some concrete or this house will be wore out from fidgetin' before we can move in?
Stay tuned for more excitin' progress reports of the Tin Star Ranch bunk house and the continuing adventure of the TSR posse.
ALMS
The silence is deafening.
I issued a heart felt, soul sobbing, cry in the cyberspacial darkness for pinto bean prestidigitation. I have heard exactly nothing?
This is serious. One's life long legacy can be many things, negative and positive. What more noble history could one leave to their heirs than the olympic GOLD for bean cookin'?
If you feel moved, if you are charitable, if you are gaseously inclined, help the ole ranch hand to consistently proffer melodious fruit of the pinto variety in a manner that makes one's tongue beat their tonsils in anticipation of culinary glory.
ALMS FOR YOUR RECIPES!
I issued a heart felt, soul sobbing, cry in the cyberspacial darkness for pinto bean prestidigitation. I have heard exactly nothing?
This is serious. One's life long legacy can be many things, negative and positive. What more noble history could one leave to their heirs than the olympic GOLD for bean cookin'?
If you feel moved, if you are charitable, if you are gaseously inclined, help the ole ranch hand to consistently proffer melodious fruit of the pinto variety in a manner that makes one's tongue beat their tonsils in anticipation of culinary glory.
ALMS FOR YOUR RECIPES!
Saturday, August 23, 2008
TATER PLANTING
OK, I put my reputation on the line for my cornbread. Now I'm gonna do the pinto bean thing. Pretty courageous, huh?
Yeah, I know, you think you have the best "red" bean culinary style. Naw, this will blow you outta the water.
1. Put yore dried pintos in a pot with water and soak til they don't need soakin' no mo'.
2 Pour off that nasty "soaking" water (too much electrolytes, free radicals, and "stuff")
3. Put fresh water on them hydrated beans. (No, not that dang bottled stuff, just plain old tap water)
4. Dice some extra sweet onion (Noonday spring onions would be delicious)
5. Salt and pepper to taste.
6. Sliver some salt pork in that mess 'o blessed manna (black peppered maple syrup bacon would "do" as well)
7. Here is where we can get creative: add beer, salsa, rotel, garlic, jalapeno, or tomato, you choose
8. Cook "it" til done.
Sound too simple to be true? IT IS.
Some folks (my mom, grandmother, mother-in-law) can do this and it beats ice cream. Some days I do it right and it is great. Some days I do it and it is just OK (OK being unacceptable for anyone from Wright City who is a bean cooker). Where is the magic???
I know, you plant a tater and you get a tater. I start out being a non-cook and I end up being a maker of mediocre?
Now hard sayin' not knowin', but I always figgered there was more ways to choke a dawg than feed him peanut butter. If any of my thousands of loyal readers (I meant to address the one lonely soul) has a foolproof recipe for such a simple task, let me know (seasoning, cooking time, all tidbits appreciated?)(Yeah, I feel retarded being from WC and not being an accomplished red bean cooker?).
Yeah, I know, you think you have the best "red" bean culinary style. Naw, this will blow you outta the water.
1. Put yore dried pintos in a pot with water and soak til they don't need soakin' no mo'.
2 Pour off that nasty "soaking" water (too much electrolytes, free radicals, and "stuff")
3. Put fresh water on them hydrated beans. (No, not that dang bottled stuff, just plain old tap water)
4. Dice some extra sweet onion (Noonday spring onions would be delicious)
5. Salt and pepper to taste.
6. Sliver some salt pork in that mess 'o blessed manna (black peppered maple syrup bacon would "do" as well)
7. Here is where we can get creative: add beer, salsa, rotel, garlic, jalapeno, or tomato, you choose
8. Cook "it" til done.
Sound too simple to be true? IT IS.
Some folks (my mom, grandmother, mother-in-law) can do this and it beats ice cream. Some days I do it right and it is great. Some days I do it and it is just OK (OK being unacceptable for anyone from Wright City who is a bean cooker). Where is the magic???
I know, you plant a tater and you get a tater. I start out being a non-cook and I end up being a maker of mediocre?
