Soulful Conversations

The ranch hand takes a pleasure in old "stuff". The collective variety ranges from cowboying equipment, to old signs, to wagon wheels and beyond.

Wouldn't it be a blessing if old "stuff" could talk?

The ranch desktop includes an ancient and battle scarred boot spur complete with silver studded "leathers" and an ornate fastening buckle. Did this equestrian implement grace the footwear of a rodeo star, ride to a country church on Sunday, or was it used to do honest labor on the back of a working steed?

A large wooden whiskey barrel graces the front porch. Surely the distiller took professional pride as he filled it to capacity with the liquid golden promise of imbibing relaxed sunsets.

Rusted iron wagon and implement wheels are displayed strategically to lend a semblance of appreciation for those who came before us. Some show signs of the inevitable trauma of work with spokes slight askew. Oh, if they could only share the burdens they have borne, the dreams they have shared, or the bitter disappointment of unreached goals.

Paleontology scientists claim that over 500 million years ago life forms with hard skeletons began to appear in Texas. Since that time, the land has experienced a fantastic enrichment of life in all forms. The Tin Star is in fact a treasure trove of marine fossils as they are found in almost every piece of limestone encountered. Simply imagine the awesome wonders and myriad of change this fauna could describe...if only it could talk to the human ear?

As a confession, many is the time the ranch hand has found a quiet spot, allowed stillness to occur, and touched an old piece of tangible history while carefully listening for its "story". Not expecting speech of course, just some understanding of where it has been, what it has seen, and something of its previous owner.

Here's the point:

Lord, I know I'm ole "stuff" too, so please help me remember to walk softly in the rain and talk to the wind. But more importantly... help me to listen carefully to my soul.

YOUTH

Huntin' ain't just about "killing".

It's about friendship, being a part of nature, stories told, memories held, and just "being there".

Today was such a day....no trophy tale to tell... just a beautiful day...doe venison taken to the sausage factory...and a young'un that enjoyed being a part of a man's world without care, worry, or stress. JRM understands...Sweet B intuitively knows...and the ranch hand loves it.

"J" is a great kid (14)...a pleasure to be associated with...and destined to be a good man.

Thank you oh Lord for friends, their good kiddos, and the privilege of sharing their youth.

Fido's Ass

Dad was always completely plain spoken. Unless he used one of his personal made up words, you never had to doubt what he was thinking.

If Dad thought someone was on the south side of ugly, he would simply say they looked like "Fido's Ass"?

Related to this priceless tidbit of knowledge, living in the country often means folks "donate" their unwanted dogs to you (without asking). The unsuspecting soul will look up and suddenly be the "owner" of a mystery mutt. Not a registered, pure bred, intelligent, or noble animal. More like one that looks like "Fido's Ass".

Since moving to the country, the ranch hand has inherited and disposed of three such varmits. The fourth recently landed and has been undergoing evaluation. He (male, not a puppy factory) doesn't bark (or make any other noise except an occasional low pitched whine). It does not appear to be aggressive in any way. Mostly, it seems determined to stay.

After the ranch hand confessed to "sneaking" the boarder a slice or two of fried bacon, the bride confessed to earlier slipping it some deer sausage. Next thing ya know, the little woman done picked out a "feed" bowl, acquired some high dollar store bought canine groceries, and plunked a large beach towel in corner of the yard where the north wind is blocked by the house.

Guess there wasn't much left for the ranch hand to do but name the sucka.

Please welcome Fido as the newest member of the ranch family.

PRICELESS

The ranch hand saw his first "deer in the wild" at the ripe ole age of 20, and promptly fell in love with the adrenalin rush of game in its natural environment.

Adrenalin rush: as in, shaking, heart palpitating, vision blurring...incredible "high"?

The years went by and the ole fat boy started to lose the excitement...don't know why..it just happened?

A couple years back, the magic reappeared when a small doe appeared on the landscape and did the "trick"?

Been enjoying it again ever since, but have a new related pleasure: "J" is 13 years old...all testosterone and six feet tall with feet that would choke an elephant?

Brother "J" has been hunting on the Tin Star for the last couple of years. Last year he harvested a doe while shaking like a wild boar sh***ing a peach seed. Yesterday, he saw a "spike" buck and completely "vapor locked"!

Yep, couldn't focus, stop shaking, or "pull" the trigger as too dadgum "EXCITED"~!!!!

How much better can life on the ranch get than that kind of excitement?

PRICELESS~!

Country Roads

"Almost heaven....life is old there, older than the trees, younger than the mountains, growing like a breeze. Take me home, country roads" (John Denver)

A paradise generally includes fine trappings, but to inhabit said Garden of Eden requires a certain amount of infrastructure.

A roof and four walls is a good start. Add an outbuilding or two for storage, some landscaping, and ya start to call it home.

Today we acquired a formal "road" from the front gate of the Tin Star to the ranch house driveway. Ten loads of road base, an army of machinery, and a shiny new culvert made it look easy.

Might not seem like much to the casual observer, but ya had to know the mud holes of our previous "yellow brick road" to appreciate a more formalized approach.

"Almost heaven....take me home country road" (the ranch hand)

MEXICAN EAGLES

The Crested Caracara is a member of the falcon family. It feeds on snakes, lizards, and other live prey, but it will also eat carrion.

Referred to as the "Mexican Eagle", it is a magnificent bird with regal plumage and a daunting appearance.

The ranch hand killed a doe last night and left the "guts" on the ground in the pasture. Dawn this morning found two mexican eagles feasting on the protein for breakfast.

No additional venison was added to the freezer this morn, but a visit by the eagles on our beloved ranch made the morning ever the more special.

Just one of a thousand special moments at a special place. Thank you oh Lord and Savior for these our many blessings.

A Tin Star Ranch Morning

Imagine pulling processed cotton bolls apart until they are wispy strings of white fluff.

Use your palette of colors to gently blend in every shade of pink one could conceive.

Feel total stillness, complete silence, and a light mist on the black broccoli shapes of a forest of live oaks.

Gently ease the morning sun from its slumber toward only the whispered hint of dawn.

Such was the sky on the Tin Star Ranch this morn as the ole ranch hand relaxed in the hunting blind.

Ya gotta love it!

FOG

"The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits on its haunches, and then moves on." (Carl Sandburg)

Today silently eased into being with a cool blanket of moisture laden air gently enveloping the Tin Star Ranch.

As the dawn mused its wakening call, swirls of ghostly miasma hauntingly entwined arms with branches of the equally silent, but forgiving oaks.

There was no sound and no measurable movement of air, yet the eeriness of the moment was complemented by the beauty unfolding.

Inevitably, there are so many things associated with deer hunting which have no relationship to harvesting game.

Such was the ranch hand's pleasure today while sojourning in the ubiquitous "hunting blind".

River Bottom Alarm Clocks

The Tin Star started opening day of the 2009 deer season in fine form. At 61 degrees with the hint of fog in the air and a light breeze in the trees, there was promise of interesting things to come.

The predawn stillness found the deer camera at the feeder busily popping its flash to allow illumination of ????? feeding on the dried corn kernels. Approaching dawn finally allowed sufficient ambient light to see a extraordinary size doe busily ingesting its protein breakfast.

Just as ole Sol began to cogitate eye peeking over the east horizon, a large flock of turkeys came off their overnight roost on the nearby San Gabriel river and began to trumpet their joy at being alive another day. One throaty "gobble" after another wafted with the pureness of nature's "wake up" alarm.

As the morn passed, a flock of maybe 25 crows began to circle the corn while screeching mocking taunts as to which would first sample the yellow feast around the feeder. Suddenly without warning, a hawk swooped into their midst as if to declare his/her defiance of their superior numbers. The crows went nuts....and if one could interpret their avian indignation...it would surely approximate the human equivalent of "HOLY SHIT!"

Things eventually settled down, but the hawk continued for a spell to glide thru the trees while loudly whistling his paean of triumph over the ebony marauders.

About 8:15A, the ole ranch hand was about ready to close the chapter on another opening morning when my river bottom alarm clocks began to filter from the surrounding brush toward the beckoning deer feeder manna.

Opportunity offered became "opportunity" taken as the ole fat boy leveled his newly acquired 7mm-08 downrange and let loose with one them lead lined sofa piller eliminators. Scratch one Rio Grande genre turkey.

