The ole ranch hand don't remember the first fish he ever caught. However, yesterday marked the "first" fish caught in the Tin Star Ranch pond.
Near bout a year ago the ancient ranch pond had been dug out and reshaped to prepare it for re-stocking with fish. Observing it was a warm sunny December day with the bass striking at unseen things on the water's surface, your chubby angler determined to knock the dust off his piscatorial acquisition equipment. It was time to see if those two inch hatchlings planted nine months earlier had grown to "catchin" size.
Flipped a smaller floating "chugger" bait out there and a fat 10 inch hybrid largemouth bass was soon on the dock looking embarrassed, but elated by the tussle.
Chunked that youngun back, chunked that lure again, and scored the twin to the first.
Switched to a yaller "grub" bait....same story....them bass was like piranha on steroids?
Wanted to check out the hybrid bream so put on a bream hook and scouted down a few grasshoppers and floated them under a cork.
Them bream was clueless as the bass just sucked them g-hoppers down as fast as the old one could toss them out?
Yep, don't remember the first fish ever caught, but will not soon forget the first fish caught on the Tin Star......PRICELESS!
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
The Keeper
The eight point was likely three years old and in prime condition. Not yet a "keeper", but an excellent animal for future harvest.
It pranced in the back pasture with its head held high with pride, yet he was obviously keeping a wary eye for challengers.
The would-be Daniel Boone was watching from the deer stand hoping for a trophy to appear. Sure nuff, a loud snort came from the near brush and the sound of hoofs pawing the ground echoed.
As if on cue, the larger buck stalked indignantly into the open with his eyes riveted on the upstart suitor to his harem of does.
Brother Boone immediately got extreme heart palpitations and grabbed at his trusty rifle like it was a rattlesnake.....resulting in a LOUD bang as it fell into the side of the tin wall of the hunting shed.
Brother buck takes off like a red hot poker was stuffed up his butt, but makes a single fatal mistake. He stopped at the edge of the brush to see what manner of idjit would make that much noise while trying to be "stealthy"?
Scratch the second Tin Star Ranch buck for 2010 and git the grease hot for them venison back strap yummies.
It pranced in the back pasture with its head held high with pride, yet he was obviously keeping a wary eye for challengers.
The would-be Daniel Boone was watching from the deer stand hoping for a trophy to appear. Sure nuff, a loud snort came from the near brush and the sound of hoofs pawing the ground echoed.
As if on cue, the larger buck stalked indignantly into the open with his eyes riveted on the upstart suitor to his harem of does.
Brother Boone immediately got extreme heart palpitations and grabbed at his trusty rifle like it was a rattlesnake.....resulting in a LOUD bang as it fell into the side of the tin wall of the hunting shed.
Brother buck takes off like a red hot poker was stuffed up his butt, but makes a single fatal mistake. He stopped at the edge of the brush to see what manner of idjit would make that much noise while trying to be "stealthy"?
Scratch the second Tin Star Ranch buck for 2010 and git the grease hot for them venison back strap yummies.
Friday, December 24, 2010
CORNBREAD SKILLET
Mama cook everything in a heavy black iron skillet.
Fried chicken, taters, fruit pies...you name it, it went in that skillet (and she made it damn good!).
The ranch hand don't rightly remember, but it would be a good guess that she made cornbread in the oven in that skillet. Regardless, when she passed, Dad "inherited" the skillet and it is a well known fact that he made world class cornbread in that puppy.
Always the same consistency, always just the right amount of "brown" on the top, and it always fell out of the skillet effortlessly and looked like a layer of a cake ready for the icing.
Dad passed and number one son "inherited" the skillet and the cornbread recipe.
Ever noticed how just getting a recipe don't perzactly result in a great table setting? Ya gotta learn time, temperature, and temperament of stuff and just plain keep on a'tryin'.
What follers is likely to be the first/last "recipe" my loyal reader(s?) will find in this humble blog. Mom started it, Dad fine-tuned it, and yours truly will spend the rest of his life trying to live up to the honor of cooking it:
CORN BREAD
1 cup flour
1 cup yellow corn meal
1 pinch soda
1 T baking powder
1 t salt
buttermilk
(put any SUGAR in it and you will be hunted down like a cur dawg and called the pansy ya are)
450 degrees oven in greased skillet for 20-25 minutes.
(What follers is "top secret" classified shit so remember that loose lips sink ships)
After cooking yur culinary masterpiece, scrub that skillet in soap/water, but NEVER dry it with a towel! Put your treasured baking tool on the stove over a fire and heat it until the water evaporates and while still hot, rub some cooking oil on the interior to keep it "seasoned". Then put that implement of deliciousness in its storage place "oiled" til the next time.
Cooking instructions for DUMMIES (like yore chubby scribe): Wait till that red hot poker from hell has cooled before ya grab holt the handle or ya will soil your pants when the error of your ways sinks in (Hell yes, there is a reason yur chuck wagon aficionado know this?).
Fried chicken, taters, fruit pies...you name it, it went in that skillet (and she made it damn good!).
The ranch hand don't rightly remember, but it would be a good guess that she made cornbread in the oven in that skillet. Regardless, when she passed, Dad "inherited" the skillet and it is a well known fact that he made world class cornbread in that puppy.
Always the same consistency, always just the right amount of "brown" on the top, and it always fell out of the skillet effortlessly and looked like a layer of a cake ready for the icing.
Dad passed and number one son "inherited" the skillet and the cornbread recipe.
Ever noticed how just getting a recipe don't perzactly result in a great table setting? Ya gotta learn time, temperature, and temperament of stuff and just plain keep on a'tryin'.
What follers is likely to be the first/last "recipe" my loyal reader(s?) will find in this humble blog. Mom started it, Dad fine-tuned it, and yours truly will spend the rest of his life trying to live up to the honor of cooking it:
CORN BREAD
1 cup flour
1 cup yellow corn meal
1 pinch soda
1 T baking powder
1 t salt
buttermilk
(put any SUGAR in it and you will be hunted down like a cur dawg and called the pansy ya are)
450 degrees oven in greased skillet for 20-25 minutes.