Now hard sayin' not knowin', but I always figgered there was more ways to choke a dawg than feed him peanut butter. If any of my thousands of loyal readers (I meant to address the one lonely soul) has a foolproof recipe for such a simple task, let me know (seasoning, cooking time, all tidbits appreciated?)(Yeah, I feel retarded being from WC and not being an accomplished red bean cooker?).
Friday, August 22, 2008
MODESTY
Can anyone imagine a texture, taste, concept, visual, or aroma more pleasurable than cornbread?
It is at once sustenance, soul satisfying salivary joy, and proof of life.
Did I mention that I make it better than anyone on planet earth????
Yeah I know, there are pretenders to the "throne". There are fools who include (ugh) sugar in the recipe. There are sycophants who think it is not complete without the receding flow of melting butter (gotta hide the taste o' your corn pone?)(I seen one miscreant soul put grape jelly on it???).
I AIN'T GONNA TELL YA'LL NO SECRETS. END OF STORY. DONE DEAL (but, I may share a hint or two of preparing the finest confection one might imagine)
1. Take out yo' mama's 50 year old black iron skillet (lovingly seasoned since Moby Dick was a minner). (here is some the hint part: wash that sucka, but never, NEVER dry it with a rag. Put it on the fire and heat it to evaporate the moisture and while still HOT, lovingly slather some vegetable oil, bacon grease, or WD40 in the pores). Aint got no FIFTY YEAR OLD SKILLET? (quit reading and go sit in the corner and bawl your regretful eyes out I guess?)
2. One cup of SIFTED flour, one cup of corn meal, one (how much easier could "one" of ever thing be???) egg, a pinch of baking soda, a pinch of salt (NO DAMMIT, DON'T PUT SUGAR IN IT OR YUR ARM WILL FALL OFF AND THE CORN BREAD WILL STINK!) and enuff BUTTERMILK, BUTTERMILK, BUTTERMILK (put any other kind of milk in it and I will make yur arm fall off!@) to make the mix perfect.
3. Put yur oven on 450 degrees fair-n-height (real hot or whatever you want, just watch the stuff)
4. Cook near bout 15 minutes, it could be 25 minutes (WATCH the potion because variables make time relevant to the importance of the occasion)(if you is trying to impress someone with your "pone", the spirits will conspire to "mess it up")
5. Five is most important: JUST SURRENDER BECAUSE YOU CAN NEVER BEAT THE ranch hand AT CORN BREAD SO JUS' QUIT YUR TRYIN". I AM THE CHAMPEEN AND ALWAYS WILL BE!
(should have told ya'll I am eternally modest)
It is at once sustenance, soul satisfying salivary joy, and proof of life.
Did I mention that I make it better than anyone on planet earth????
Yeah I know, there are pretenders to the "throne". There are fools who include (ugh) sugar in the recipe. There are sycophants who think it is not complete without the receding flow of melting butter (gotta hide the taste o' your corn pone?)(I seen one miscreant soul put grape jelly on it???).
I AIN'T GONNA TELL YA'LL NO SECRETS. END OF STORY. DONE DEAL (but, I may share a hint or two of preparing the finest confection one might imagine)
1. Take out yo' mama's 50 year old black iron skillet (lovingly seasoned since Moby Dick was a minner). (here is some the hint part: wash that sucka, but never, NEVER dry it with a rag. Put it on the fire and heat it to evaporate the moisture and while still HOT, lovingly slather some vegetable oil, bacon grease, or WD40 in the pores). Aint got no FIFTY YEAR OLD SKILLET? (quit reading and go sit in the corner and bawl your regretful eyes out I guess?)
2. One cup of SIFTED flour, one cup of corn meal, one (how much easier could "one" of ever thing be???) egg, a pinch of baking soda, a pinch of salt (NO DAMMIT, DON'T PUT SUGAR IN IT OR YUR ARM WILL FALL OFF AND THE CORN BREAD WILL STINK!) and enuff BUTTERMILK, BUTTERMILK, BUTTERMILK (put any other kind of milk in it and I will make yur arm fall off!@) to make the mix perfect.