Dang if ALL that herd of grasshopper wranglers didn't decide to hang round for the funeral? Brother opportunity whispered in the ear of the wannabe Daniel Boone again and round "two" planted ole gobblewski right where it stood.

Awesome morning...soul satisfying outdoor experience....and fresh meat for the table. Only way to top this is if the beautiful bride volunteers to dress out the groceries....yeah right!

COURTSHIP

The "rut" is the mating season for deer. The males will often rub their antlers on trees or shrubs, fight with each other, wallow in the mud or dust, and herd does that are in estrus.

A plainer explanation is that the bucks just go crazy. Normally cautious, they charge back and forth with a singular focus on the female of the species. Passing their own unique genetic DNA takes precedence over food, hunter bullets, or whatever.

This dawn on the Tin Star Ranch found four bucks and two does in the back pasture. The spike and the four point alternated between jousting with their immature horns and watching the "big boys" chase the does.

The "big boys" were two true wall hangers. Each sported eight long points of sharp protein enriched antler and a snoot full of testosterone fueled energy.

The season is six days away. Given the pace of this morning's courtship dance, these guys will be skinny rags by opening day if they don't slow down a bit?

SATISFACTION

The Tin Star Ranch has a physical beauty that is beyond compare with any lush garden one could imagine.

Looking past the visual beauty of the ranch hand's abode, it is inevitable that the calming blanket of silence slows the pulse to that of complete tranquility.

There is no movement except for the wind blown flora and parade of a myriad of animals.

To merely be still and absorb the peace and pace is a balm that no Rx could provide.

Thank you, my Lord and Savior, for bringing me to the Eden that has no compare and for it's soul healing blanket of warmth, comfort, and satisfaction.

Youthful Passion

Recapturing youthful passions is a wishful quest at best.

There was a time that the ranch hand loved fishing more than any thing one could imagine. Carefree days spent at water's edge oblivious to the woes of the world.

Regretfully, the passage of time evolved priorities and interests to other less focused areas of trivial pursuit.

In the last year, the pond on the Tin Star was deepened and reshaped to await the Lord's blessing of bountiful rain. That blessing has occurred over the last month and the ole waterin' hole is energetically running over the spillway like a schoolchild fleeing to summer vacation.

Come the spring, life will be added to this adventure with the addition of catfish, bream, and whatever from the local fish farm.

Oh that the long lost passion of fishing known in the days as a yonker could be recaptured...surely that magic for the ole fat boy is but a hook, line, and grasshopper away?

Warrior Legacy

The Tin Star Ranch continued its legacy as a hallowed battle ground this wet October day.

Despite the pasture bog created by days of rain, two combatants squared off to commence the ancient ritual of antler jousts.

The heavier of the two enjoyed a weight advantage, eight sharp points of protein enriched horns, and confidence built on the experience of past endeavors.

The slender six point buck eagerly welcomed the coming challenge, secure in his youthful ignorance of the improbable "mountain" he was about to ascend. Simply stated, testosterone fueled his courage while genetics mapped his strategy, but his bravado was about to write a check his butt couldn't cash.

Head to head with their paws churning the soggy turf, the two forest warriors locked horns, pushed, shoved, and gouged repeatedly while searching for the advantage to vanquish the opponent.

Inevitably, the youngun' had enough spirit, but the old guy had the guile and physical skills to prevail.

Such is life.

GLADIATORS

The rising sun provided a crisp contrast to the chill in the air as the post dawn battle raged this fine morning.

Genetically inspired by decades of combat, the participants fought without a conscious cause. Neither anger nor coveted prize drove their fierce charges. They eagerly marshaled strength to vanquish their opponent because it has always been so.

These warriors were young in years, but none the less daring in their chosen quest. Thrusts, parries, mocking moves, and all out charges across the turf of the battleground ruled the moment.

And just as quickly, the pair amiably retired to their chosen repast and side by side mused as to the quality of their yellow corn breakfast.

The casual stance of the four point implied his belief in established supremacy, while the cocky sidelong glance of the spike promised future battle.

Such has it always been in nature's natural selection process for future generation sires on the Tin Star Ranch.

THE BARITONE

With sincere apologies to the ladies, there is something about the bond between a man and his tractor that few can fathom.

Ole Big Dawg (the ranch hand's Kubota) hit 300 hours recently and thus needed "servicing". Yeah, crawl around on the floor of the barn to change the engine oil, grease the fittings, and generally adjust the various "stuff". All hands on, all DIRTY-GREASY....and just plain soul satisfying (even for an old fat boy)?

The power and music that puppy makes when working is more than worth any "inconvenience" in its care and maintenance. It is a tried, true, and trusted friend. It is a faithful and always available tool.

The only missing element of this "dream come true" is if Daddy could be here to enjoy ole Big Dawg with me.

I miss Dad every day and can't help but think he grins every time I fire up my ole orange tractor with its diesel baritone voice.

Mesilla Manna

Hatch, New Mexico (37 miles north of Las Cruces) is likely world famous for the Mesilla Valley chile peppers raised on the west banks of the Rio Grande River.

The ranch hand first experienced the heavenly lure of chile peppers when introduced to Tijeras Pancho's "green chile stew". Flavorful to an extreme, the sweet aroma of this pepper is only surpassed by the potential heat it can generate.

Today's Austin paper included an article which eulogized stuffed sopaipilla filled with tender pork, pinto beans, and green chile stew (thus promptly starting the ole fat boy's mouth to uncontrollably salivate). As the scribe went on to croon about chile laced sopaipillas experienced in Chama, Espaniola, Clovis, Santa Rosa, and Las Vegas, yours truly slowly began to melt into quivering hunger pains for the oleoresin capsicum laden delicacy.

The WC boy and bride even have fond memories of green chile egg sandwiches in Moriarity and green chile cheeseburgers in the Owl Bar and Grill between Albuquerque and Ruidoso.

Lest one think we are faint of heart, there was also the experience of purchasing Hatch green chiles in the local farmer's market, roasting same, and peeling the inedible skin to package the succulent meat. OK, not "faint of heart", but damn near fainted when figgered out the folly of handling the peppers without gloves and then touching (places that shouldn't be touched with a burning stick or any other unearthly hot substance)???

Anywho, there are special places with special groceries, and New Mexico has its share of the wealth.

GIGGLES

"T" sent me an oil field story from Dr. Bud that concerned puttin' an antique oil field unit into a gear other than "low" and causin' some consternation.

Reminded the ole ranch hand of the day Kelsey (the "tool pusher") came to Dad's well site and watched the work occurring to try to dislodge a "stuck" pump on the end of the sucker rod string.

Kelsey (who Dad called "Giggles") razed Dad about not pulling hard enough on the "string".

Now my loyal reader needs to know that Dad and I were in an East Texas pasture working under a "standard" derrick. This means the edifice above our heads included 80 feet of galvanized steel angle iron bolted together to form a fulcrum by which one could pull a mile of pipe out of the ground using the "draw works" of the "pulling unit" operated by Dad. No simple feat considering the antiquity of the equipment Dad was assigned to operate.

Dad "beat" on the pump for a period of time to dislodge it. At long last Giggles stated that he did not think Dad was really "pulling".

Well sports fans, you just had to know my Dad to know what a grin that put on his face. Dad knew all there was to know about motors, machinery, and the oil field. He could gently work machinery to make it "last", make it perform to its maximum, and to "bust" it if he had a mind.

Gene just casually said, "OK, lets pull on it then". And he let out the manual box clutch on that puppy and watched as all four derrick corners buckled under the strain.

Giggles ran like a scalded dawg to his truck yelling, "You are crazy!!!!", and Dad had a laugh and a good story that he retold for many years.

Resurrection

Bout 1963, the ole ranch hand paid Papuh $15 for a Harrington and Richards Topper.

That old single shot 12 gauge shotgun didn't look like much to the casual observer. It had electrical tape holding the forearm to the barrel and a metal screw for a front sight. The shell ejector didn't work so the erudite shootist needed to carry a Barlow knife to pry loose spent hulls. Add a bit of rust, the scratches of long years of hard use, and you have a picture of a 13 year old boy's dream.

Lester Sala's Drug Store was "walking" distance down the road in Turnertown. Mr. Sala would sell ammunition by the round. Never mind cabbagin' together enough moolah for a whole box. Just show how much "change" you had left from hauling hay, and you could buy that number of individual bullets.

