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????
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, May 29, 2009
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?
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?
Thursday, May 28, 2009
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?).
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?).
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
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".
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".
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Down Amongst Them
Living in the country has the added bonus of a BIG sky.
Absent adjacent buildings and such, one can waltz thru the yard or sit on the porch and marvel at the panoramic blessing of our Lord's own ceiling.
Many are the days that I stare in wonder at the beauty of the clear blue sky or the subtle nuance of ever changing clouds.
The "techno" explanation for the cauliflower beauty of clouds implies that they are simply a visible mass of droplets or frozen crystals floating in the atmosphere above the surface of our earth bound existence. If I wanted to truly bore the crap outta my loyal reader, I might add that clouds are studied in the nephology or cloud physics branch of meteorology. Nah, I'll just go with my gut reaction.
On peaceful days, the clouds make me feel close to those who have "gone down amongst them" (my Dad's expression for the deceased). Don't know why, they just have that effect. I sit on a stump, contemplate the distant ethereal body of fluff, and wonder if my parents are watching.
Other days, like today, the clouds seem angry and brooding as thunder rolls across the horizon.
Then comes the ghostly pace of fog (earth bound clouds) eerily creeping across the landscape with a moist touch on our skin.
Regardless of their mood, clouds are a welcome companion that I seem to appreciate more each day for their beauty, contribution to solemnity, and thought provoking quality.
Thank you my gracious salvation Father for this incredible blessing.
Absent adjacent buildings and such, one can waltz thru the yard or sit on the porch and marvel at the panoramic blessing of our Lord's own ceiling.
Many are the days that I stare in wonder at the beauty of the clear blue sky or the subtle nuance of ever changing clouds.
The "techno" explanation for the cauliflower beauty of clouds implies that they are simply a visible mass of droplets or frozen crystals floating in the atmosphere above the surface of our earth bound existence. If I wanted to truly bore the crap outta my loyal reader, I might add that clouds are studied in the nephology or cloud physics branch of meteorology. Nah, I'll just go with my gut reaction.
On peaceful days, the clouds make me feel close to those who have "gone down amongst them" (my Dad's expression for the deceased). Don't know why, they just have that effect. I sit on a stump, contemplate the distant ethereal body of fluff, and wonder if my parents are watching.
Other days, like today, the clouds seem angry and brooding as thunder rolls across the horizon.
Then comes the ghostly pace of fog (earth bound clouds) eerily creeping across the landscape with a moist touch on our skin.
Regardless of their mood, clouds are a welcome companion that I seem to appreciate more each day for their beauty, contribution to solemnity, and thought provoking quality.
Thank you my gracious salvation Father for this incredible blessing.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Freddy Krueger
In 1879, the first commercial electric station opened in California. Fifty years later, however, much of the Texas Hill Country remained without electric service. Providing electricity to rural farms, ranches, and outhouses was simply not profitable for suppliers (think rich folks?).
Lyndon B. Johnson, a 28-year-old Congressman and future hound dawg ear puller, brought the region hope. Johnson lobbied the Roosevelt administration for funding and fought its population requirements. Thus was born the Pedernales Electric Cooperative in Johnson City, about 50 miles west of the Tin Star Ranch.
The Cooperative, organized in 1938, presently serves its 200,000 member/owners and encompasses area of 8,100 square miles (including 15 acres of yours truly's Heaven near Gabriel Mills).
In 2004, your humble ranch hand became a member of the PEC in order to have power to the barn. For the princely sum of $17 per month (automatic yearly average checking account deduct) there was light in the manger, "cool" in the beer fridge, and "juice" for the Montgomery Wards cracker box welding machine.
After near four years of planning, your humble scribe fulfilled a long sought dream and moved into the rustic ranch headquarters to live a live of peace, luxury (country style), and relaxation.
Today the peace/relaxation part got swift butt kick from the ever impressive "technology" of mother USA (roll in your grave LBJ).