3. Put yur oven on 450 degrees fair-n-height (real hot or whatever you want, just watch the stuff)
4. Cook near bout 15 minutes, it could be 25 minutes (WATCH the potion because variables make time relevant to the importance of the occasion)(if you is trying to impress someone with your "pone", the spirits will conspire to "mess it up")
5. Five is most important: JUST SURRENDER BECAUSE YOU CAN NEVER BEAT THE ranch hand AT CORN BREAD SO JUS' QUIT YUR TRYIN". I AM THE CHAMPEEN AND ALWAYS WILL BE!
(should have told ya'll I am eternally modest)
Thursday, August 21, 2008
COMFORT FOOD
I'm not sure if I've written bout this afore, but it's my dang blog so I'll repeat myself as often as alzheimer facilitates.
My Dad always had a natural gas cook stove. Older models had a "pilot light". The pilot light was a small flame that burned all the time to ignite the stove top burners. The metal part of the stove top over the flame stayed warm at all times.
Dad also had an old aluminum percolator coffee pot. You know, the kind that had a clear hollow glass ball in the lid where you could see the coffee "perking" up and down. The guts of that java machine included a metal basket with small holes that allowed you to place ground coffee where heated water could flow over and through to flavor your morning pick-me-up.
Now to the point of all this scintillating information. Dad cooked bacon darn near every morning (before daylight). After the browned pork belly slabs were extracted, Dad would lift the lid on that old percolator. He'd pour the aromatic, sizzlin' bacon grease into the metal basket to filter out anything not pure unadulterated taste ticklin'.
As the magic grease pot remained parked over the pilot light, the golden goodness within maintained the perfect viscosity for pouring.
Dad slathered this soul satisfying seasoning on everything in sight. I'm talking beans, taters, and fried termaters. He poured it on soups, salads, souffles and sorbets. He slicked up baking pans, window fans, his own hands and beach tans.
All the medico sawbones tell us that rendered hawg fat is the root of many evils and a first cousin to most (cholesterol, heart disease, fatbuttaticus). The ranch hand is here to tell you that it's the only thing I know likely to make Blue Belle Ice Cream taste even better.
I ain't saying I ingest that sweet elixir anymore. I'm just saying Dad's bacon grease was a simple country pleasure that gave credence to the label "comfort food". Everything just seemed to taste better when it got a donation from that ole greasy pot.
My Dad always had a natural gas cook stove. Older models had a "pilot light". The pilot light was a small flame that burned all the time to ignite the stove top burners. The metal part of the stove top over the flame stayed warm at all times.
Dad also had an old aluminum percolator coffee pot. You know, the kind that had a clear hollow glass ball in the lid where you could see the coffee "perking" up and down. The guts of that java machine included a metal basket with small holes that allowed you to place ground coffee where heated water could flow over and through to flavor your morning pick-me-up.
Now to the point of all this scintillating information. Dad cooked bacon darn near every morning (before daylight). After the browned pork belly slabs were extracted, Dad would lift the lid on that old percolator. He'd pour the aromatic, sizzlin' bacon grease into the metal basket to filter out anything not pure unadulterated taste ticklin'.
As the magic grease pot remained parked over the pilot light, the golden goodness within maintained the perfect viscosity for pouring.
Dad slathered this soul satisfying seasoning on everything in sight. I'm talking beans, taters, and fried termaters. He poured it on soups, salads, souffles and sorbets. He slicked up baking pans, window fans, his own hands and beach tans.
All the medico sawbones tell us that rendered hawg fat is the root of many evils and a first cousin to most (cholesterol, heart disease, fatbuttaticus). The ranch hand is here to tell you that it's the only thing I know likely to make Blue Belle Ice Cream taste even better.
I ain't saying I ingest that sweet elixir anymore. I'm just saying Dad's bacon grease was a simple country pleasure that gave credence to the label "comfort food". Everything just seemed to taste better when it got a donation from that ole greasy pot.
Monday, August 18, 2008
FOREMAN
I been saddled with a number of monikers in my life, but jury foreman ain't been one of them - until today.
Yeah, I been ordered to jury duty a number of times in my life, but lawyers lettin' cops on juries is about as rare as a rockin' horse turd? Something about how we ignore the BS and judge the case according to the facts I'm thinking?
When I got my latest jury summons, I figgered it wouldn't amount to much more than a wasted day and the hassle of parking in downtown Austin.
I was wrong. I was selected for the jury and my fellow panelists elected me foreman faster than a chicken can peck a june bug.
