STAMPEDE!

Armadillos are mostly solitary varmits who roam the land alone.

They snuffle along with their snouts to the ground seeking sustenance among the leaves, soil, and accumulated compost.

Where I grew up, most folks thought God invented armadillos so they could have possum on the half shell? Regardless, their virtue is that they are highly disciplined at minding their own business while ignoring the world at large.

All that changed yesterday. The bride and I descended on our beloved Tin Star Ranch and beheld five of the armored critters socializing in a wad. They seemed to be laughing, telling jokes, and generally hurrahing one another as only pals can do?

Naturally, being "caught in the act", them desperadoes promptly stampeded across the winter plains and scattered with hollered promises to reunite at their secret outlaw "hideout".

And now you know why the ranch hand's fairy tales always starts with, "Now this ain't no shit".

Sore Feet and Empty Wallets

Wealth comes in assorted configurations. Some is tangible, some is more ethereal?

Amassing wealth can be as simple as providing something that folks can't (or won't) live without on a daily basis.

Now who would think that digging a large, deep hole in the ground and filling it with a similar size concrete container would accumulate wealth? Especially a container that will inevitably reek internally of foulness while promising future retribution for abuse.

That's right reader, the ole ranchhand just shelled out major moolah for a contractor to provide a septic system (Dad called it a cess pool) for the new bunkhouse. We are talking dig a hole in the ground, drop the tank, run "field" lines out in the pasture and drive home to count the greenbacks?

What the hell, its a semi-modern convenience that will be near to our hearts in time of essential need.

Bottom line: Your foot can't get well with a horse standing on it and no amount of persuasion will convince your bride to covet an outhouse?

Guess I'll just fork that $12,000 over to the hole digger?

Wright City Justice

The sanctity of one's home is universal. We all wish to feel secure and safe in our persona and possessions when on owned turf. When that personal space is violated, our sense of the world is distorted.

Upon selling the town place, the ole ranch hand moved all wordly "stuff" into the barn at the Tin Star. Yep, forty years of tool collecting, plus computers, TV's, whatever got piled in the metal edifice. It actually is kinda humbling to see everything you have ever put together lumped into one big heap.

Friday night, vermin forced open the door of the barn and hauled off about half of that so called "worldly wealth".

The son of a bitch stole our stuff, but he screwed up by leaving us with our anger, resolve, and shootin' irons.

Please let that bastard come back for a second dose at a time when I am ready and available to administer some Wright City justice to his ass!

Hunting Versus Killing

I've had the privilege of being the temporary steward of the Tin Star Ranch for most of five years.

A modicum of that treasured tenure has included manning a deer hunting stand at the pond in the Southwest corner of the property.

NEVER in my many sojourns at that hunting stand have I observed so much as a single deer? There are always a myriad of tracks, droppings, and scrapes. Just no visual confirmation of venison carcass?

Last week I acquired a "bubba" camera to attach to a tree in order to surreptitiously shoot photos of whatever the hell has been eating my corn offerings from the daily feeder?

Imagine my chagrin tonight while uploading the digital evidence and finding that from about 10PM to 1AM the forest ruminants have been having a soiree of sorts while ingesting my offered bounty of yellow protein?

I had pics of as many as three bucks at one time munching like it was corn chips and the Super Bowl was the salsa?

Where were them puppies for the more than two month hunting season?

I reckon that is why they call it "hunting", instead of calling it "killing" the Bambi of the species?

Tomorrow

The ole ranch hand has of late viewed the process of aging with increasing interest. My belly ain't been flat since Moby Dick was a minnow and I've got more aches/pains than Carter has liver pills?

Thing is, I don't much seem to care about that kind of trivia any more? My focus has shifted to other priorities that matter more to me at this stage of dotage.

With increasing frequency, I am seeing those who I count as friends and others who had a profound influence in my life succumbing to the inevitability of death. It grieves my soul to lose my valued companions and forces me to look square in the eye of my own mortality.

My focus has clearly shifted from making my job the all encompassing driving force in my life to family and relaxation being the preferred nirvana.

My body has long since forsaken any pretense of youthful vigor, muscle tone, or lack of a "gut". Succinctly stated, I am old, fat, wrinkled, and don't really care any more. I am blissfully comfortable in my "skin".

Heartbreak for whatever reason is a bitch. Somehow, someway, I have finally figgered out that it is just a part of living and I have come to accept the reality of it being a part of growing.

I have always loved humor. I now treasure the balm it applies to pain, the perspective it gives to tragedy, and the pleasure from making others laugh.

I have forever been unforgivingly hard on myself. Always demanding perfection, never accepting failure. I have finally determined that failure is OK. As long as I give my best effort and do the right thing at the right time for the right reason, I accept outcomes different from my expectations as the will of God.

What the hell? Gettin' older seems more each day like being freed from self doubt, worry about the opinion of others, and revelation of the joy of living above ground for one more day.

Truth be known, I can't wait til tomorrow cause I just get better looking every day!

The Legacy

A proper desk in the office of a ranch foreman should be rather massive, old, ornately carved, and heavy with the grain that only a stately oak can provide.

The ole ranch hand has search cyberspacially and otherwise for the proper accoutrement for the Tin Star headquarters. Figger five to seven thousand grand (American money $$) frontward, backward, and sideways? Not gonna happen for this Wright City boy. (I still remember when a silver fifty cent piece looked like a hubcap?)

Finally, the beautiful bride suggested a visit to a consignment store.

Paydirt!

Today we brought home the CEO equivalent of Ben Cartwright's Ponderosa platform. For a mere $300 we "stole" a six foot oak desk with five point stars hand carved on the front and sides. (Think HEAVY!!!!!!!!) The color, configuration, and "carvings" are country rustic to the max.