Big Brother PEC called to say that something "out of the ordinary" occurred about three months ago. Seems my monthly "light bill" (Dad's term) had jumped from $17 per month to an average of $147 per month and I was arrears in on the averaged deduct of more than $400.
No problemo kemo sabe. I moved into the new ranch headquarters and added that utility consumption to the meager needs of the barn. Just recalculate, re-average, and re-deduct per month til the cows come home.
\.....and the techno BS begins again like Freddy Krueger in the 308th episode??????
"Sir, the COMPUTER will not allow us to re-average your monthly deduct until you pay the pending escrow balance."
Super! Add the bill, tell me the total, allow me the privilege of getting even and let's recalculate the monthly average deduct.
Not so fast old fat one (I know that was what Elisabeth -sounded like 15 years old- was thinking). "You have to pay the pending amount due thru June 11th and then pay the remainder on July 11th and then thereafter, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah"
Wonderful. I'll do whatever you just said and throw in 15% for a tip. Just set this up so that I pay the correct amount per month and you don't whack me up the side of the head at the end of the year because I didn't pay enough during the year.
"Sir, are you listening Sir?" " The (damnable) COMPUTER will not allow me to do what you are asking. The "program" will only allow a max charge of $64 per month and you will have to call us back in March 2010 and "renegotiate" (after catching up on the fricking escrow backlog thing again????????).
OK, enough blabbering.
Am I STOOPID, or has the COMPUTER age completely drained the brains from every human left on earth?
Damn, either I'm getting crotchety in my dotage, or the world is plumb eat up with DUMASS?
Lyndon B. Johnson, a 28-year-old Congressman and future hound dawg ear puller, brought the region hope. Johnson lobbied the Roosevelt administration for funding and fought its population requirements. Thus was born the Pedernales Electric Cooperative in Johnson City, about 50 miles west of the Tin Star Ranch.
The Cooperative, organized in 1938, presently serves its 200,000 member/owners and encompasses area of 8,100 square miles (including 15 acres of yours truly's Heaven near Gabriel Mills).
In 2004, your humble ranch hand became a member of the PEC in order to have power to the barn. For the princely sum of $17 per month (automatic yearly average checking account deduct) there was light in the manger, "cool" in the beer fridge, and "juice" for the Montgomery Wards cracker box welding machine.
After near four years of planning, your humble scribe fulfilled a long sought dream and moved into the rustic ranch headquarters to live a live of peace, luxury (country style), and relaxation.
Today the peace/relaxation part got swift butt kick from the ever impressive "technology" of mother USA (roll in your grave LBJ).
Big Brother PEC called to say that something "out of the ordinary" occurred about three months ago. Seems my monthly "light bill" (Dad's term) had jumped from $17 per month to an average of $147 per month and I was arrears in on the averaged deduct of more than $400.
No problemo kemo sabe. I moved into the new ranch headquarters and added that utility consumption to the meager needs of the barn. Just recalculate, re-average, and re-deduct per month til the cows come home.
\.....and the techno BS begins again like Freddy Krueger in the 308th episode??????
"Sir, the COMPUTER will not allow us to re-average your monthly deduct until you pay the pending escrow balance."
Super! Add the bill, tell me the total, allow me the privilege of getting even and let's recalculate the monthly average deduct.
Not so fast old fat one (I know that was what Elisabeth -sounded like 15 years old- was thinking). "You have to pay the pending amount due thru June 11th and then pay the remainder on July 11th and then thereafter, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah"
Wonderful. I'll do whatever you just said and throw in 15% for a tip. Just set this up so that I pay the correct amount per month and you don't whack me up the side of the head at the end of the year because I didn't pay enough during the year.
"Sir, are you listening Sir?" " The (damnable) COMPUTER will not allow me to do what you are asking. The "program" will only allow a max charge of $64 per month and you will have to call us back in March 2010 and "renegotiate" (after catching up on the fricking escrow backlog thing again????????).
OK, enough blabbering.
Am I STOOPID, or has the COMPUTER age completely drained the brains from every human left on earth?
Damn, either I'm getting crotchety in my dotage, or the world is plumb eat up with DUMASS?