(What follers is "top secret" classified shit so remember that loose lips sink ships)
After cooking yur culinary masterpiece, scrub that skillet in soap/water, but NEVER dry it with a towel! Put your treasured baking tool on the stove over a fire and heat it until the water evaporates and while still hot, rub some cooking oil on the interior to keep it "seasoned". Then put that implement of deliciousness in its storage place "oiled" til the next time.
Cooking instructions for DUMMIES (like yore chubby scribe): Wait till that red hot poker from hell has cooled before ya grab holt the handle or ya will soil your pants when the error of your ways sinks in (Hell yes, there is a reason yur chuck wagon aficionado know this?).
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Chasin' the Water
The ranch hand had the Tin Star pond scraped, shaped, and scooped a while back and the rains dutifully filled same.
After the piscatorial container was "full", the ole fat boy started wishin' he had built a "dock" out into the water to ease the feeding of the fish therein and for improved observation.
As with the nature of all things, the rains stopped and the water level has been diminishing.
Accordingly, the portly one has been adding a 4x4 section of treated lumber dock one section at a time while ever pursuing the fleeing water's edge.
Now comes the dichotomy between wanting to build more dock, and wanting it to rain to fill the pond back up?????
Ain't it always that way?
After the piscatorial container was "full", the ole fat boy started wishin' he had built a "dock" out into the water to ease the feeding of the fish therein and for improved observation.
As with the nature of all things, the rains stopped and the water level has been diminishing.
Accordingly, the portly one has been adding a 4x4 section of treated lumber dock one section at a time while ever pursuing the fleeing water's edge.
Now comes the dichotomy between wanting to build more dock, and wanting it to rain to fill the pond back up?????
Ain't it always that way?
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The Last Day of the Season
The ranch hand hunted during the late 70's in the Sabine River bottom on near a 1000 acre deer hunting lease that was wild and woollie.
About 1978 found the would be venison shooter at the last day of the season about a 100 yards off the river on the stand til plumb dark with not hide nor hair of a deer for the entire effort.
Disappointed, but cold and ready to be home, the ole fat boy eased the '64 Chevy truck in the direction of Marshall up the pitch black, lonely cow path to the paved road. Unfortunately, an error in navigation judgement resulted in dropping to the pickup frame in a black sucking mud hole bog that an elephant could not have escaped from?
After hours of digging, shovin' "stuff" under the tires, and plain pushin', shovin', coaxin' that 1/2 ton puppy to walk out of the mud, it was evident that a L-O-N-G walk to town in the dark was gonna happen.
Imagine this: The night was dark as sin, the "hunter" was clad head to toe in "camo", and mud was caked an inch deep from eyeball to toes? Who was gonna pick up this miscreant "hitchhiker" on Texas 43 in the dark of night?
Imagine the anticipation when the lost soul heard a tractor chugging his way and saw the pale yellow light of its frontal beacon pointing the way toward the river?
That blessed farmer, looking for a lost cow, pulled JRM's little truck from the bog and allowed a cold, dirty (empty handed) hunter to make it home on the last day of the season.
Dang, if only that was the "worst" story the ranch hand could tell about hunting miscues?
About 1978 found the would be venison shooter at the last day of the season about a 100 yards off the river on the stand til plumb dark with not hide nor hair of a deer for the entire effort.
Disappointed, but cold and ready to be home, the ole fat boy eased the '64 Chevy truck in the direction of Marshall up the pitch black, lonely cow path to the paved road. Unfortunately, an error in navigation judgement resulted in dropping to the pickup frame in a black sucking mud hole bog that an elephant could not have escaped from?
After hours of digging, shovin' "stuff" under the tires, and plain pushin', shovin', coaxin' that 1/2 ton puppy to walk out of the mud, it was evident that a L-O-N-G walk to town in the dark was gonna happen.
Imagine this: The night was dark as sin, the "hunter" was clad head to toe in "camo", and mud was caked an inch deep from eyeball to toes? Who was gonna pick up this miscreant "hitchhiker" on Texas 43 in the dark of night?
Imagine the anticipation when the lost soul heard a tractor chugging his way and saw the pale yellow light of its frontal beacon pointing the way toward the river?
That blessed farmer, looking for a lost cow, pulled JRM's little truck from the bog and allowed a cold, dirty (empty handed) hunter to make it home on the last day of the season.
Dang, if only that was the "worst" story the ranch hand could tell about hunting miscues?
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Dress Britches
The range hand sashayed in from the town job yesterday and jus' plunked down in the sun room to enjoy a cold adult beverage while perusing the back pasture with binoculars.
Tired from the week's labor, the old fat boy didn't even change to ranch clothes.
Bout dark thirty, a three year old eight point eased from the brush and began to munch at the corn feeder. Weren't long before the youngster jerked up his head and began to intently stare at the distant corner of the field?
Sure nuff, the bull of the woods stiffly entered stage left to challenge the would be challenger to his forest kingdom. Likely twice the age of the youthful intruder, the magnificent antlers of this alpha dawg gave ample warning of the consequences of failure to acknowledge his superiority.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the binocular jockey was fighting heart palpitations while trying to ease a bullet in the trusty 7mm-08 and slip out the back door onto the porch. Course, with the ole fart's anticipatory shaking going on, there wasn't much else to do but cabbage down on his knees in order to rest the gun on the porch rail while shooting.
Bottom line: scratch one superior Tin Star Ranch buck and one pair of skint knee dress britches from that dirty porch floor.
Dang if it weren't worth it!
Tired from the week's labor, the old fat boy didn't even change to ranch clothes.
Bout dark thirty, a three year old eight point eased from the brush and began to munch at the corn feeder. Weren't long before the youngster jerked up his head and began to intently stare at the distant corner of the field?