Needless to say, economics caused one to be a judicious shooter. Spraying lead around the landscape was not an option if ya wished to put meat on the family table.

In those days, the ole fat boy carefully planned each shot and often accounted for a "kill" (squirrel, dove, or other game) per shell expended.

Then relative prosperity came along?

September 1 opened this year's dove season. The "mighty hunter" eased down to the ranch pond with enough 20 gauge shells to start a war. His weapon of choice was an ornately engraved twice barrel over/under with expert craftsmanship in the sharply checkered select walnut stock and forearm.

The weapon was tuned, the birds were in fighting condition, but sadly..... the hunter was not.

That's right sports fans, the Wright City Flash blasted holes in the air (and cursed) till hell wouldn't have it as the "miracle" unfolded. Yep, one after another "dead" bird continue to fly to the horizon in spite of my perfectly selected shots.

(I wonder if that old "Topper" needs to come out of the gun safe for a resurrection?)

Hot Dawgs

In Wright City, the only TV channel available was "7" in Tyler.

Having only one television station viewing choice simplified life in a lot of ways. Ya didn't need a "clicker" to surf the channel selection. There were no family disagreements as to the show of choice. Things had a set, routine, predictable pattern. Dad knew when Bonanza and Gun Smoke was playing on the black/white. The ranch hand knew when Howdy Doody and Rin Tin Tin aired. Mom had her soap operas.

The point of this is that your humble scribe (thru the magic/expense of satellite) now has access to more than 800 TV "channels". The follow-on is that his "clicker" is near worn out from changing from channnel to channel (with nothing interesting?)

Last night proved to be the ultimate extreme. The ole fat boy LOVES University of Texas football. UT played a nothing team yesterday to open the season. Lacking any national interest whatsoever, the TV networks did not broadcast the game (I'm bettin' not even channel seven?).

Succumbing to the siren call of opening day Longhorn madness, yours truly "purchased" a pay-per-view game where a private company broadcast the gridiron debut of the 2009 Horns.... and the rest is history.

Dear Lord, please don't let my Dad know his semi-edumacated dumass son paid $29 to sit in his living room and watch a semi-boring football game (UT won by a bazillion points)(and the netwlork didn't even serve hot dawgs?)

MONDAYS

Today is Sunday. That makes tomorrow Monday.

Monday only matters if ya got a "job".

The ranch hand tried retirement and L-O-V-E-D it. Then ole dumbutt took another "job"? I reckon some folks just can't stand the prosperity of peace, harmony, and no "Monday" (are you paying attention Wayne?)

Your humble scribe will report for duty in the morn and toil in the salt mines of his employer for another day for several reasons. However....it is just a "day" job. The fat boy gets up every pre-dawn week day morn and asks the question, "Ya want to do this another day or what?"

So far its been a "yeah". Let's see what the morrow brings?

White Tails

The ranch hand don't enjoy, look forward to, or in any way take pleasure in "killing" deer. Never have, never will.

The ranch hand absolutely "dotes" on all the other stuff. Looking for tracks, finding their droppings, spying the bark rubbed off a tree by antlers, or better yet....seeing a deer in the wild is special.

It's about $75 per month for dried corn to feed the Tin Star venison herd, but the "special" moments are priceless.

Guns and ammo are a part of it in that...well hell....I like touching them, shooting them, owning them??? Can't explain, and don't really care why....just a "man" thing I guess???

The best part is the preparation for the hunt. The old fat boy spent the balance of this day fabricating and welding together a steel stand to put a hunting blind atop down at the pond. Construction of the hunting blind will be another pleasurable day.

Thank you, my Lord and Savior, for another great day on the Tin Star and for the pleasures of Texas hill country white tail deer.

Hamburger Heaven

The August 2009 issue of Texas Monthly Magazine included an article created by multiple contributors entitled, "The 50 Greatest Hamburgers in Texas" (volume 37, issue 8).

What could be more iconic than a GIANT juicy burger that oozes grease along the palms, down the arms and drips from the elbows? Onions that fill your senses, a bit of pickle for a zing, and lettuce for crunch....just the thought makes my tongue beat my tonsils unmercifully! As a food indigenous to Texans everywhere, it's only fittin' a tribute should grease (er...grace) this blog page (with a bale of napkins on the side to assuage the overflow of salivary response)?

The ranch hand previously blogged about his first ever "cafe" meal. In our family, ya got to teenage afore even dreamin' of eating outside kinfolks tables. A Wright City boy's first "store bought" meal was an occasion.

Danny's grandmother worked at the White Swan beer joint/cafe in Kilgore and we went to visit. While we was dawdlin', D's Grandma slapped a burger on the grill. I have only a vague memory of an ever hungry growing boy slatherin' that puppy down. More'n likely, it hit the peak of my burgerdom at the time (12-13 year old). OK, I don't really remember how it tastes, but I do recall the onion still had the brown skin on it (haven't seen that trick since?).

I reckon that first "bait" started a life long quest to find "great" hamburgers.

Since settin' down roots at Gabriel Mills, the ranch hand/bride regularly trek the four mile route to the Andice Store for the 1/2 pound extraordinaire (the size of a hubcap and "squirts" grease ever direction when ya chomp). This Andician delight is a thing of beauty embodying freshness, a taste explosion, and decadence that only evolves with knowledge your arteries clog with the mere thought of ingesting this carnivore feast.

Numero #2 on the Texas Monthly list is the Counter Cafe (Austin). The ambiance includes a narrow hallway for dining and two chairs per (tiny) table lined up adjacent to the bar stools. The "feature" is a flawless bit of superb quality "cow" flirting with the sweetest bun ever tasted by this semi-edumacated male. Chunk in bermuda onion, obviously gardened ripened tomato, enough mustard to permanently color fingernails, and ya got a pretty decent eat that made a nice lunch hour last week.

Florence, Texas is the "rural" capital of Tin Star country and includes the ancient Rattlesnake Bar/Cafe. Locals talk bout Saturday night ventures there 40 - 50 years ago. Think hardwood floor, bar older than Methuselah, barmaids (with most teeth intact), and enough dust in the parking lot to choke a bedouin.

Today the owner averred in the most sincere tones that "they" was famous for their burger. We bit. "They" was wrong. Dry, burnt, and tasteless ain't in the dictionary under "famous"? (Guess ya gotta kiss a few pigs on the road to burger love?)

However, Friday the ranch hand/bride traveled the distant hill county to Fredericksburg. Alamo Springs Cafe is 10 miles south of F-burg on the Old San Antonio Road. The trip alone is worth the time while passing vineyards, flowing creeks (during a time of drought no less), and all manner of ancient farm structures.

Turn left on Alamo Springs Road and immediately exit into the white powder dust of the cafe parking lot. The decrepit cafe is a throwback to the depression era of the 30's, but the burger justified its hype as "ample, rich, and downright carnal " (Number Three on the Tx Monthly list). After a half dozen napkins (JUICY), and much lip smackin', me and the child bride melted into dreamy eyed reverence while savoring the last of the sweetest fried onion rings ever ingested by country folk.

Truth is..... I can't wait til tomorrow cause an even better burger may be just one country culinary adventure away?????

Kuntry Dumass Kookin'

Ever notice how a TV cook host breezes thru a complicated recipe in an hour? Well, the ole ranch hand is here to tell you it's smoke, mirrors and a passel of off-stage help.

Yours truly mounted the cook mule yesterday and "charged" headlong into a Shrimp, Corn, and Tomato Stew. My sorry butt whacked on celery, onion, bell pepper, tomatoes, fingers and such until the chop board dang near cratered. Meticulous measurement of spices, peeling and de-veining of shrimp, and (dirtyin' ever damn pan and bowl in the kitchen) enroute to a culinary masterpiece didn't take no more than FOUR hours?????????

There was a recipe part that said, "add shrimp stock". Holy cow, buildin' that juice was an ordeal in itself (more veggie choppin', more spice measurin', more boil/reduce/clabber the liquid?????) And only took bout an hour and a half to prepare/cook that "ingredient"????

Finally got all slap dabbed together and guess what: didn't know til yesterday that livin' on the East Texas/Louisiana border musta siphoned some coonass blood into the arteries thru them swamp skeeters.

That's right sports fans, that mess o' ranch hand creole cuisine that got whupped up would make a hawg hug a hound on Sunday and come back for seconds all week!

Stay tuned for the next exciting episode of kuntry dumass kookin'.