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Wrinkled
First you forget names, then you forget faces. Next you forget to pull your zipper up and finally, you forget to pull it down. (George Burns)
The older the ranch hand gets, the more he relates to ole George. For example, after living in town for so long, he occasionally forgets the rural nature of his current abode.
He gets reminded when:
1. The water quits comin' from the well behind the house because the electricity cut off.
2. Every potty flush includes a prayer the septic system "works"?
3. Fiddlin' with a satellite TV hoochie is a must without cable access.
4. Ditto the mysteries of a satellite internet system because DSL ain't an option.
5. The local redneck population repeatedly proves the gene pool could use a little chlorine.
Nothin' deep here. Just that it was either blog the above thought or muse on the fact that wrinkled was not one of the things I wanted to be when I grew up?
The older the ranch hand gets, the more he relates to ole George. For example, after living in town for so long, he occasionally forgets the rural nature of his current abode.
He gets reminded when:
1. The water quits comin' from the well behind the house because the electricity cut off.
2. Every potty flush includes a prayer the septic system "works"?
3. Fiddlin' with a satellite TV hoochie is a must without cable access.
4. Ditto the mysteries of a satellite internet system because DSL ain't an option.
5. The local redneck population repeatedly proves the gene pool could use a little chlorine.
Nothin' deep here. Just that it was either blog the above thought or muse on the fact that wrinkled was not one of the things I wanted to be when I grew up?
Monday, May 18, 2009
Boone vs. Bozo
Given his reputation for accuracy, Daniel Boone no doubt practiced with his Kentucky rifle til the hide wore off it.
Following Brother Boone's fine example, I decided on Saturday to fine tune my BB gun skills in order to eliminate some nuisance birds that have been chasing off more photogenic subjects at the bird feeder in the back yard.
I found a proper gun rest on the back porch and deposited a tin can at the base of the feeder in order to have the proper range. Imagine how my confidence built as BB after BB plinked the can without a miss!
Suddenly an offending party lit on the top of the metal feeder. Junior Boone leveled his instrument of death square on the varmit and slowly squeezed the trigger to loose the stored energy propelling the shiny projectile...... and shot square into the glass cover on the front of the feeder which allows one to see the amount of feed remaining.
The hole in the glass is the size of a quarter and the damn bird is still laughing his butt off?
Following Brother Boone's fine example, I decided on Saturday to fine tune my BB gun skills in order to eliminate some nuisance birds that have been chasing off more photogenic subjects at the bird feeder in the back yard.
I found a proper gun rest on the back porch and deposited a tin can at the base of the feeder in order to have the proper range. Imagine how my confidence built as BB after BB plinked the can without a miss!
Suddenly an offending party lit on the top of the metal feeder. Junior Boone leveled his instrument of death square on the varmit and slowly squeezed the trigger to loose the stored energy propelling the shiny projectile...... and shot square into the glass cover on the front of the feeder which allows one to see the amount of feed remaining.
The hole in the glass is the size of a quarter and the damn bird is still laughing his butt off?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
CHANGE
Change is so pervasive in our lives that it almost defeats description and analysis. One can think of it in a very general way as alteration. But alteration in a thing raises subtle problems. One of the most perplexing is the problem of the consistency of change: how can one thing have incompatible properties and yet remain the same thing?
The ranch hand has been cogitatin' bout this issue of "change"? Nuthin deep, just "change" in general.
In Wright City, we only got channel 7 (Tyler) on the ole black and white TV. Most times there wasn't anything on worth watchin'. Now I have satellite TV with more than 800 channels. Same story. Ain't much worth spit to see.
Dad always had a wore out piece of crap for a lawnmower that would take twice as long to get started as it took me to mow the yard. I hated mowing the yard. Now I have all manner of electric instant start, ride around, power steering, whatever, and I still hate to mow?
I started out driving old cars/trucks by economic necessity. After a degree of professional success I decided to purchase a succession of new vehicles for perambulation facilitation. Near bout 45 years later, I have greatest interest in the old stuff again. New cars no longer have appeal. Been there done that. I most often long for a 55-57 Chevy or a '40 model Ford coupe.