Sure nuff, the bull of the woods stiffly entered stage left to challenge the would be challenger to his forest kingdom. Likely twice the age of the youthful intruder, the magnificent antlers of this alpha dawg gave ample warning of the consequences of failure to acknowledge his superiority.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the binocular jockey was fighting heart palpitations while trying to ease a bullet in the trusty 7mm-08 and slip out the back door onto the porch. Course, with the ole fart's anticipatory shaking going on, there wasn't much else to do but cabbage down on his knees in order to rest the gun on the porch rail while shooting.
Bottom line: scratch one superior Tin Star Ranch buck and one pair of skint knee dress britches from that dirty porch floor.
Dang if it weren't worth it!
Saturday, December 4, 2010
The Terminator
The lunar phase of the moon is the illuminated portion which varies cyclically as the moon orbits the earth. The boundary between the illuminated and the dark portions is called the terminator. (Wickipedia)
The Tin Star Ranch deer "terminator" rose long before dawn this fine morn and ascended the venison acquisition structure intent on harvesting the next round of sausage, jerky, backstrap, and chili meat.
The forest varmits failed to cooperate, but the slightest hint of the waning moon phase rose about 6:15AM as a crescent greeting against the brilliance of the morning stars.
Precious are the moments spent in the velvet smooth of morning darkness viewing the heavenly panoramic orb of God's creation as defined by His shadowy terminator.
Who cares about deer hunting anyway?
The Tin Star Ranch deer "terminator" rose long before dawn this fine morn and ascended the venison acquisition structure intent on harvesting the next round of sausage, jerky, backstrap, and chili meat.
The forest varmits failed to cooperate, but the slightest hint of the waning moon phase rose about 6:15AM as a crescent greeting against the brilliance of the morning stars.
Precious are the moments spent in the velvet smooth of morning darkness viewing the heavenly panoramic orb of God's creation as defined by His shadowy terminator.
Who cares about deer hunting anyway?
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Feet and Pearls
At the ripe age of fifteen, "J" is 72 inches of youthful vigor, gargantuan appetite, and LARGE feet.
The world is his oyster and he is eagerly waiting for the pearl formation process to begin as he enters each new day with a smile, positive attitude, and joy at being alive.
Last year the neophyte hunter bagged his first deer on the ranch by taking a doe. This year the stakes were raised a tad to include one of the several "spikes" that roam the Tin Star.
Last evening near dusk young Daniel Boone very ably planted a .270 projectile that competently initiated the venison sausage ceremony for yet another year.
Cost of the bullet: $1.00
Seeing "J" exhilarated with adrenalin at taking his first buck: PRICELESS!
The world is his oyster and he is eagerly waiting for the pearl formation process to begin as he enters each new day with a smile, positive attitude, and joy at being alive.
Last year the neophyte hunter bagged his first deer on the ranch by taking a doe. This year the stakes were raised a tad to include one of the several "spikes" that roam the Tin Star.
Last evening near dusk young Daniel Boone very ably planted a .270 projectile that competently initiated the venison sausage ceremony for yet another year.
Cost of the bullet: $1.00
Seeing "J" exhilarated with adrenalin at taking his first buck: PRICELESS!
Thursday, November 25, 2010
The Future
The testosterone swollen neck immediately signaled gender as the sleek, but muscular male silently tiptoed from the demarcation between brush and pasture.
He was an excellent example of conditioning, fortunate genetics, and substantial food supply. However, groceries were not the priority this November afternoon. The breeding season is full bore and feminine companionship was paramount for the young buck.
Nose to the ground and eyes ever trained on the surrounding foliage, the would be suitor gave no notice to the ole ranch hand concealed in the ubiquitous deer blind.
Regardless of the opportunity, a shot was not to be.
Although handsome in presentation, this particular item of ranch inventory was the future. At two to three years of age, the eight points of the white tail's horns gave but promise of later antler glory and a hunting story yet to be told.
Maybe next year?
He was an excellent example of conditioning, fortunate genetics, and substantial food supply. However, groceries were not the priority this November afternoon. The breeding season is full bore and feminine companionship was paramount for the young buck.
Nose to the ground and eyes ever trained on the surrounding foliage, the would be suitor gave no notice to the ole ranch hand concealed in the ubiquitous deer blind.
Regardless of the opportunity, a shot was not to be.
Although handsome in presentation, this particular item of ranch inventory was the future. At two to three years of age, the eight points of the white tail's horns gave but promise of later antler glory and a hunting story yet to be told.
Maybe next year?
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Wind
The extraction of the kinetic energy from wind and conversion of it into a useful type of energy; thermal, mechanical, or electrical is a worthy endeavor.
The application of wind to deer hunting is a bane to success.
The varmits key on sound and movement. Start shaking every little thing in the woods with a passle of wind and ya got a recipe for hunting failure as the ever elusive forest ruminants will hide in the brush till hell freezes over?
If ya git the ideer that the ole fat boy ain't seen hide nor hair of the trophy buck this morn...ya are on the right track???????
Hmmmm...there is always "tomorrow"!
The application of wind to deer hunting is a bane to success.
The varmits key on sound and movement. Start shaking every little thing in the woods with a passle of wind and ya got a recipe for hunting failure as the ever elusive forest ruminants will hide in the brush till hell freezes over?
If ya git the ideer that the ole fat boy ain't seen hide nor hair of the trophy buck this morn...ya are on the right track???????
Hmmmm...there is always "tomorrow"!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Gobbler Grease
The ole fat boy strolled out the back door this mid-morn and immediately heard the busy cluck of a flock of wild turkey in the nearby tree line.
Easin' back into the house, the hungry hunter slipped a 7mm-08 cartridge into the breech of the Ruger and eagerly awaited a poultry bounty.
Right as rain, the winged varmits walked and flew from the brush in toothless anticipation of the bright yellow corn at the feeder.
Then the suckas clucked their gossip, while dancing their head bobbin' crooked walk to and fro with no rhyme or reason, until they was out of sight in the distant back woods????
Yep, no shot, no meat?
Unloaded the protein collection device and figgered would blast some feathers another day.
Looked back and the teasin' rascals was sash-shayin' back into view as if to tempt the fate of gun powder driven lead yet again?????
Wright City boys know that free groceries don't come to the table every day so the ranch hand ratcheted a bullet in the carbine one mo' time and drew a careful bead on a cocky tom with a seven inch beard.