Wright City Gravy

During the 17th century, roux was introduced by the French as a thickener (equal amounts of flour and butter, oil, or bacon fat cooked for a short time)

In French cuisine, roux is white, blonde or brown, depending upon the sauce it is to be used in. Créole roux is basically the same, but because it is cooked longer, its color begins where French roux ends. Roux is used in Cajun cuisine for flavor rather than for thickening as it displays a rich, deep nutty flavor. It is said to be the secret ingredient in Cajun food.

Given this almost mystical aura of a substance spoken of as difficult to do well, the ranch hand made his first "roux" today with a bit of trepidation.

Well hell, Wright City milk gravy is harder to do right? The old fat boy just put two stick of butter in a pan, melted them puppies, and slowly whisked in a cup of flour. Keep "whisking" like a bandit til the roux turns the magic "color" and smells larupin' good and ya be done.

Then all that remained was to spend the next four hours hackin' and choppin' on veggies, measurin' spices, makin' "stock", and peeling/deveining shrimp to prepare to cook the coup de gras (cajun word for work your butt off for half a day to cook according to the recipe)?

More on the next blog about the actual "dish" as too tired from cooking that sucka to actually relive it at the moment????

Arcadian Accolades

The jacket of a Louisiana cookbook the ole ranch hand recently purchased describes Cajun country as "an untamed region teeming with snakes, alligators, and snapping turtles, with sausage and cracklins sold at every gas station." The author of Real Cajun (Donald Link, 2009) describes his home as a tough land that funnels its spirit into the local cuisine.

Tomorrow, your humble scribe will embark upon a culinary journey thru this tome beginning with the "shrimp, corn, and tomato stew" recipe. Over an unknown period of time, the ole fat boy has intentions of sashaying a bit with all within the venerable pages ranging from gumbo to etouffees to bourbon-soaked bread puddin'.

Yeah, there might be blog or two in this given the historical inspiration of swamps, smokehouses, festivals and funerals proliferated in Arcadia USA.

(Did I mention this may not be an economical venture?)

Leafed thru my adventure map this morn and made a list of coonass spices brother Link named therein. Oozled to the grocery store and camped out on the "spice" aisle whilst gitten my trifocals aimed for bay leaves, basil, cayenne, oregano, and so forth.

$109 later, my befuddled butt walked out of that store hopin' my dear departed Mom never learned I blew that much in HEB without actually buying any groceries???

Stay tuned sports fans because even the ranch hand don't know how this one is going to turn out?

Hay Haulin'

Aunt B reminded me of "hay hauling" today.

If a body ain't never ventured into that pertickular economic scheme before....don't.

When the ranch hand was near bout 14 year old, the onliest jobs in Wright City and thereabouts was taken by the family men. Ignorant piss ants like me had to scrabble like a tall dawg to pick up a "big nickel" (what Dad called a 50 cent piece).

Only thing available in the summer was hay haulin'.

Hay haulin' must be the fav-rite invention of the devil as it is a misery of heat, humidity, GRASS BURRS, dust, and just plain "whip yur butt" work.

Being an astute entremanure of finance, your humble scribe's first hay haulin' was with some genuine backwoods retard toothless folks who declared they was givin' ONE PENNY per bale to move said hay from the field and stack it in the barn. Don't mean a cent per person. Me, Jay, and Allen had to "share" the profit at 1/3 cent per bale.

Seeing how we weren't no math geniuses, took us bout 1,000 bales to figger out we wuz on a path to an early grave with no dinero along the way?

Fact is, the most I ever remember was a quarter per bale in the late 70's? Ole pancho would motor by to visit Dad when returning from Tyler to his East TX duty station and find mi padre working alone in a hay field trying to financially "survive". Being a good son (or a 24 carat dumass) yours truly would pull off the "uniform", pull on a pair of Dad's overalls, and "throw" hay bales til dark trying to help him survive.

Cramps???? Ya don't know what muscle cramps are until you dehydrate in a hay field and knot up so bad you can't breath?

Dust??? If ya put a bandana over your mouth as a "filter", it's surface will quickly turn to mud?

Exhaustion???? Forget it, don't have the words to describe it???

I reckon folks that have hauled hay in their early years have a special bond cause we know how we suffered for so little to simply try to survive?

And we did.

Grocery Shopping

Mom used to grocery shop in Tyler. I'm thinking it was a very stressful thing for her as she would make a list, stick to it, and carefully add the cost as she went from store to store to get the "specials". Dad would give her a dollar amount and no amount of need would allow exceeding that cash allowance.

As yonkers, we would go with Mom, but I don't remember (and hope we didn't) rag on her to buy kid stuff as she toiled to buy sustenance for her brood?

Today your ranch hand motored to Leander to "grocery shop". Mom would have been overwhelmed by the sheer size of the store, the incredible selection, and just the number of shoppers?

Economics allow us to buy "nice to have" in addition to "have to have" stuff, but there is still the memory of scrabbling to manage feeding a family with the scarce dollars available.

I reckon that feeling shall always be?

Cracker Box

Around 1984, the ole ranch hand went to Montgomery Ward and purchase a "cracker box" welding machine. Dreaming of magnificent projects (bar b que smokers, firewood racks, etc.), the neophyte hauled his new treasure to Wright City for bragging rights with Dad.

Dad being Dad, he immediately cabbaged onto that varmit, hard wired it in his back yard, and commenced to do his "stuff" with it. Not being one to detract from Dad's ambiance, the device (for all relevant purposes) became his. Yours truly continued over the years to cogitate welding scenarios unfulfilled.

Near bout four years ago your slow witted scribe found a "bargain" on Craig's List for a excellente 220 rod burner. Installed that puppy in the Tin Star barn and the rest is history.

Don't know why (other than genetic propensities inherited from Dad), but the ranch hand relaxes and take superb pleasure in the "art" (in my case "daubing") of welding steel to steel. There is pleasure in the sizzle of the welding rod arcing to the work piece. There is solace in the finished product. But most of all, there is a connection to a simpler life where a man takes raw materials and crafts something useful with his hands.

The hours pass without notice in this simple chore and for that I am grateful.

MANAGING

Being economically poor for his entire life, Dad most often engaged in what he called "managing".

As an example, I can never remember Dad buying a new tire for his vehicle. If a "casing" need replacing, Dad would cruise the local country garbage dumps until he found something deemed serviceable. If he needed spark plugs, he would look in the sand in his neighbor's yard and find discarded plugs that he could clean and use in his truck. If he needed a tool he couldn't buy, he would "invent" the tool by constructing something from junk lying in his back yard.

Obviously, the ranch hand has the genes of Gene in his veins. Perhaps not so obvious to the casual observer, the ranch hand often takes pleasure in "managing" rather than purchasing "stuff".

Today's menu included mounting the Tin Star deer blind atop a metal stand constructed by yours truly in the distant past (and welding together some steps to ascend to this throne).

Never mind there was no crane to lift the hunting edifice onto its pedestal or suitable materials to fabricate the "stairs". Just called on Dad to inspire and figgered it out as it naturally progressed?

Bottom line: If Dad were alive, he would be 77 today. The ranch hand stepped back from the "handy work" of the deer blind, looked to the heavens, and allowed, "This one was for you Dad, thanks for teaching me how to manage."

Happy Birthday Sir, I miss you every day and shall always love you!

Rock Chunkers

A few years back the bride bought me an awesome riding lawn mower for my BD.

This puppy (I call it "Rojito" for little red) has ample power, minimal vibration, and mows like a charm.

Rojito ain't got but one "flaw": It chunks rocks like a cannon on steroids....and the ranch grows rocks by the gozillions?

The ranch hand first learnt his "lesson" by driving the mowing machine past his new pickup and driving a damn rock near bout thru the passenger door (dammit!).

Learned a new lesson today.

Built the new ranch house with energy efficiency in mind. Yeah, big time insulation, etc., but also high dollar windows. Used them double paned, gas filled, RV blocking, space wars techno crapola things (think $BUCKS$).

Bout 2P your humble scribe wuz motoring across the back yard with the riding mower blades whirrin' like a cicada on margaritas when MR. ROCK caught hold the blades and launched like a moon fricken rocket?????

Bottom line: got a hole in a sun room window that I could throw a football thru and enough glass on the floor to fill a five gallon bucket??? (DON'T TELL THE BRIDE OR MY BUTT IS GRASS?)