Again, nuthin deep here. Just thinking about how "change" always seems to circle back around the original camp site if you wait long enough?
The ranch hand has been cogitatin' bout this issue of "change"? Nuthin deep, just "change" in general.
In Wright City, we only got channel 7 (Tyler) on the ole black and white TV. Most times there wasn't anything on worth watchin'. Now I have satellite TV with more than 800 channels. Same story. Ain't much worth spit to see.
Dad always had a wore out piece of crap for a lawnmower that would take twice as long to get started as it took me to mow the yard. I hated mowing the yard. Now I have all manner of electric instant start, ride around, power steering, whatever, and I still hate to mow?
I started out driving old cars/trucks by economic necessity. After a degree of professional success I decided to purchase a succession of new vehicles for perambulation facilitation. Near bout 45 years later, I have greatest interest in the old stuff again. New cars no longer have appeal. Been there done that. I most often long for a 55-57 Chevy or a '40 model Ford coupe.
Again, nuthin deep here. Just thinking about how "change" always seems to circle back around the original camp site if you wait long enough?
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Anal gauge
Ancient Chinese government records show that the Chou dynasty was interested in keeping rainfall measurements over 3,000 years ago. It is also known there are records in India of recording rainfall about 400 B.C.
This ole fat boy lived in Wright City as a yonker, but trust me, rainfall was NOT a concern at the time. What followed was 40 years of living in the city where the water sprinkler kept the lawn from becoming toast.
Now I live in the COUNTRY.
I don't raise hay to feed cattle, don't try to have a green lawn, and don't try to fight the deer over a vegetable garden. In short, why would I care how much rainfall occurs?
Confession time: I went to the local feed store a couple of weeks ago and bought the dee-luxe version rain gauge. This puppy is bout three foot long, three inches diameter, and has numbers that my blind butt can see from a mile away.
Point is, why did I do this? Have I suddenly developed a meteorological affliction? Have I been craving notice of the second Noah's flood? Have I just run outta anything else to do of worthwhile value? Have I simply become anal concerning the environment?
Ain't no joke and ain't no answer here, there is just...... 'scuse me, I gotta go check the gauge cause it's sprinklin' and, well, never mind????????????
This ole fat boy lived in Wright City as a yonker, but trust me, rainfall was NOT a concern at the time. What followed was 40 years of living in the city where the water sprinkler kept the lawn from becoming toast.
Now I live in the COUNTRY.
I don't raise hay to feed cattle, don't try to have a green lawn, and don't try to fight the deer over a vegetable garden. In short, why would I care how much rainfall occurs?
Confession time: I went to the local feed store a couple of weeks ago and bought the dee-luxe version rain gauge. This puppy is bout three foot long, three inches diameter, and has numbers that my blind butt can see from a mile away.
Point is, why did I do this? Have I suddenly developed a meteorological affliction? Have I been craving notice of the second Noah's flood? Have I just run outta anything else to do of worthwhile value? Have I simply become anal concerning the environment?
Ain't no joke and ain't no answer here, there is just...... 'scuse me, I gotta go check the gauge cause it's sprinklin' and, well, never mind????????????
LIVER
Uncle Charlie had two ponds next to Grandmother's place.
The "old" pond was available at any time for the ranch hand to fish to his heart's content. MANY long days were spent on that beautiful expanse of piscatorial hunting acreage angling for the ever elusive "mud cats", red ears, blue gill and occasional turtle. Grasshoppers were free and the fish thought they were lobster so it was a match made in heaven.
The "new" pond was off limits to kiddos (me). This forbidden Garden of Eden was stocked with channel catfish (think good eatin').
Seein' as how Charlie was Grandmother's brother, she naturally had poaching rights on the "new" pond. I have this wonderful memory of her putting on a "sun" dress with a long hem, long sleeves, and collared neck up to her chin. Ola Mae would top this ballroom quality gown with a bonnet she had made from the finest chicken feed sack material one could imagine (all homemade naturally).