After due deliberation, we found the defendant guilty in less than one minute.
Maybe the dang lawyers was right about me, but I confess to enjoying performing my civic duty today (and adjudicating the maximum penalty for that guilty SOB) .
Yeah, I been ordered to jury duty a number of times in my life, but lawyers lettin' cops on juries is about as rare as a rockin' horse turd? Something about how we ignore the BS and judge the case according to the facts I'm thinking?
When I got my latest jury summons, I figgered it wouldn't amount to much more than a wasted day and the hassle of parking in downtown Austin.
I was wrong. I was selected for the jury and my fellow panelists elected me foreman faster than a chicken can peck a june bug.
After due deliberation, we found the defendant guilty in less than one minute.
Maybe the dang lawyers was right about me, but I confess to enjoying performing my civic duty today (and adjudicating the maximum penalty for that guilty SOB) .
Sunday, August 17, 2008
MY BEST FRIEND
My bride is a special being. At once delicate, in a moment ethereal, more often mysterious (at least to her husband).
The true love of a woman is precious and rare. To attempt to describe it would be pointless, to try to manufacture it would be futile, to ignore it would be plain stupid.
Fully describing why I love my bride so overwhelmingly would be an impossible task. I think, however, that a part of the explanation can be found in her professional endeavors. Last Friday, the woman I love completed 25 years of government service and thus begins her well deserved reward (retirement).
Consider the following:
1. All who have known her throughout her career have marveled at the depth and hilarity of her special sense of humor.
2. She has been known by all in her workplace throughout her career, as ever fashionable, while remaining the essence of feminine beauty for every occasion.
3. She has remained forever honest, ethical, dedicated, and reliable.
4. She is smart, perceptive, hard working, and has been a valued member of any team.
Likely, country singer Don Williams said it best in one of his songs:
You're my bread when I'm hungry
You're my shelter from troubled winds
You're my anchor in life's ocean
But most of all, you're my best friend
I LOVE YOU SMOKY!
The true love of a woman is precious and rare. To attempt to describe it would be pointless, to try to manufacture it would be futile, to ignore it would be plain stupid.
Fully describing why I love my bride so overwhelmingly would be an impossible task. I think, however, that a part of the explanation can be found in her professional endeavors. Last Friday, the woman I love completed 25 years of government service and thus begins her well deserved reward (retirement).
Consider the following:
1. All who have known her throughout her career have marveled at the depth and hilarity of her special sense of humor.
2. She has been known by all in her workplace throughout her career, as ever fashionable, while remaining the essence of feminine beauty for every occasion.
3. She has remained forever honest, ethical, dedicated, and reliable.
4. She is smart, perceptive, hard working, and has been a valued member of any team.
Likely, country singer Don Williams said it best in one of his songs:
You're my bread when I'm hungry
You're my shelter from troubled winds
You're my anchor in life's ocean
But most of all, you're my best friend
I LOVE YOU SMOKY!
THE PROCESS
Deer hunting implies deer killing. Although that is often the outcome, deer hunting is so much more.
Today my friend and I went to the ranch. We tuned up the automatic deer feeders and loaded them with 200 pounds of corn (it will take about 400 pounds more to fill them). We discussed strategy for the coming deer season and we talked about additional protein sources for the deer.
My friend's 13 year old son was with us. He is ever eager, full of questions, and all boy. Seeing the preparation process through his eyes make the experience that much more interesting.
Later we shot several guns at targets before retiring to the local mexican food restaurant for lunch.
As the season nears over the next two months, we will no doubt continue to do things related to hunting that do not put venison on the table. However, it is all part of the process and is really what hunting has become for me. It is about the process more than the final result.
Relaxing, fun times, that make a day well spent and pleasurable.
Today my friend and I went to the ranch. We tuned up the automatic deer feeders and loaded them with 200 pounds of corn (it will take about 400 pounds more to fill them). We discussed strategy for the coming deer season and we talked about additional protein sources for the deer.
My friend's 13 year old son was with us. He is ever eager, full of questions, and all boy. Seeing the preparation process through his eyes make the experience that much more interesting.
Later we shot several guns at targets before retiring to the local mexican food restaurant for lunch.