DAMMIT!! ya'll reckon a dumbutt will ever learn to point the business end of that sumbitch away from stuff that don't need bustin'?????????????

Still And Quiet

If one is still and quiet at the ranch, the symphony of sound that occurs is magnificent. The ranch hand's favorite auditory pleasures include:

The rustle of the wind chasing the leafs....

The incessant evening demands of the whippoorwills....

The plaintive coo of the doves....

The raucous caw of the crows....

The snorts and foot stamping of the deer....

The breeze whispering a promise of a cooler clime in the branches....

The joyous paean of the song birds....

....and the incessant whirrrrr of the cicada for they kindle fond memories of Grandmother's back yard.

All music to the ears of those who will but be still and quiet.

SOMEONE ELSE

John Kelso is a columnist for the Austin American Statesman newspaper. His column this fine Sunday morning announces that he is volunteering for the position of campaign manager for "Someone Else" as governor of Texas.

Sign me on in whatever position can best contribute to the "cause" in order to dee-liver the gov an old fashioned school yard "butt whuppin".

My loyal reader well knows the guerrilla skirmishes the ole ranch hand has waged with the postal "service" of late. The last few weeks, your humble scribe has been pulverized by the war machine known as the Williamson County Tax Appraisal District.

Now, for the record, having been on the gov-mint "tit" for the last 40 years, I am appropriately grateful for the bountiful blessin' of income so provided. Just the same, the "out-go" finances versus the "in-come" pesos is becoming catastrophic.

Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, but I can't be the only person in our glorious state that feels this dollar vacuum has no end in sight.

All ya'll vote: "Someone Else" can't do no worse...and might do better???? Just a thought.

Character

OK sports fans, it's Independence Day in Gabriel Mills Texas and all is well.

Independence Day is the national holiday of the United States of America commemorating the signing of the Declaration of Independence by the Continental Congress on July 4, 1776, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

I recently read a piece about the fate of the "signers" after their historic event:

Five signers were captured by the British as traitors, and tortured before they died. Twelve had their homes ransacked and burned. Two lost their sons serving in the Revolutionary Army; another had two sons captured. Nine of the 56 fought and died from wounds or hardships of the Revolutionary War. They signed and they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor. What kind of men were they?

Twenty-four were lawyers and jurists. Eleven were merchants, nine were farmers and large plantation owners; men of means, well educated. But they signed the Declaration of Independence knowing full well that the penalty would be death if they were captured.

Damn, if that ain't the epitomy of CHARACTER, your humble scribe ain't got a clue what is?

Think about all the incredibly wonderful blessings in our lives. Do I take them for granted on occasion? Ain't no doubt. Do I humbly acknowledge the blessing of those brave souls who BOLDLY placed their signatures on parchment to commemorate our freedoms. HELL YES!

Thank you O' Lord and Savior for our many blessings, FREEDOM in all things, and your saving grace.

Black Cats

Cash in Wright City in the 60's was a rare commodity. If a soul came upon a dab, groceries was usually the main focus.

Come "fireworks" times (New Year or July 4th), the ranch hand and sisters naturally craved some "poppers" like all kids.

Daddy would usually come up with a few "sparklers" to wave around at night and a package or two of Black Cat firecrackers.

We treated those Black Cats like each one was a special gift to be savored. While others would light a whole package at once, we laid careful plans for each individual pyrotechnic.

One might be placed under the open end of a tin can to watch it launch off the ground. Another would be placed in a tree niche to see a bit of bark blown away. Yet another would be place in various glass containers to attempt ignorance induced blindness via flying glass shards.

The ultimate adrenalin rush was to hold the mini-grenade in one hand while igniting the fuse with the other. One would then heave the miniature cylinder of black powder and experience the thrill of escaping injury (followed by the relief of not having to confess to Daddy that we were doing something we were told not to do when we got "wounded").

On occasion the fuses would burn halfway down and stop. Being invulnerable, invincible, and immortal, us poor oil field trash "chilluns" would just pick them up and relight the fuse?

Sister "C" did that in the back yard one day and the digit buster promptly did its business between her fingers. Think bruise/burn/PAIN!!!! I was too dang country to realize it at the time, but ole Faucho went into shock for a spell with a "thousand yard" stare that was kinda frightening to us rural miscreants.

Bottom line: we survived our youth and all retained our fingers and toes.

Did I share this traditional holiday "fun" with my children.......HELL NO!

The danger to life and limb, the fire hazard, and the noise aggravation were more than I was ever willing to bear.

(But between you and me, the ole ranch hand wouldn't take anything for those childhood days in the backyard perfecting demolition skills with Black Cats)

1964

After the construction of Hiway 64 and Tx 42, the Turnertown population clustered around the intersection. With the discovery of oil in 1930, Turnertown became one of the near-mythical boomtowns. In the mid 1930s the population reached its zenith of 1,500. Reality set in, however, and when it did, the decline was steep. In the early 1940s it had dropped to a mere 350. By the mid-1960s it was 150 and has since declined to the a last census count of 76.

The ranch hand became road legal in 1964 when at the ripe old age of 14 he was the proud recipient of a Texas Drivers License. Who in the hell decided back then that a 14 year old testosterone fueled male could own a guiding license on public highways is beyond me, but I made the most of it.

Course, having a license to cruise didn't automatically put one in the driver's seat. Obstacles? Well lets start with no car, no money, and no real place to go, but hell, when you are 14 you can fantasize like nobody's business.

On rare occasion, Dad would loan me the family 1953 Chevy pickup on a Saturday night. The rusty truck was Dad's work truck (as well as our family transportation). In order to make it presentable, I would have to get some "coal oil", soak down a rag, and wipe the East Tx oil field grease off of the seats. I would then get a whisk broom and attack a few inches of red sand accumulated by Dad's roughneck crew's boots. After a labor of love to spiff it up, it looked like a royal chariot to me (except for the coal oil smell).

Gas was less than twenty cents per gallon and Turnertown was less than five miles away. Compared to Wright City, it was a booming metropolis with a two cafes, a gas station, a country grocery store, and a DRIVE-IN OUTDOOR THEATER.

As memory serves me, the drive-in was fifty cents. Accordingly, a few dollars would garner a gallon or two of gas, entrance into the movie, and a coke. What more could one ask? Oh yeah, a date????

I honestly don't remember actually watching a single movie at the drive in. I was always too preoccupied with my buddies or the unfortunate female soul who agreed to accompany the country bumpkin for a high dollar "date".

OK, nuff blabbin' so I will get to the point. I don't normally go to the movies anymore, but today I had the pleasure of going to the indoor sit-down variety with my beautiful bride. It was a pleasure ($21) and the popcorn and coke ($13) was devine.

Truth be known, I don't think anything going today can compare with the experience of growing up visiting a country drive-in theater.

Guess ya just had to have been there?

Armistice

The ole fat ranch hand fell out by the front gate early this morn to unplug the mail box and replant it "closer" to the road per the request of the U.S. government.

Yep, chunked that rock bar at the ground til the eyes got blurry and fainting didn't seem too dang remote an idea. Finally managed to peck out a shallow hole (again), mix some concrete (again), and plant that puppy (again).

Was the third time the charm?

Got a piece of junk mail in the box a couple hours later and the postal ninja had written on the envelope, "Thank you".

Not sure if that was "thank you" for providing endless entertainment like a trained monkey, or thank you for not hunting down that mail totin' cretin and puttin' some mail where the sun don't shine for causing me to jump thru so many hoops.

All ya'll pray the postal wars are over because your humble scribe ain't got many of them rock bar ground pound holes left in him.

BUDDY

Rest in the LORD, and wait patiently for him: fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass. Cease from anger, and forsake wrath: fret not thyself in any wise to do evil. For evildoers shall be cut off: but those that wait upon the LORD, they shall inherit the earth. For yet a little while, and the wicked shall not be: yea, thou shalt diligently consider his place, and it shall not be.

But the meek shall inherit the earth; and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace. (Psalms 37:7-11)

Grandmother proudly named him Alvin Louis, but the world called him "Buddy".

Course my Dad ain't never called anybody by their proper front name in his life so he naturally called his baby brother "Bud-Drawers"? Go figger, we all label people in one way or the other. Dad just did it with monikers.