Grandmother would get her carefully stowed cane pole with just the right size braided line, cork, and hook and then raid the freezer.
I don't know if my grandparents cooked/ate calf liver, but I do know that Grandmother treasured it as catfish bait. She would get some choice sliver of the slimy maroon filtering organ and walk the cow path to the southeast down to the "new" pond. She would innocently scatter insects and temporarily interest the cows .
My prejudiced view is that it don't take a lot of "skill" to hold a cane pole. HOWEVER, I do know two things. 1. I have held a dang cane pole til I near froze and caught nothing. 2. Grandmother seemed to never fail to haul an absolutely beautiful catfish back to the house to be fricasseed in her imitable style for a skillet delight.
Maybe she held her mouth right. Maybe she spit on the bait. If you ask me, I'm thinkin' the good Lord saw the most loving, faithful woman that ever lived and granted her one of the few pleasures she ever wanted.
Thank you our gracious and loving Father, for if ever an earth bound soul deserved such a gift, my dear sweet Grandmother was that person.
The "old" pond was available at any time for the ranch hand to fish to his heart's content. MANY long days were spent on that beautiful expanse of piscatorial hunting acreage angling for the ever elusive "mud cats", red ears, blue gill and occasional turtle. Grasshoppers were free and the fish thought they were lobster so it was a match made in heaven.
The "new" pond was off limits to kiddos (me). This forbidden Garden of Eden was stocked with channel catfish (think good eatin').
Seein' as how Charlie was Grandmother's brother, she naturally had poaching rights on the "new" pond. I have this wonderful memory of her putting on a "sun" dress with a long hem, long sleeves, and collared neck up to her chin. Ola Mae would top this ballroom quality gown with a bonnet she had made from the finest chicken feed sack material one could imagine (all homemade naturally).
Grandmother would get her carefully stowed cane pole with just the right size braided line, cork, and hook and then raid the freezer.
I don't know if my grandparents cooked/ate calf liver, but I do know that Grandmother treasured it as catfish bait. She would get some choice sliver of the slimy maroon filtering organ and walk the cow path to the southeast down to the "new" pond. She would innocently scatter insects and temporarily interest the cows .
My prejudiced view is that it don't take a lot of "skill" to hold a cane pole. HOWEVER, I do know two things. 1. I have held a dang cane pole til I near froze and caught nothing. 2. Grandmother seemed to never fail to haul an absolutely beautiful catfish back to the house to be fricasseed in her imitable style for a skillet delight.
Maybe she held her mouth right. Maybe she spit on the bait. If you ask me, I'm thinkin' the good Lord saw the most loving, faithful woman that ever lived and granted her one of the few pleasures she ever wanted.
Thank you our gracious and loving Father, for if ever an earth bound soul deserved such a gift, my dear sweet Grandmother was that person.
Friday, May 15, 2009
The Dance
Looking back on the memory of
The dance we shared beneath the stars above
For a moment all the world was right.
And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end
The way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance.
Garth Brooks, 1990
The ranch hand was lolly gaggin' on the back porch yesterday bout 7:30 snappin' polaroids of deer at the corn feeder.
There were three or four of the forest ruminants munchin' at the buffet when a newcomer sayshayed up to the table. The largest of the bucks took a run at the outsider a time or two, but he wasn't shy enough to take the hint.
All the sudden, the two combatants reared up on their hind legs and commenced to "dancing" around like crazy while poking their front hooves in each other's face like the Thrilla in Manila?
After circlin' bout twice they dropped down and returned to some serious grocery consumption.
Naturally it happened so fast and was so astonishing that I suffered the "pain" of not getting a single frame on the camera.
What the hell, I didn't "miss the dance"!
The dance we shared beneath the stars above
For a moment all the world was right.
And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end
The way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance.
Garth Brooks, 1990
The ranch hand was lolly gaggin' on the back porch yesterday bout 7:30 snappin' polaroids of deer at the corn feeder.