As the season nears over the next two months, we will no doubt continue to do things related to hunting that do not put venison on the table. However, it is all part of the process and is really what hunting has become for me. It is about the process more than the final result.
Relaxing, fun times, that make a day well spent and pleasurable.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
GENTLE KINDNESS
Bein' poor has any number of connotations.
Hand-me-down clothes, holes in your shoes, beans and taters, ragged cars, and whatever your memory provides.
I would NEVER imply that memories of being economically poor are bad memories. My childhood recollections are of a loving family and an enjoyable environment. Well hell, I maybe could blog a couple or three issues, but that would be for another time?
My point is that growing up poor provides a different perspective from - hell if I know - because I did not experience anything else??????
Point in fact: Like most poor country folk, we "canned" vegetables to eat during the "hard times". The more affluent "poor" folk grew their vegetables. We, however, lacked enough ground to grow anything but weeds (and didn't always have a mower to cut them).
At our level of economic advantage, we acquired vegetables on the "half". This meant that we would travel to a local farm that grew tomatoes, peas, beans, okra, squash, or you name it? For whatever the family "picked", you got to keep half with no charge. Pick a bushel of tomatoes for the farm owner and you could pick a bushel to keep for yourself.
Awesome advantage for adults trying to feed a family. Hell on earth for a kid that just wanted to run barefoot and cavort all summer.
I remember sitting in the shade of the elm tree on the south side of our house for many a day shelling peas, "snapping" beans, coring tomatoes, cutting okra pods, and generally becoming a mental zombie from the routine of the chore.
Fortunately, I also remember the incredible flavor of those garden veggies when winter dawned. I remember tomato juice that had streamed flavor stronger than train smoke. I remember green beans and new potatoes cooked with bacon that to this day makes my mouth water with the memory. I remember jellies, jams, jars, and juices that fairly shouted to be consumed with their summer sun blessed goodness and extreme flavor.
But most of all, I now "remember" the hard, hot, dirty work that my mother endured to provide that bounty for our nutrition and our enjoyment. Mom didn't have money in any form, but she had more love for her children than my words can impart. That devotion made her drive to feed us stronger that any force you can imagine.
I love you more each day Mother, and thank you from my heart for your love, understanding, and gentle kindness in all things.
Hand-me-down clothes, holes in your shoes, beans and taters, ragged cars, and whatever your memory provides.
I would NEVER imply that memories of being economically poor are bad memories. My childhood recollections are of a loving family and an enjoyable environment. Well hell, I maybe could blog a couple or three issues, but that would be for another time?
My point is that growing up poor provides a different perspective from - hell if I know - because I did not experience anything else??????
Point in fact: Like most poor country folk, we "canned" vegetables to eat during the "hard times". The more affluent "poor" folk grew their vegetables. We, however, lacked enough ground to grow anything but weeds (and didn't always have a mower to cut them).
At our level of economic advantage, we acquired vegetables on the "half". This meant that we would travel to a local farm that grew tomatoes, peas, beans, okra, squash, or you name it? For whatever the family "picked", you got to keep half with no charge. Pick a bushel of tomatoes for the farm owner and you could pick a bushel to keep for yourself.
Awesome advantage for adults trying to feed a family. Hell on earth for a kid that just wanted to run barefoot and cavort all summer.
I remember sitting in the shade of the elm tree on the south side of our house for many a day shelling peas, "snapping" beans, coring tomatoes, cutting okra pods, and generally becoming a mental zombie from the routine of the chore.
Fortunately, I also remember the incredible flavor of those garden veggies when winter dawned. I remember tomato juice that had streamed flavor stronger than train smoke. I remember green beans and new potatoes cooked with bacon that to this day makes my mouth water with the memory. I remember jellies, jams, jars, and juices that fairly shouted to be consumed with their summer sun blessed goodness and extreme flavor.
But most of all, I now "remember" the hard, hot, dirty work that my mother endured to provide that bounty for our nutrition and our enjoyment. Mom didn't have money in any form, but she had more love for her children than my words can impart. That devotion made her drive to feed us stronger that any force you can imagine.
I love you more each day Mother, and thank you from my heart for your love, understanding, and gentle kindness in all things.
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