It has the perfect blend of wood grain, dings from normal use, and stately presence to appropriately grace the headquarters of our home base.

Now if I can just hold up my end and maintain ole Ben Cartwright's even strain on the reins of a legacy property?

Progress

I feel like the blonde who put a mailbox in her car to receive messages because she couldn't afford a cell phone. Only problem was, she never got any mail because her zip code kept changing?

The ranch hand moved from zip code 75758 to Andice (78628). However, the postmistress gave us 78633 as a zip saying the mail would come through Georgetown instead of Waco and thus arrive "sooner".

The ranch hand dutifully set about changing all things to 78633. Then the problems started:

1. The U.S. Postal Service sent notification acknowledging that my zip had changed to 78628 (not 633?).

2. Every time I gave the Andice address for computer entry with the "633" zip, the computer changed the town to Georgetown.

3. When you use a credit card with some machines, it asked for your zip code. You only get one shot and the machine then assumes you "stole" the card as you don't know the correct zip code (no sale).

4. I haven't been able to buy gasoline, book hotels, pay bills online, or do squat as I never know what account has what zip code.

Long castigated, berated, spat upon and humiliated, the Post Office never gets a fair deal. They deserve far more: to be criticized, reprimanded, denounced and ostracized.

At least there is one good thing about the Post Office -- it's over 200 years old and yet it's never been hindered by progress.

DAMMIT

First Born

I always figgered ya only got two choices. You either get older or you get dead. I'm kinda partial to the first choice.

Today I achieved 59 years as Gene and Thelda's first born. This has included the blessing of near six decades of defeats, successes. elation, heartbreak, family, friends, and all manner of "other" folks. I've lived some life , traveled a few miles, and collected enough bull shit stories to qualify as a professional prevaricator.

To mark the occasion of my rapid progression toward dotage, I visited my personal sawbones today (pinched neck nerve). I put some icing on that cake by getting an appointment with my dentist to replace the jaw tooth cap that fell off this weekend. To add insult to injury, my hair is falling out, I'm getting shorter in stature by the minute, and my brain cells are perishing geometrically as CRS (can't remember stuff) ravages my psyche.

Regardless, older suits me just fine as compared to the alternative. (Now if I can just remember why the hell I am typing on this computer and what is a "blog" anyway?)

Home Sweet Guest Bedroom

We thought about it for a long time, "Endeavor to persevere." And when we had thought about it long enough, we declared war on the Union (Chief Dan George in "The Outlaw Josey Wales")

Dear reader,

The ranchhand has been a "guest" in another's house for a month now. We sold our urban dwelling and are nigh onto six weeks from completion of the bunkhouse.

Now don't get me wrong, "guest" status has its advantages. I'm just having trouble thinking of any right now.

I seem to be more focused on a relative lack of privacy and abiding by the house rules of another.

I'm thinking rented mules don't ever really settle into a comfort zone either?

Endeavor to persevere.

My New Year List

Roo asked if I had made a New Year "resolution". I have, but chose to not make my resolution public.

As a consolation prize, I decided to publicize my New Year "mom-law list":

1. Sojourns with in-laws and eternal damnation can be indistinguishable.

2. No amount of prayer will shorten the County Road 207 "to do" list.

3. Never take for granted peace, quiet, and solitude.

4. To value listening rather than talking is a sainted virtue.

5. Income/debt ratios have no relationship to travel/vacation frequency.

6. Church attendance appears to foster blasphemy on occasion.

7. God never harbors grudges, Nana invented them.

8. Trivia triumphs over truth, if it is convenient.

9. List makers fervently pray blog readers maintain confidentiality, pending potential bribe offers.

10. God will forgive me; I'm bettin' mom-laws don't?

Nine Line Bind

When I worked in the East Texas oil field the work was largely performed using old machinery that was long past its prime.

The machine (called a "pulling unit") that was used to pull the pipe from the wells powered a large drum. The drum was wound with at least a mile of braided steel cable referred to as "line". The "line" was threaded from the pulling unit to the top of the rig poles (or standard derrick) and then back. If the load to be pulled was heavier, the number of times the line was threaded back and forth was multiplied until sufficient drawing power was created.

Now that my loyal reader is sufficiently bored, I'll tell you that when a person or thing was at maximum strain, my Dad referred to that condition as a "nine line bind".

Finally, the point of all this BS:

I have spent the last week uploading, downloading, sideloading and CUSSING my dadgum laptop. That puppy has evily refused to cooperate to the extent that I can extract pictures from my digital camera and send them via email to eager fans.

Today finally dawned accidental success, but Dad would never believe the "nine line bind" my brain has been in trying to make this happen.

I guess you just can't fix dumass?

ROOTS

The psychology of moving all of your worldly possessions from one location to another can be complex.

We tend to put down deep "roots" if we linger in one location for a sufficient period of time. We raise our families, we rejoice, mourn, celebrate victories, and endure defeats. All of which make our residence a part of our lives and psyche.

The old ranch hand toiled mightily of late to physically lift, tote and store his "stuff" from the house in town to the barn at the ranch. In a couple of months, this ritual will be repeated to move said "stuff" from the barn into the bunkhouse.

I guess my thoughts would include the following:

1. The "stuff"' I have spent a lifetime collecting doesn't make much of a pile when lumped together in a barn.

2. I'm too damn old and fat to do this "moving" thing ever again after this iteration.

3. I can steady feel my new "roots" sinking into the land of the ranch as our new house nears completion.

Life is good and I am proud to live it according to my Lord and Savior's will for as much time as I have left in this world.