In later life, Bud-Drawers weren't much more than a pile of bones loosely gathered in a tanned jerky sack of skin that was framed by a perpetual semi-toothless grin. Stick a smoldering Lucky Strike in that picture and ya got a classic view of what a lifetime in the East Tex oil field can do to a man.

As a visual spectacle, he was in pretty sad shape. Viewed from the depth of his kind, loving soul, he was gentle, kind, and meek toward all others.

To have known him was to have loved him. Likely you couldn't be proud of some of his choices in life, but forgiving him just seemed to come natural.

Buddy "passed down amongst us" in years past, but he still lives in the ranch hand's memory as a blessing.

If the "meek" inherit the earth as per the scripture of Psalms, count me as the first to want to once again see ole Buddy's semi-toothless grin, hug his skinny butt, and tell him how much he meant to me during earth bound existence.

Rest in peace dear friend, I miss you more than I know how to say.

Heaven On Earth

Work like you don't need the money.
Love like you've never been hurt.
Dance like nobody's watching.
Sing like nobody's listening.
Live like it's heaven on earth.
(Mark Twain)

The ole ranch hand toiled for 33 years in the salt mines of state government and was blessed with a tolerable retirement rate that allowed sufficient groceries and entertainment. Given an opportunity to "work" a bit more, he has spent the last three years with the true blessing provided by "work like you don't need the money"....a situation that allows for true expression of opinion and will without concern for the future. Ya don't need the money so ya just do the right thing for the right reason at the right time, every time, and the hell with everything else!

Love like ya never been hurt. Tough one? Helps to find the perfect soul mate that personifies all that is good in the world. Lucky me as I'm there.

Dance like nobody is watching. This fat boy didn't dance a lick til 40 years of age. Just plain bashful, self-conscious, and left footed. At 40, I decided that I would learn the damn stuff and then would NOT do it out of choice rather than intimidation. Damn.....I learned I like/enjoy it, and in my humble opinion, ain't half bad at the process? Go figger?????

Live like it is heaven on earth. Still working on that one, but the Tin Star is darn close.

Thanks be to my Lord and Savior for all that is good in my life.....salvation, friends, family, opportunity, and cold beer!

Porch Yellin'

All ya'll know the humble ranch hand has of late engaged in something of a "war" over zip codes with our beloved U.S. Postal bureaucrats.

"War" ain't exactly correct because the United States Postal Service alleges clearing more than $1 BILLION dollars profit for each of the last several years (as we wonder why the rates continue to increase?). In order for a "war" to be fought, the opposing side (me) would need to have at least 1/1000th of the resources available to the competition (NOT!).

Therefore, resistance to date has been a mere token of protest. BUT.......the excrement has done hit the oscillator as the Rural Delivery War begins now in earnest!!!!!!

Historical information (and perhaps genetic influence?) began with Grandaddy. Seems his East Texas delivery person had a penchant for "brushing" the mailbox with his vehicle when delivering mail. This resulted in the mailbox being at a constant "tilt". If you knew my Grandaddy, you would know that anything on his property that was not tight, painted, and perfectly aligned was not acceptable.

After straightening up the mailbox post multiple times, Granvil obtained a 10 inch, 7 foot length of steel pipe. He then proceeded to cement about 4 feet of it into the ground and grin like a possum waiting for his "victim" to rub against the post again.

Nope, the full force of Uncle Sam's might rose up and instead of mail in the box, G-pa found only an indignant note. The carefully worded ultimatum stated either he replace the steel hazard with something less stalwart or the mail would not be delivered. Again, if you knew Grandaddy, you already guessed he had a LOUD, redfaced cuss fight with the hapless postal person, but to no avail. The Gov-mint won, Granvil lost, and the wooden post went back in the ground.

Now comes the next generation. My Pa (Gene) despised junk mail. Dad could not read/write anyway, and the extra "junk" just complicated his life more. To that end, Gene began a "war" with the rural postal delivery minion to stop the crap from being placed in his box.

Dad started out OK with just a friendly roadside chat....no luck? He then escalated to just leaving it in the box until the box was STUFFED....he got told that ALL delivery would cease until he started "acting right"? His final act of protest lasted from that time until he "passed on down amongst them".

For years, each time Dad would see the mail delivery occurring, he would "go postal" and step to the door of his house to yell, "You better not leave any of that damn junk mail"! It didn't change anything, but I think he felt better as a result of the process?

The ranch hand ain't never laid claim to an abnormal amount of intelligence (or resistance to genetic propensities) so he naturally just fell into the same damn gov-mint traps.

After a white flag surrender over the zip code difugalties, we changed our address to an RFD route (which required yours truly to plant a mail box post at the front gate). No step for a "stepper", unless you know that the Tin Star sits on solid limestone with just a thin veneer of soil. Accordingly, the ole fat boy chose an early Saturday morning and attacked an area adjacent to our gate with a 40 pound rock bar.

A rock bar (instrument of excruciating torture) requires the operator to grasp the shaft of the 6 foot steel chisel, hoist it over the head, and hurl it back to earth (while yelling some oriental karate word for Holy Crap?). The next 500 steps are simple.....repeat the first step until the operator: A. faints B. dirties his drawers C. "passes on down amongst them"????

Finally got it done and to "cement" the deal, added a 50 pound sack of concrete around the post for a life time guarantee.

Found out that one person's "lifetime" may vary from another's interpretation of that time frame??? After placing the mail box, we added a culvert in the ditch next to the road. Big Brother Fed promptly allowed as how the box was too close to the end of the culvert and was therefore not accessible.

OK, I need to move the box (remember the 50 pounds of "glue" on the end of that steel pipe)? I beat/banged on the post to get it out of its limestone grave and then beat/banged on the ground down range with the rock bar in order to create the latest planting site. All this, secure in the knowledge that I would NEVER again in my life have to deal with postal crap (WRONG)!

I have in my possession an O-fish-al document duly delivered to yours truly which states that I have until July 7th to move the box closer to the road or mail delivery will stop for all of eternity for me and anyone even remotely genetically related?????????

I figger I got several options:

1. Deliver an O-fish-al document in return stating I wish to secede from the postal part of the Union and forgo delivery (especially bills) for the remainder of my days.

2. Move the damn thing closer to the road, but use a 36 inch steel pipe that is set 40 feet in the ground.

3. Scream vile vitritude at the delivery person until I feel I have made Grandaddy proud.

4. Comply, but stand on the porch and YELL at the bastard ever time he delivers.

Naw, all that's been tried already by the ancestors so I guess I'll just vent with this blog.

Thanks for listening.

Stretch Marks

God is great,
Beer is good,
People are crazy
(Billy Cunningham)

I'm not sure if my sense of humor is getting more warped by the day or if people are getting goofier by the minute?

My mom-law will not have moles removed because she says her "roots are too deep"?

Our president decided (without asking me) that the American taxpayer would purchase 60% of General Motors in order to "help" the economy? How the hell does this help my "economy"?

The World Health Organization has declared swine flu a "pandemic" due to being reported around the globe. At the same time the medicos declare that it is "mild" in form and does not routinely require medical attention. Why are we panicking?

Of course, all you need to start an asylum is an empty room and the right kind of people, but damn? I finally got to "greener" pastures and now my old fat ass has to climb over a mountain of idiots every day?

Now I know that life ain't fair (or men would have stretch marks), but whatever hits the fan will be eventually be evenly distributed over the landscape.

Accordingly, here's to God, cold beer, and the proliferation of nut jobs that will forever inspire blogs.

Yo-Yo Fishing

Caddo Lake is a 25,400 acre lake and wetland located on the border between Texas and Louisiana.

The lake is named after the Southeastern culture of Native Americans called Caddo or Caddoans, who lived in the area from the 16th century until their expulsion in the 19th century. It is the largest natural fresh water lake in the South, and the largest Cypress forest in the world. It used to be Texas' only natural lake until it was artificially dammed in the 1900s.

In 1977, the ole ranch hand landed in Marshall, Texas and immediately "inherited" the fishing buddies of the last feller that held the job I occupied there.

Shortly thereafter, my "fishin' buddies" introduced me to Caddo Lake.

Just my opinion, but I think the producers of Jurassic Park "missed the boat" by not filming there. I never visited the place that I didn't truly expect some prehistoric monster to rise from the water and ROAR at my intrusion? The cypress trees with their dangling lace of moss caressing the surface of the water, the green blankets of Lily pads, and the limited sight view offered by the waterlogged forest truly lent itself to anyone with imagination.

