Michelangelo and his Brethren

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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.

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?

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 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.

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"?)

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?)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.