Squeeze the trigger, which weren't loaded with no sofa pillers, and scratched one male of the gobbler species.
True to their raisin', once the commotion died down, the whole herd of grasshopper wranglers gathered round the dearly departed and held a (clucking) eulogy.
Although not one to be greedy, the country rifleman opted to harvest one of the more succulent looking hens as compliment to the first "victim".
Ranch hand: 2
Turkeys: 0
Heat the grease!
Easin' back into the house, the hungry hunter slipped a 7mm-08 cartridge into the breech of the Ruger and eagerly awaited a poultry bounty.
Right as rain, the winged varmits walked and flew from the brush in toothless anticipation of the bright yellow corn at the feeder.
Then the suckas clucked their gossip, while dancing their head bobbin' crooked walk to and fro with no rhyme or reason, until they was out of sight in the distant back woods????
Yep, no shot, no meat?
Unloaded the protein collection device and figgered would blast some feathers another day.
Looked back and the teasin' rascals was sash-shayin' back into view as if to tempt the fate of gun powder driven lead yet again?????
Wright City boys know that free groceries don't come to the table every day so the ranch hand ratcheted a bullet in the carbine one mo' time and drew a careful bead on a cocky tom with a seven inch beard.
Squeeze the trigger, which weren't loaded with no sofa pillers, and scratched one male of the gobbler species.
True to their raisin', once the commotion died down, the whole herd of grasshopper wranglers gathered round the dearly departed and held a (clucking) eulogy.
Although not one to be greedy, the country rifleman opted to harvest one of the more succulent looking hens as compliment to the first "victim".
Ranch hand: 2
Turkeys: 0
Heat the grease!
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Morning Bounty
It's the second Saturday of the 2011 deer season and the predawn sky most resembled dark gray dryer lint pulled into long strands across a slate background.
The coming sun gave promise of its glory by slowly oozing a soft pink into the landscape as it gathered energy for its daily passage across the Tin Star Ranch sky.
Daylight brought the welcome visit of four does slowly walking toward their morning drink at the pond.
A "latecomer" eventually trotted across the pasture in pursuit of her companions, obviously distressed for missing the wake up call.
Thereafter, a dozen turkey hens strolled thru the brush, perused the ubiquitous corn feeder, and clucked their daily gossip to each other as they meandered back into the brush.
No shots fired by the mighty hunter, but all is good and the ranch hand is elated at the bounty of the morning!
The coming sun gave promise of its glory by slowly oozing a soft pink into the landscape as it gathered energy for its daily passage across the Tin Star Ranch sky.
Daylight brought the welcome visit of four does slowly walking toward their morning drink at the pond.
A "latecomer" eventually trotted across the pasture in pursuit of her companions, obviously distressed for missing the wake up call.
Thereafter, a dozen turkey hens strolled thru the brush, perused the ubiquitous corn feeder, and clucked their daily gossip to each other as they meandered back into the brush.
No shots fired by the mighty hunter, but all is good and the ranch hand is elated at the bounty of the morning!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Deer Loafin'
The ranch hand has engaged in deer hunting for nigh on 40 years.
Deer "hunting", or more aptly named deer "working", involves a myriad of laborious activities.
First ya gotta walk all over creation in the woods and find a suitable place to ambush the suckers. Next ya have to haul to that place, or construct on site, a "hiding" spot for military observation of the varmits. Then comes the brush/limb cutting for creation of "shooting lanes", as well as the interminable ritual of filling one's corn feeder with "bait".
The weather is a whole other subject in deer "hunting". Ya got your garden variety cold, and then there is the mind numbing, butt freezing, "why am I here" cold. Yep, rain, insects, snakes, skunks...you name it, deer "hunting" is a male rodeo on many levels.
Fortunately, the ole fat boy's testosterone has diminished sufficiently in dotage for "ego" to allow deer "LOAFIN".
That's right sports fans. We are talking being in the heated sun room, laid back in the recliner, chosen beverage at hand, TV remote nearby, and the always necessary bathroom but a step away. Hell, ya can sneeze, cough, fart, and generally wiggle around as the innocent woodland creatures have no clue that Ruger 7mm-08 death waits behind the windows of the loafin' room.
Course the pretty days still find the chubby one sitting outside for the hunt, but old age and treachery have finally overcome masculine dumass (to a small degree?).
Deer "hunting", or more aptly named deer "working", involves a myriad of laborious activities.
First ya gotta walk all over creation in the woods and find a suitable place to ambush the suckers. Next ya have to haul to that place, or construct on site, a "hiding" spot for military observation of the varmits. Then comes the brush/limb cutting for creation of "shooting lanes", as well as the interminable ritual of filling one's corn feeder with "bait".
The weather is a whole other subject in deer "hunting". Ya got your garden variety cold, and then there is the mind numbing, butt freezing, "why am I here" cold. Yep, rain, insects, snakes, skunks...you name it, deer "hunting" is a male rodeo on many levels.
Fortunately, the ole fat boy's testosterone has diminished sufficiently in dotage for "ego" to allow deer "LOAFIN".
That's right sports fans. We are talking being in the heated sun room, laid back in the recliner, chosen beverage at hand, TV remote nearby, and the always necessary bathroom but a step away. Hell, ya can sneeze, cough, fart, and generally wiggle around as the innocent woodland creatures have no clue that Ruger 7mm-08 death waits behind the windows of the loafin' room.
Course the pretty days still find the chubby one sitting outside for the hunt, but old age and treachery have finally overcome masculine dumass (to a small degree?).
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Rich Blessings
In theory, the affinity to "deer hunting" has direct relation to pursuit of the elusive forest ruminant.
In reality, it is only rookies that attach significance to the acquisition of venison.
The ranch hand's "hunt" this fine afternoon did not include so much as the sighting of an insect.
And yet.....the experience was a tranquil, soul satisfying experience which drained all vestige of life's trials from a tired and worn body.
The peace born of solitude, communion with nature, and all of God's creation is a priceless experience beyond comparison.