As far as my memories:

It was an absolute labyrinth of almost imperceptible water trails that trapped the casual visitor into hopeless wandering (I spent one entire night LOST on Caddo as I couldn't find my way back to the dock until the morning sun and a heap of luck pointed the way?).

It provided a wealth of "trash fish" unique to the area for one's angling pleasure such as gaspergou , chain pickerel, carp, and all manner of gar.

It allowed one to regularly experience the frustration of being stuck "high center" in a flat bottom aluminum boat on top of a submerged cypress stump.

It exposed one to a brand of folks that gave new meaning to the word "backwoods" because Caddo Lake natives were truly as "rural" and 'clannish" as ever existed (and would stomp you in a heartbeat if trifled with in the least).

My fondest memories are of "yo-yo" fishing on Caddo. A fishing yo-yo (now illegal) was a mechanical spring loaded device that would set the hook and hold tension on the line when an unsuspecting catfish would hit the bait. We would find a clearing amid a cypress grove and within the circle of trees tie the "yo-y0's" to tree limbs. Then we would sit in the darkness (sucking down cold adult beverage) and wait to hear the metal ratchet of the fish catchers working in and out to the tune of the fighting prey.

The companionship, conversation, cool breezes, and adrenalin of hearing those "yo-yo's" talking across the amplification of the lake's surface are a treasured memory that almost competes with the savored succulence of those pan fried fillets.

Aah, heaven surely has a Caddo for the blessed souls within?

Papuh

My best bud "T" related a story this morn bout his G-Pa spittin' snuff juice out frontards car windows and it blowin' in the backards windows quickern it went out onto unsuspecting passengers.

That story got me to thinkin' bout my Papuh. Mom's Dad craved Brown Mule chaw tobaccy all day every day. He would take his old Barlow folding knife and whittle off a fair plug and deposit that precious morsel between his cheek and gums.

As if that wasn't enuff raw nicotine being pipelined, he would then drag out a square brown glass bottle of Garrett snuff. Papuh would uncork the bottle and pull back his lip/cheek. Daintily placing a "pinch" of the snuff wasn't on his agenda. Papuh would turn the bottle up and shake a brown cloud into his mouth as dressing for the Brown Mule.

He rarely "spit", but when he did it made East Texas Crude oil pale in comparison. That ebony black syrup was strong enough to take the rust off cast iron. If not outside, Papuh used an old coffee can as a "spittoon".

Looking down into the depths of that spittoon was akin to looking into the depths of hell at poor souls doomed to an eternity of foul corruption.

Now kids being kids, guess how often that damn can got kicked over. Guess again who got the privilege of cleaning putrefied toxic waste off the floor.

Now tell me that performing that duty a time or two wouldn't be effective for keeping younguns off tobacco products?

Texas Beef

Jesse Roach was an Austin lawyer with a vehicle insurance business when he first traveled to the Ft. Worth stockyards. Seeing there were any number of cattle trucks bringing bovines to the stockyards, he opted to buy a vacant lot on which to build an insurance office. Jesse eventually utilized a portion of the land to build the Cattleman's Steak House.

The rest is history as the business has survived for likely a gozillion pounds of marbled goodness as a thriving business.

Today is Father's Day in America, USA.

The humble ranch hand and his child bride journeyed to the cattle drive terminal city yesterday to celebrate with her Dad. On a lark, the bride suggested lunch at the Cattleman's Steak House. All agreed and we sojourned at length for iced tea, hot rolls, and Texas beef.

Bout half way through the repast, the Dad-law mentioned that he and his betrothed had last had a meal at the Cattleman's some 40 years past. Upon inquiring as to the occasion, he allowed that it was the day of their marriage following the wedding ceremony at the local church (and they had not dined at this eatery since).

The ranch hand reckons it would be fortuitous to mention at this point a long felt conviction that some things are preordained to occur long before we have knowledge of their occurrence.

We had no clue of the relevant family history of this beef emporium. We had no agenda in returning the septuagenarian couple to their threshold of four decades of faithful marital devotion.

We were simply hungry and looking for a unique experience.

Now try to tell me "fate" doesn't have a sense of romance and that there are no predestined future events?

SAPS

Trust me, this could have happened or may happen in the future.....????

Seems Carolyn was cruising (with dirt, dust and rocks flying) on her turbo charged riding mower on the back forty one fine Tijeras day. The weather was beautiful and C was in her finest Indy form with custom leather racing gloves, polarized goggles and a "I (heart) Walmart" cap.

As she passed the garden plot, a brown furry missile shot from under a squash plant and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of her. This was her chance!!!!!!

At long last she could exact long sought revenge for the rodent's purloining of garden delights. She tightened her grip on the wheel, jammed down the throttle and launched the whirling blades of death forward.....until the beady eyed varmit emitted a primal scream, leaped into the air, and landed squarely in the middle of our illustrious fighter pilot jockey.

Sports fans, that bushy tailed demon set about settlin' the score with a pain inflicted notch for each .22 bullet tallied to date in the harvest of furred garden raider brothers. The like of snarling, hissing, and attack had never been seen before as clothes, skin, and expletives flew thru the air like a drunken flock of lost geese? (That little tornado was doing some damage!!!!)

Never one to surrender easily, the Allstate flash knew that speed was an ally. She pushed that Sears antique to full throttle and set across the landscape with the wheels only hitting the ground about every ten feet (the way she normally mows the grass). Holding the evil mutant squirrel of death by the tail while whirling it over her head she.....hit a stump at max travel and nosed plowed into the ground.

This unceremonious cessation set her Nazi menace tormentor (who was now wearing the gloves and eyeballing her goggles) to uncontrolled giggling.

Fortunately for our heroine, it was at that moment the green chili stew scraps the fuzzy gargoyle had eaten from the Camino del Arriba trash kicked in for his minuscule digestive system.

Yep, gastrointestinal elimination of epic proportion both caused the untimely demise of this woodland creature, and gave impetus to the SQUIRREL ATTACK PREVENTION SOCIETY (SAPS).

And now my loyal reader knows how Carolyn managed to leave such a profound legacy for all to admire!!!!!!!!

Mud Cats

My goodness, I don't know how to begin to explain how much I enjoyed fishin' in my younger days.

It was my narcotic, my nirvana, my earthly salvation, and produced my most thrilling moments.

From my earliest memories, until about 30 years old, I lived for the experience of piscatorial adventure.

Then I quit.

I'm still trying to figger out why my priorities have not included getting back to that most sincere of nature pursuits?

I reveled in the glory of bream (red ear, blue gill, and hybrid) and "mud cats" at Uncle Charlie's pond. I spent endless hours of glory at Caddo Lake and Lake Texarkana pulling channel catfish into the boat. I cherish the memory of "monster" bass caught and released at Flossie Lyles tank.

Why did this endless pleasure end? Hell if I know. I just know that I have to rekindle that ever so pleasurable fire and find a place to watch the bobber "bob", feel the surge of a bait taken, and watch the bend of the rod.

Damn JRM, I miss fishin'!

Fruit of the Vine

Blessed are the children who walk in the Lord. Blessings and joy shall be theirs. Theirs is the bounty, the fruit of the vine. (Psalm 128)

Man harvests, plunders, or takes from nature according to each his own. Nature, in its inimitable style, rejuvenates at an exhilarating pace. That which is taken away is quickly replaced with new growth or future generations of wildlife.

During the last year the humble ranch hand witnessed countless casualties (deer) along the surrounding roads as vehicles took their toll of the local population. Throughout the deer hunting season there were daily shots ringing from the hill country ranches as hunters collected venison for their tables at an astonishing pace.

But there is a time of replenishment.

Today while driving Big Dawg to shred weeds along the South fence line, a tiny delicate fawn stumbled from the brush under the barb wire. The spots on its coat were brilliant in the sunlight as it tottered on spindly legs to the edge of the brush. It's life had just begun minutes before the intrusion of machinery on its tenuous world.

Blessed are the children of man, and we are blessed by the "children" of wildlife.

All God's Creatures

And God made all the animals...and God saw it was good. (Genesis 1:25)

There are special moments on the Tin Star that neither love nor money could buy.

Today I was watching a doe at the East feeder about 110 yards from the back porch. The varmit sated its dried corn desire and moseyed to the adjacent protein block to lick the rough molasses flavored mass.

After ingesting 18% protein conglomeration, the obviously pregnant doe started to amble....toward me.