There were three or four of the forest ruminants munchin' at the buffet when a newcomer sayshayed up to the table. The largest of the bucks took a run at the outsider a time or two, but he wasn't shy enough to take the hint.
All the sudden, the two combatants reared up on their hind legs and commenced to "dancing" around like crazy while poking their front hooves in each other's face like the Thrilla in Manila?
After circlin' bout twice they dropped down and returned to some serious grocery consumption.
Naturally it happened so fast and was so astonishing that I suffered the "pain" of not getting a single frame on the camera.
What the hell, I didn't "miss the dance"!
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Butt Dust
An old joke has a country preacher raising his arms toward heaven during his sermon while exalting, "Oh Lord, without you we are but dust". This comment is immediately followed by a young child loudly asking, "Mama, what is butt dust?"
I think I finally know the answer to this question.
This past weekend I fired up ole Big Dawg, cranked that iron mule to near 540 rpm and pulled the trigger on the shredder. This was followed by six hours of the damnest dust/pollen/crap storm in history as the weed growth on the Tin Star fell to the whirling blades.
Now picture your favorite ranch hand sitting on the tractor seat in the middle of this (breathing, of course). Next, picture said doofus spending the next few days in mortal misery due to the allergic reaction(s)? I'm talking hacking, head bustin', down home choked to the bone!
Don't know the exact formula of that stuff I breathed, howsomever, I reckon "butt dust" is close enough?
I think I finally know the answer to this question.
This past weekend I fired up ole Big Dawg, cranked that iron mule to near 540 rpm and pulled the trigger on the shredder. This was followed by six hours of the damnest dust/pollen/crap storm in history as the weed growth on the Tin Star fell to the whirling blades.
Now picture your favorite ranch hand sitting on the tractor seat in the middle of this (breathing, of course). Next, picture said doofus spending the next few days in mortal misery due to the allergic reaction(s)? I'm talking hacking, head bustin', down home choked to the bone!
Don't know the exact formula of that stuff I breathed, howsomever, I reckon "butt dust" is close enough?
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Mother
Wow, what a challenge to "blog" about my mom on Mother's day?
There is no way that I can adequately use words to pay appropriate tribute.
Mom was comfort, a sweet smell, always forgiving, incredible cooking, supportive, understanding, and someone that I shall forever worship as a sainted woman.
I don't have the words to do this.
I loved her more than i can say with mere prose. She is a part of who I am and I cherish her memory.
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY SWEET ETHELDA BERNICE.
There is no way that I can adequately use words to pay appropriate tribute.
Mom was comfort, a sweet smell, always forgiving, incredible cooking, supportive, understanding, and someone that I shall forever worship as a sainted woman.
I don't have the words to do this.
I loved her more than i can say with mere prose. She is a part of who I am and I cherish her memory.
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY SWEET ETHELDA BERNICE.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Electrician's Tape
During February 1900, Eastman Kodak introduced a simple, cheap camera at a cost of one dollar. As the camera was designed and marketed for children, it was called a "Brownie". Brownies were the characters in children's books written by Palmer Cox during the 1880's.
I don't remember who it belonged to, but the ole ranch hand had access to a Brownie during the late 1950's. On extremely rare occasion, he also cabbaged onto a gift roll of 110 film. Many were the hours spent carefully selecting the right angle, light, perspective, and scene composure of a chosen subject matter. No doubt my "work" would adorn the pages of treasured photo albums for generations to come.
The only snag was that I NEVER had the dough to get the film developed.
About 20 years ago I found four or five rolls of my old black and white film with some electricians tape holding each roll together. On a whim, I sent the rolls to a lab for development. The days before arrival of the photos included eager anticipation of the images so treasured in my youth.
Alas, it was not to be. The lab dutifully "developed" the pictures and charged accordingly, but each shot was simply blackness. The historical record of my artistic visualizations were lost forever.
However, the good news is that a mere 50 years later the "hero" of our story recovered sufficiently to once again wade into the shark infested waters of photography. That's right sports fans, the ole fat boy coughed up enough change for one of them fancy digital hoochies with enough buttons on it to strangle a peach orchard boar.