Truly, the quantity of game has no relation to the quality of the moment.
Thank you, oh Lord, for a blessing most rich.
In reality, it is only rookies that attach significance to the acquisition of venison.
The ranch hand's "hunt" this fine afternoon did not include so much as the sighting of an insect.
And yet.....the experience was a tranquil, soul satisfying experience which drained all vestige of life's trials from a tired and worn body.
The peace born of solitude, communion with nature, and all of God's creation is a priceless experience beyond comparison.
Truly, the quantity of game has no relation to the quality of the moment.
Thank you, oh Lord, for a blessing most rich.
Alpha Dawgs
The youngster was shy about his pasture debut.
Tentative steps led from the dense brush into full view, but body language suggested lack of confidence.
Timidity was understandable as the neophyte was entering the jousting arena of the tall dawgs.
This was the battlefield of tenured testosterone warriors who are long of antler and short of patience in their fight for the privilege of resident females.
The dwindling light of the evening sun eventually allowed confirmation of an empty pasture. There would be no challenge from older suitors on this day.
The immature six point buck was free to explore the pasture, graze on the corn, and generally "rule" the area for a brief moment in time.
The ranch hand, thru this brief glimpse, saw the future of the Tin Star herd.
Here's hopin' to see that youngun' another day as the alpha dawg in the mix.
Tentative steps led from the dense brush into full view, but body language suggested lack of confidence.
Timidity was understandable as the neophyte was entering the jousting arena of the tall dawgs.
This was the battlefield of tenured testosterone warriors who are long of antler and short of patience in their fight for the privilege of resident females.
The dwindling light of the evening sun eventually allowed confirmation of an empty pasture. There would be no challenge from older suitors on this day.
The immature six point buck was free to explore the pasture, graze on the corn, and generally "rule" the area for a brief moment in time.
The ranch hand, thru this brief glimpse, saw the future of the Tin Star herd.
Here's hopin' to see that youngun' another day as the alpha dawg in the mix.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Pushin' Up Daisies
There was a time when the ranch hand rose before dawn and cussed the sun for not giving 'nuff light to do the necessary.....this exorbitant dance was followed by performing manual labor till the sun set and found the worker wishin' for an hour or two more of light?
Damn...things change with age...the old fat boy still wakes long before dawn, but the duration of just maybe 6-7 hours and then the ole giant bear jumps on the back and the effort of lifting a foot becomes more than "fun" can be defined?????
Got lots done the last two days...for an old man????...had a lot more planned, but what the hell, it's better than bein' "six feet under" and pushin' up daisies???????
Damn...things change with age...the old fat boy still wakes long before dawn, but the duration of just maybe 6-7 hours and then the ole giant bear jumps on the back and the effort of lifting a foot becomes more than "fun" can be defined?????
Got lots done the last two days...for an old man????...had a lot more planned, but what the hell, it's better than bein' "six feet under" and pushin' up daisies???????
Friday, October 29, 2010
TIME
OK, its weekend time again...the salt mine ranch hand has done another round of "town" work and it is time to do the treasured "ranch" work.
Tend to the weeds, manicure the trees a bit, gently suggest the rocks stop multiplying, and feed the fish.
The temperature is rodeo cool, the sky is empty except for the unfathomable blue, and the air is resonating with the sound of silence...except for the woodland creatures?
Life is good and "town" is but a distant memory until the dreaded Monday clock announces with solemnity born of malevolence that it is time to once again traverse the route to "town".
Truly the country part is a sweet wine variegate with the luscious touch of velvet smooth sensations, sensory palpitations, and never ending need for the balm of forgiving time.
Tend to the weeds, manicure the trees a bit, gently suggest the rocks stop multiplying, and feed the fish.
The temperature is rodeo cool, the sky is empty except for the unfathomable blue, and the air is resonating with the sound of silence...except for the woodland creatures?
Life is good and "town" is but a distant memory until the dreaded Monday clock announces with solemnity born of malevolence that it is time to once again traverse the route to "town".
Truly the country part is a sweet wine variegate with the luscious touch of velvet smooth sensations, sensory palpitations, and never ending need for the balm of forgiving time.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The Good Life
The ranch hand and his beautiful bride recently acquired a decorative steel fire pit for the back yard.
The current cool fall evenings are being enhanced by the soul felt solace of staring into the dancing tendrils of a wood fire.
It is comfort promulgated by a calming effect and the tendency toward inward reflection.
As the restless turbulence of the flame ceaselessly changes its pattern of light and nuance, one's psychological warmth trends ever toward mellow and life is good.
The current cool fall evenings are being enhanced by the soul felt solace of staring into the dancing tendrils of a wood fire.
It is comfort promulgated by a calming effect and the tendency toward inward reflection.
As the restless turbulence of the flame ceaselessly changes its pattern of light and nuance, one's psychological warmth trends ever toward mellow and life is good.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Just Talking
The ranch hand and his Dad used to ease down to the pecan orchard bottom land to harvest oak fire wood.
Wright City timber was magnificent as it towered toward the clouds and seemed to be lost to the horizon in a never ending dense forest.
Dad always said that poor folks have poor ways. True to form, we had two of the sorriest chain saws one could imagine. "Two" was necessary because we were always cutting with one and working on the other to try to get it back in operation.
After cutting what Dad called a "jag" of wood, we would haul the fuel back to the house and pile it in the yard. That's when the "fun" started. The only method available to split the round logs into manageable fireplace wood was to use an axe, sledge hammer, and splitting wedge.
We used to pound on that dang wood til we couldn't hardly stand up. On occasion, we would get the axe or the wedge STUCK in the wood and wonder if it would ever be recovered without burning it out?
It was incredibly hard work, but the ole fat boy don't remember that so much as the opportunity it provided to drink a few col' beers with Dad and just talk. Long conversations about folks we knew, old worn out jokes, country philosophy, and life in general.
The ranch hand now uses a high dollar chain saw that would slice thru steel all day long like it was hot butter. There ain't a splitting wedge on the place. That implement of torture has been replaced with a hydraulic ram which halves the logs with the touch of a button.