At 25 yards, I figgered it would panic and flee to cover like Lucifer was devouring its tail.

At five yards, I thought....OK, I'm dreamin'.

As the forest ruminant stopped at the bottom step of the porch, the experience became as unique as only nature can provide.

We stared unblinkingly into each other's brown eyes, wondering at the oddity of the moment....and then my blessed companion abruptly fled to the near brush.

Such are the blessings of our Lord and Savior.

Buffalo Marksmanship

Ya can't roller skate in a buffalo herd
Ya can't roller skate in a buffalo herd
Ya can't roller skate in a buffalo herd
But you can be happy if you've a mind to.
(Roger Miller)

Today we were driving through the narrow ranchland backroads from Gabriel Mills to Liberty Hill when we spied a sign on a fence that said, "Missing Buffalo, call xxx-xxxx"?

Now being a speculative feller, I naturally began to cogitate on the meanin' of that message???

If a buffalo was "missing" someone, should it call the number?

If your shootin' iron just couldn't seem to slay the beast, phone fer help?

If bison have decided to start shooting back, but can't master the intricacies of firearms.....

If ya had driven US 79 from one end to the other and couldn't find Buffalo, Texas???

If dwindling herds have lessened the frequency of sighting great beasts and ya wanted to start a breeding program......

If the nomadic grazer, commonly known to travel in herds, is looking for company and/or a romantic interlude?

If shaggy roller skatin' in Williamson county is your thang.......well

HERE'S YOUR SIGN

Weekend Eve

Tomorrow is Friday.

I toiled at my chosen profession for 33 years and each week treasured Friday as it was emblematic of weekend eve. Come quittin' time on the 6th day of the week, a body's soul could look forward to rest, relaxation, and adult beverage cooled to a level of delight.

Then came "retirement". One soon learned to feel regret at Fridays. Friday meant that the poor working slobs would be crowding the roadways, teeming in the stores, and generally messing up the ambiance. Your faithful ranch hand would just sulk in the shadows and wistfully long for Monday when the poor cretins would return to their chosen salt mine leaving the neighborhood a quite Garden of Eden once again.

But, trouble always seems to seek out paradise? Your humble erudite scribe inexplicably returned to the workplace and has for tres anos endeavored to persevere at gainful employment.

Tomorrow is Friday.

Aaah the sweet bliss of it all!

Teejus

Folks that was reared in the country just kinda naturally know how to do country "stuff".

They can build fence, drive tractors, plant seed, pull calves, and handle whatever the day may bring.

The humble ranch hand reared up in the country, but we was too poor to own chickens, much less have cows or machinery.

Now comes the time that the old one moves to the sainted wilderness of NW Williamson county to reside in daily pleasure at Gabriel Mills.

Does our neophyte "rancher" intuitively know the way of ranch life and all that it entails?

HELL NO!

One example: My incredibly talented and generous bro'law installed an automated gate to our place. Punch the button on the remote, enter the code on the gate key pad, and you are officially "IN"! What a modern convenience (especially if one ever had the exquisite pleasure of opening/closing a TAUT/TIGHT barbed wire fence gap that Grandaddy engineered?)

Only problem is.......the technology aspect of the sucka is what my Dad would call "teejus". Don't know what word Dad was reaching for, but I know the meaning. The diodes, chips, wires, welding, (WHATEVER???) gets outa whack bout once a month and the son-gun gets uppidity.

It don't close all the way, it don't open all the way, it gets the nervous quivers????? I don't know. There is just a gate ghost that thrives on aggravation?????'

The fumble brain ranch hand always seems to figger it out, but I wasn't persactly lookin' for a Phd in gate ranchology????

The VIEW

Wright City and the surrounding country is a labyrinth of vegetation.

Towering lob lolly and long leaf pine trees rise to as much as 60 feet and the remaining flora proliferates to the point that a rabbit can't oozle thru it?

It's a beautiful scenery, but there is a drawback. Drive down the road and ya can't see no further than the fence line. Sit on a porch that ain't facing a hay pasture and you just got greenery in your "view".

Growing up in that environment caused the ranch hand to place extreme value on a "view". Casting one's eye to a distant point allows all kind of wonderin' and mind expansion (the Lord knows the ranch hand needs a passle of that last part?).

As I sit in my office and peck on this cyberspacial gizmo, I can look to the west and see (per GPS) nine miles. Yes, there are thousands of oak, cedar elm, and juniper trees in the "view", but I am seeing the tops of the trees.

I sit on the edge of the San Gabriel river valley in Gabriel Mills on a God made paradise. The Williamson County landscape descends to the river bed about one half mile away and then majestically rises to the crest in Burnet County with the water tower at Bertram beckoning its life giving sustenance in the distance.

The "view" is never the same. Depending on the light, sun, clouds, fog, (my mood?), it is an ever changing panorama without comparison. It is a blessing of which I shall never tire.

Thank you, oh Lord and Savior, for this most special rendition at a time in my life when an ole Wright City boy can most appreciate the magnificence.

Sisyphus

In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was founder and king of Corinth. After cunningly duping the Greek god Hades, he was punished by assignment to roll a great boulder to the top of a hill. Every time Sisyphus, by the greatest of exertion and toil attained the summit, the darn thing rolled back down again (for eternity).

In Gabriel Mills reality, the ranch hand is founder and slave of the Tin Star Ranch. It's a blessed existence, except for the ROCKS.

Limestone is a sedimentary rock composed largely of the mineral calcite. More importantly, it has the breeding characteristics of a rabbit.

For the past lustrum, the humble ranch hand has been bending over, picking up limestone rocks, and depositing them in a receptacle for transport to a growing (Sisyphus) hill on the back side of the Tin Star. Every time it appears that progress is occurring, it rains. "The rain "breeds" more rocks. More rocks means more bending over and transport to the pile (eternally).

I'm not sure how, but undoubtedly I pissed off this Hades character in some past life and limestone is my curse?

Brush Worry

I am not sure if Dad liked to cut back brush, but I do know that he did a heck of a lot of it?

Dad didn't attack it aggressively, he would just "worry" it away. A limb here, a weed there, and at some point, progress. I was often amazed at what a strong, determined man with a machete could accomplish?

Being spring on the Tin Star, the ole ranch hand has been "pecking" at the ever encroaching brush.

Like Dad, there ain't no point in being aggressive about it because there is more brush than there is me, and it will just grow back with a vengeance. Ain't no doubt, Dad would be envious of my "machinery" (if not thinking I was stoopid for the price paid?). But just the same, man and brush marches onward.

I reckon I just have to take solace in the process as the "brush" space decreases, and the "open" space increases (for the moment).

The ranch hand ain't no where sure that is progress, but Bubba would likely take a "taste" of it if available on his acreage?

No prob B, just keep "pecking" at it and sooner or later you will "worry" it to the fence line (until next spring?).

The Gift

Dad was a pretty fair shade tree mechanic for anything with a gasoline motor.

Course, like anybody who turned wrenches, Dad would occasionally run onto a problem he couldn't figger out.

The thing is, Dad would often go to bed with no clue how to "fix" a motor. Next morning at daylight he would have that sucka purring like a kitten with cream drippin' off ever whisker.

I ask Dad about that a time or two and he always said that he dreamed of the solution to engine mysteries?

Related to this, I recently bought a high dollar weed eater for the ranch which included a metal brush blade. The blade worked like a champ til the resident idjut (me) banged it on some rocks and dirt. Then it wouldn't cut hot butter.

I took the blade off of the machinery, got my magnification spectacles and a round file, and commence to hone the hooked tooth choppers of my "tool".

When it was sharp as a "razoo", I screwed her back on and hit the brush patch. Well hell, might as well been whuppin' that stuff with a soda straw. The blade wouldn't hardly even bend grass over?????

Took the blade back off, got a slim honing rock, and inserted it into my trusty Dremel tool to POWER sharpen that dude.

Same story, second verse. Jello would have laughed at my so called "sharpen" job????

Throwed the machine on the barn floor and stomped to the casa with vitriolic words of colorful passion.

Woke up about 3A the next day after the "dream". The ranch hand had put the blade on bass ackwards so that the teeth were pointed the wrong way? Turned the blade over and the only worry was cuttin' my dang toes off????

I know that weren't no rocket surgery, but it made me feel closer to Dad to have a nocturnal epiphany similar to his "gift".