This puppy has a memory card that holds 1000 images that can be ogled without need for development labs (or electrician's tape!). Make a mistake, don't like the shot, just feeling frisky? Hell, just hit the "trash can" button and those pixels are history.
The best news: the machinery makes the operator look like a pro when he ain't always sure which end is up?
The less than best news:
1. The Brownie is now a "blackie".
2. The cost has increased 40,000%.
3. Kodak's brain child has evolved to a computerized hurdle for the cyberspacially challenged.
4. The old dawg is learning the new tricks, but he shore is a slow learner?
All ya'll pray for the achievement of photographic excellence prior to the onset of senility for yours truly.
I don't remember who it belonged to, but the ole ranch hand had access to a Brownie during the late 1950's. On extremely rare occasion, he also cabbaged onto a gift roll of 110 film. Many were the hours spent carefully selecting the right angle, light, perspective, and scene composure of a chosen subject matter. No doubt my "work" would adorn the pages of treasured photo albums for generations to come.
The only snag was that I NEVER had the dough to get the film developed.
About 20 years ago I found four or five rolls of my old black and white film with some electricians tape holding each roll together. On a whim, I sent the rolls to a lab for development. The days before arrival of the photos included eager anticipation of the images so treasured in my youth.
Alas, it was not to be. The lab dutifully "developed" the pictures and charged accordingly, but each shot was simply blackness. The historical record of my artistic visualizations were lost forever.
However, the good news is that a mere 50 years later the "hero" of our story recovered sufficiently to once again wade into the shark infested waters of photography. That's right sports fans, the ole fat boy coughed up enough change for one of them fancy digital hoochies with enough buttons on it to strangle a peach orchard boar.
This puppy has a memory card that holds 1000 images that can be ogled without need for development labs (or electrician's tape!). Make a mistake, don't like the shot, just feeling frisky? Hell, just hit the "trash can" button and those pixels are history.
The best news: the machinery makes the operator look like a pro when he ain't always sure which end is up?
The less than best news:
1. The Brownie is now a "blackie".
2. The cost has increased 40,000%.
3. Kodak's brain child has evolved to a computerized hurdle for the cyberspacially challenged.
4. The old dawg is learning the new tricks, but he shore is a slow learner?
All ya'll pray for the achievement of photographic excellence prior to the onset of senility for yours truly.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Rambo
A movie ain't never had a script the likes of what transitions ever day in nature.
The ranch boasts a feral cat that ain't never belonged to no one and wouldn't have it fer love nor money. It is a scruffy, tough as nails, UGLY, thang that just looks like a rodent's nightmare.
We don't feed it and would be plum scared to "pet" it fer fear of leaving some flesh behind?
Regardless, the ranch hand glanced sidelong out the back window today and spied a jake (yearling male turkey) stalking that dang hell cat from behind. Just afore the fight commenced, the cat sensed said jake on his butt and lit fer the hills???? Who would have thought????
Wasn't no more than an hour later that "Rambo" tom was at the corn feeder enjoying a repast of golden corn kernels. Brother crow decided to join the buffet, but to his chagrin, the testosterone fueled jake continuously "charged"!
Watched this bluff opera fer near thirty times before the jake claimed victory.
Some things are priceless. This rural extravaganza is plum fantastical!
The ranch boasts a feral cat that ain't never belonged to no one and wouldn't have it fer love nor money. It is a scruffy, tough as nails, UGLY, thang that just looks like a rodent's nightmare.
We don't feed it and would be plum scared to "pet" it fer fear of leaving some flesh behind?
Regardless, the ranch hand glanced sidelong out the back window today and spied a jake (yearling male turkey) stalking that dang hell cat from behind. Just afore the fight commenced, the cat sensed said jake on his butt and lit fer the hills???? Who would have thought????
Wasn't no more than an hour later that "Rambo" tom was at the corn feeder enjoying a repast of golden corn kernels. Brother crow decided to join the buffet, but to his chagrin, the testosterone fueled jake continuously "charged"!