In some ways it is "better", but the most important part is gone. No amount of modern machinery will ever replace that time with Dad doing honest labor and just talking.
Damn I miss that man.
Wright City timber was magnificent as it towered toward the clouds and seemed to be lost to the horizon in a never ending dense forest.
Dad always said that poor folks have poor ways. True to form, we had two of the sorriest chain saws one could imagine. "Two" was necessary because we were always cutting with one and working on the other to try to get it back in operation.
After cutting what Dad called a "jag" of wood, we would haul the fuel back to the house and pile it in the yard. That's when the "fun" started. The only method available to split the round logs into manageable fireplace wood was to use an axe, sledge hammer, and splitting wedge.
We used to pound on that dang wood til we couldn't hardly stand up. On occasion, we would get the axe or the wedge STUCK in the wood and wonder if it would ever be recovered without burning it out?
It was incredibly hard work, but the ole fat boy don't remember that so much as the opportunity it provided to drink a few col' beers with Dad and just talk. Long conversations about folks we knew, old worn out jokes, country philosophy, and life in general.
The ranch hand now uses a high dollar chain saw that would slice thru steel all day long like it was hot butter. There ain't a splitting wedge on the place. That implement of torture has been replaced with a hydraulic ram which halves the logs with the touch of a button.
In some ways it is "better", but the most important part is gone. No amount of modern machinery will ever replace that time with Dad doing honest labor and just talking.
Damn I miss that man.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
MAGIC
The ranch hand's paternal grandfather started bar-b-que in the late evening and checked it periodically during the night in order to have tender, moist, and savory "que" the next day. Grandaddy never did anything in his life halfway and no doubt this endeavor was no exception
The ole fat boy recently acquired a meat smoker of sorts and forayed cautiously into the realm of culinary protein burning.
Ain't much to it. Half hour to lay the wood in the fire box, get it going, and regulate the pit temperature. Twelve hours smokin' time with a careful eye to the temp gauge so the seasoned oak stays low and slow. Allow an hour for the meat to "rest" while the juices redistribute. Slice that puppy, plate it, and call in the dawgs (OK, family) to eat.
Trouble is, iffen ya want to gobble them groceries round bout six in the PM, ya gotta start the rodeo bout four in the AM as follows:
1. Drag your sorry butt out of bed
2. Do whatever
3. Stumble thru the dark to the culinary station (trees between the house and barn)
4. Try to remember why you are standing in the dark out in the yard
5. Stick wood in the firepit while wondering why dumbutt didn't do that part the day before
6. Trudge to the barn to get the propane fire starter (coulda done that yesterday too?)
7. Trudge back to the barn to get the matches to start the propane burner
8. Yeah, to the barn again cause the damn matches won't work and need the propane lighter
9. Get fire going and wait (did I mention it is dark as sin) for the smoker to reach cooking temp
10. Back in the bunkhouse to get the meat
11. Slap the victim on the grill
12. Note to self to kick own ass for not bringing paper towel to wipe seasoning/blood off hands
13. Wait to see if pit temp stabilizes at the right spot?
Then the "magic" begins:
It is a moonless morn with few clouds. The stars are almost blinding in their brilliance as they glory in the absence of city lights to attenuate their sparkle.
The darkness all around is like a soft blanket that envelopes the soul and calms the spirit.
A dove in a distant tree releases a mournful coo into the predawn coolness and there is promise of a new and better day.
I finally get it Grandaddy. It isn't about the bar-b-que. It is about the solitude, seasoned with the wonder of God's glory in all His creation.
The smoker is just a prop, Mother Nature is the stage, and all of creation is the reward for the those willing to begin the day with "que".
The ole fat boy recently acquired a meat smoker of sorts and forayed cautiously into the realm of culinary protein burning.
Ain't much to it. Half hour to lay the wood in the fire box, get it going, and regulate the pit temperature. Twelve hours smokin' time with a careful eye to the temp gauge so the seasoned oak stays low and slow. Allow an hour for the meat to "rest" while the juices redistribute. Slice that puppy, plate it, and call in the dawgs (OK, family) to eat.
Trouble is, iffen ya want to gobble them groceries round bout six in the PM, ya gotta start the rodeo bout four in the AM as follows:
1. Drag your sorry butt out of bed
2. Do whatever
3. Stumble thru the dark to the culinary station (trees between the house and barn)
4. Try to remember why you are standing in the dark out in the yard
5. Stick wood in the firepit while wondering why dumbutt didn't do that part the day before
6. Trudge to the barn to get the propane fire starter (coulda done that yesterday too?)
7. Trudge back to the barn to get the matches to start the propane burner
8. Yeah, to the barn again cause the damn matches won't work and need the propane lighter
9. Get fire going and wait (did I mention it is dark as sin) for the smoker to reach cooking temp
10. Back in the bunkhouse to get the meat
11. Slap the victim on the grill
12. Note to self to kick own ass for not bringing paper towel to wipe seasoning/blood off hands
13. Wait to see if pit temp stabilizes at the right spot?
Then the "magic" begins:
It is a moonless morn with few clouds. The stars are almost blinding in their brilliance as they glory in the absence of city lights to attenuate their sparkle.
The darkness all around is like a soft blanket that envelopes the soul and calms the spirit.
A dove in a distant tree releases a mournful coo into the predawn coolness and there is promise of a new and better day.
I finally get it Grandaddy. It isn't about the bar-b-que. It is about the solitude, seasoned with the wonder of God's glory in all His creation.
The smoker is just a prop, Mother Nature is the stage, and all of creation is the reward for the those willing to begin the day with "que".
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Topper Rodeo
At a ripe old age (12?), the ranch hand's grandfather (Papuh) offered to sell his H&R "Topper" single-shot 12 gauge for the princely sum of $15.
There is no way to cogitate how a ragged country boy found that much cash, but the deal was struck and a hunting legacy began.
The "Topper" had an old screw replacing the front sight and black electrician's tape holding the forearm in place. A healthy patina of rust merely enhanced its beauty as a potential for endless adventure.
The most endearing trait of the "once shooter" was that the shell extraction device did not function. In other words, when a round was expended, a quick follow-up shot required one to:
1. Open the breech
2. Whup out the trusty Barlow, uncork a blade, pry the hot casing out
3. Dig fresh ammo from jeans' pocket and plug same into the chamber
4. Latch shut the shootin' iron
5. Cock back the hammer
6. Find the fleeing (or rolling around laughing his butt off) game animal
7. Pull down and blast the offending varmit
8. Try to figger where the hell the knife ended up?????
Needless to say, money... and thus ammo, was a precious commodity at the time. Wasting shots was not an option. Accordingly, the aforementioned shooting contortion became a well rehearse, but seldom selected maneuver.
As the ole fat boy has employed semi-automatic weapons over the past years, spraying rapid (missed) shots over the landscape, he has often had fond remembrance of that little shotgun in terms of "hit" efficiency.
Hmmmmm, maybe this dove season can be salvaged after all by easing that puppy from its place of honor in the gun safe for one more rodeo?
There is no way to cogitate how a ragged country boy found that much cash, but the deal was struck and a hunting legacy began.
The "Topper" had an old screw replacing the front sight and black electrician's tape holding the forearm in place. A healthy patina of rust merely enhanced its beauty as a potential for endless adventure.
The most endearing trait of the "once shooter" was that the shell extraction device did not function. In other words, when a round was expended, a quick follow-up shot required one to:
1. Open the breech
2. Whup out the trusty Barlow, uncork a blade, pry the hot casing out
3. Dig fresh ammo from jeans' pocket and plug same into the chamber
4. Latch shut the shootin' iron
5. Cock back the hammer
6. Find the fleeing (or rolling around laughing his butt off) game animal
7. Pull down and blast the offending varmit
8. Try to figger where the hell the knife ended up?????
Needless to say, money... and thus ammo, was a precious commodity at the time. Wasting shots was not an option. Accordingly, the aforementioned shooting contortion became a well rehearse, but seldom selected maneuver.
As the ole fat boy has employed semi-automatic weapons over the past years, spraying rapid (missed) shots over the landscape, he has often had fond remembrance of that little shotgun in terms of "hit" efficiency.
Hmmmmm, maybe this dove season can be salvaged after all by easing that puppy from its place of honor in the gun safe for one more rodeo?
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Fierce Hunters and Other Myths?
Morning doves are said to be the leading game bird in North America with up to 70 million shot annually by hunters.
Raising up to six broods per year, these prolific breeders amply endure the annual hunting pressure with no discernible loss in numbers.
To enumerate the annual "kill" of doves in Texas, one must respond to a survey each year in order to purchase a migratory game bird stamp and thus collect more doves.
The fierce ranch hunter rather bashfully responded to the mandatory survey this year by replying that last years accumulation totaled a mere three lost aviary souls.
Understandably shamed by this paltry expression of game acquisition, the ole fat boy resolved to improve on assassination of the 55 mph fliers this season.
Alas, it appears to not be in the cards.....15 days into the season the myopic sexagenarian curmudgeon totals his game count at one (1), "numero uno"....as in a single fricken varmit bird?
Ain't no point in wastin' words on excuses? The proof is in the absence of protein in the freezer.
Raising up to six broods per year, these prolific breeders amply endure the annual hunting pressure with no discernible loss in numbers.
To enumerate the annual "kill" of doves in Texas, one must respond to a survey each year in order to purchase a migratory game bird stamp and thus collect more doves.
The fierce ranch hunter rather bashfully responded to the mandatory survey this year by replying that last years accumulation totaled a mere three lost aviary souls.
Understandably shamed by this paltry expression of game acquisition, the ole fat boy resolved to improve on assassination of the 55 mph fliers this season.
Alas, it appears to not be in the cards.....15 days into the season the myopic sexagenarian curmudgeon totals his game count at one (1), "numero uno"....as in a single fricken varmit bird?
Ain't no point in wastin' words on excuses? The proof is in the absence of protein in the freezer.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Free Dawg
The pre-dawn darkness last Saturday morn was an enveloping blanket of sensory softness as the ranch hand stumbled around preparing the pit smoker for an obligatory sacrificial offering of brisket.
Not asleep, but not quite awake, the would be pit-master bent to the task carefully placing each stick of seasoned Tin Star Ranch oak in the steel firepit in a manner that might best caress the beef to its maximum potential of lip lickin' goodness.
Attention to detail and deftness of touch was essential (since ole dum butt forgot to bring a flashlight). Would not the fam's tongues soon be dancing a jig with their tonsils at the culinary delight therein?
The neophyte meat-burner assumed a rather delicate position by bending over, reaching into the firebox enclosure, and using tactile means to position the fuel (while hoping no stinging/biting varmit had assumed residence).
Meanwhile, the ever faithful ranch dawg, Fido, decided to sneak (injun style) between the legs of his beloved master and SNEEZE!
History should denote the world record leap that resulted when one old fat man jumped a pit that is 7 feet long, clearing the smoke stack that is at least 6 1/2 feet high, landing bragging distance beyond with but a smidgen of urine dribbling down his leg??
Anybody want to give a "free" dawg a new home?????
Not asleep, but not quite awake, the would be pit-master bent to the task carefully placing each stick of seasoned Tin Star Ranch oak in the steel firepit in a manner that might best caress the beef to its maximum potential of lip lickin' goodness.
Attention to detail and deftness of touch was essential (since ole dum butt forgot to bring a flashlight). Would not the fam's tongues soon be dancing a jig with their tonsils at the culinary delight therein?
The neophyte meat-burner assumed a rather delicate position by bending over, reaching into the firebox enclosure, and using tactile means to position the fuel (while hoping no stinging/biting varmit had assumed residence).
Meanwhile, the ever faithful ranch dawg, Fido, decided to sneak (injun style) between the legs of his beloved master and SNEEZE!
History should denote the world record leap that resulted when one old fat man jumped a pit that is 7 feet long, clearing the smoke stack that is at least 6 1/2 feet high, landing bragging distance beyond with but a smidgen of urine dribbling down his leg??