Watched this bluff opera fer near thirty times before the jake claimed victory.
Some things are priceless. This rural extravaganza is plum fantastical!
Razoo
Around 1979,Dad bought five acres next to his place. I don't have a clue why. It was just there and he was able to convince Mills Parker to lend a tad of the Arp State Bank's money to make it happen.
The land was so overgrown with briars, brambles, and sedge that a rabbit couldn't squirt thru it. It was mostly downhill and looked like a rented mule would balk at working it?
Dad had more time than most anything else so he set about "taming" his new wilderness. His "tools" consisted of a razor (Dad pronounced it "razoo") sharp machete, some diesel, and matches. He would "whittle" at the brush a bit at a time and pile it behind him. When he had "enough" in the pile, he would put diesel on the green foliage and torch it with a match. The pile never really wanted to burn, it just didn't have choice as Dad kept it stoked with the petroleum until it built to a roar.
A whittle here and a whittle there (all he had was time) and eventually Dad cleared that five acres till it looked like the porch front of a church.
In 2004 the ole ranch hand bought the most beautiful 15 acres (to be) on earth and set about to make it reach its potential. He was kinda short on machinery. Only had Dad's ole machete and a wore out pickup (plus some extra time).
Wasn't no use to fret over progress. Just picked a spot each day and "whittled" on it like Dad. Next trip, "whittled" a bit more. (Don't forget the burn part)
After a year or two, good fortune allowed the acquisition of a chain saw. Course, "good" is a relative term as the damn thing nearly killed its operator a time or two. (Not the saw's fault of course, just a near terminal case of dumass on the part of the operator?????)
Then came a tractor, a limb saw, and other accoutrement's designed to ease the toil of old fat men trying to tame what nature ordained.
I am quite sure my loyal reader thought I would never get to the point of this drivel, but here she 'tis: Yesterday the ranch inventory added a steroid enhanced weedeater with a saw blade attachment straight from hell. You just point that puppy at some brush and it melts into vaporous organic miasma. I'm talking about a munchin', crunchin', brush bustin', bulldozer of a monster machine.
Damn, Dad would have loved to drive this puppy an hour or two!
The land was so overgrown with briars, brambles, and sedge that a rabbit couldn't squirt thru it. It was mostly downhill and looked like a rented mule would balk at working it?
Dad had more time than most anything else so he set about "taming" his new wilderness. His "tools" consisted of a razor (Dad pronounced it "razoo") sharp machete, some diesel, and matches. He would "whittle" at the brush a bit at a time and pile it behind him. When he had "enough" in the pile, he would put diesel on the green foliage and torch it with a match. The pile never really wanted to burn, it just didn't have choice as Dad kept it stoked with the petroleum until it built to a roar.
A whittle here and a whittle there (all he had was time) and eventually Dad cleared that five acres till it looked like the porch front of a church.
In 2004 the ole ranch hand bought the most beautiful 15 acres (to be) on earth and set about to make it reach its potential. He was kinda short on machinery. Only had Dad's ole machete and a wore out pickup (plus some extra time).
Wasn't no use to fret over progress. Just picked a spot each day and "whittled" on it like Dad. Next trip, "whittled" a bit more. (Don't forget the burn part)
After a year or two, good fortune allowed the acquisition of a chain saw. Course, "good" is a relative term as the damn thing nearly killed its operator a time or two. (Not the saw's fault of course, just a near terminal case of dumass on the part of the operator?????)
Then came a tractor, a limb saw, and other accoutrement's designed to ease the toil of old fat men trying to tame what nature ordained.
I am quite sure my loyal reader thought I would never get to the point of this drivel, but here she 'tis: Yesterday the ranch inventory added a steroid enhanced weedeater with a saw blade attachment straight from hell. You just point that puppy at some brush and it melts into vaporous organic miasma. I'm talking about a munchin', crunchin', brush bustin', bulldozer of a monster machine.
Damn, Dad would have loved to drive this puppy an hour or two!
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