Anybody want to give a "free" dawg a new home?????
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Daisy Red Ryder
When the ranch hand was about 12, his parents presented him with a single shot .22 caliber rifle made by Noble Arms (model 20-f) that was purchased new for about $13.
Regardless of cost, the memories that stubby little weapon has provided over the last 40 -50 years are priceless.
The ranch hand never had more than a dozen shells at one time, but ammo quantity placed no limit on the adventure available. Countless hours were spent roaming the East Texas woods in search of "wild game" and other targets of opportunity.
That rimfire represented passage to total freedom of imagination while escaping the bounds of daily life. Accordingly, it is held in a place of earned honor in the gun cabinet to date.
Last week afforded the privilege of spending the day "plinking" with number one grandson while teaching him the finer art of accuracy with his Daisy Red Ryder BB gun.
If only Jon Charles knew what soul satisfying moments that little spring powered shooter will provide over time. Careful stalking of imaginary backyard prey and the sensory positive feedback that occurs as the metal BB successfully pops against a chosen stationary target are only a few of the sensory pleasures to come.
Hmmmmm....wonder if that half-century old Noble would fit in J.C.'s gun cabinet one day?
Regardless of cost, the memories that stubby little weapon has provided over the last 40 -50 years are priceless.
The ranch hand never had more than a dozen shells at one time, but ammo quantity placed no limit on the adventure available. Countless hours were spent roaming the East Texas woods in search of "wild game" and other targets of opportunity.
That rimfire represented passage to total freedom of imagination while escaping the bounds of daily life. Accordingly, it is held in a place of earned honor in the gun cabinet to date.
Last week afforded the privilege of spending the day "plinking" with number one grandson while teaching him the finer art of accuracy with his Daisy Red Ryder BB gun.
If only Jon Charles knew what soul satisfying moments that little spring powered shooter will provide over time. Careful stalking of imaginary backyard prey and the sensory positive feedback that occurs as the metal BB successfully pops against a chosen stationary target are only a few of the sensory pleasures to come.
Hmmmmm....wonder if that half-century old Noble would fit in J.C.'s gun cabinet one day?
Sunday, August 22, 2010
SNAP
John Charles is the ranch hand's numero uno grandson and at six years of age he is all man and a mile wide.
Being the son of a country Baptist preacher, one could easily surmise that public cussin' ain't an accepted practice.
Never one to let the world limit his options in any venue, Brother J.C. (with his astonishing alto voice) regularly utters his patented expression of frustration, "Snap".
Just for the record, grandpa thinks (with limited bias) that the world could learn a valuable lesson in civility if we would abandon blasphemy for J's route!
Being the son of a country Baptist preacher, one could easily surmise that public cussin' ain't an accepted practice.
Never one to let the world limit his options in any venue, Brother J.C. (with his astonishing alto voice) regularly utters his patented expression of frustration, "Snap".
Just for the record, grandpa thinks (with limited bias) that the world could learn a valuable lesson in civility if we would abandon blasphemy for J's route!
Crops and Kids
The ranch hand's west Texas grandkids live at the junction of a narrow paved path and a dirt road. The "town" at that intersection consists of a church and the adjacent parsonage.
Stand in the middle of that "highway" intersection, turn in a circle, and you will see nothing more than cotton fields to the horizon.
It's "dry land" farming at its best. Good soil, but dependent on rain (one could likely not count the prayers offered in request of precipitation at the Crossroads Baptist Church?)
The church is 100 years young. It has fostered marriages, baptisms, the saving of souls, and funerals for multiple generations. It is a gathering place for a far flung community of fiercely independent folk who will stomp on anything threatening without hesitation. More importantly, these are the same folk who ever so generously love and provide to those they value.
Living life in Crossroads is a quiet, gentle experience. It bears witness to the strength of character God provides while removing distractions to the beauty of His rural creations.
Add the obvious testament that the church exemplifies the family of God and the body of Christ, and one can not help but feel closer to heaven.
What better place to raise crops and kids?
Stand in the middle of that "highway" intersection, turn in a circle, and you will see nothing more than cotton fields to the horizon.
It's "dry land" farming at its best. Good soil, but dependent on rain (one could likely not count the prayers offered in request of precipitation at the Crossroads Baptist Church?)
The church is 100 years young. It has fostered marriages, baptisms, the saving of souls, and funerals for multiple generations. It is a gathering place for a far flung community of fiercely independent folk who will stomp on anything threatening without hesitation. More importantly, these are the same folk who ever so generously love and provide to those they value.
Living life in Crossroads is a quiet, gentle experience. It bears witness to the strength of character God provides while removing distractions to the beauty of His rural creations.
Add the obvious testament that the church exemplifies the family of God and the body of Christ, and one can not help but feel closer to heaven.
What better place to raise crops and kids?
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Life's A Highway
Life's like a road that you travel on
When there's one day here and the next day gone
Sometimes you bend, sometimes you stand
Sometimes you turn your back to the wind
-Tom Cochran (1991)
The ranch hand had lunch with a valued friend of the last 30 years today.
The "talk" ranged along the lines of mutual acquaintances over the last three decades, unfathomable organizational changes at the employer we retired from, politics, grandkids, admired folks that had died, and just general all around masculine bull shit.
...and it was good; remembering old feelings, professional dedication, hurts, wrongs, victories, and the sublime?
God grants each person a "lifetime" of experiences, challenges, and opportunities.
All have choices at every juncture, at every age, and in every station in life.
When one achieves dotage, it is a true blessing if the calculation of positive performance in all things can at least match the burden of failures along life's highway.
When there's one day here and the next day gone
Sometimes you bend, sometimes you stand
Sometimes you turn your back to the wind
-Tom Cochran (1991)
The ranch hand had lunch with a valued friend of the last 30 years today.
The "talk" ranged along the lines of mutual acquaintances over the last three decades, unfathomable organizational changes at the employer we retired from, politics, grandkids, admired folks that had died, and just general all around masculine bull shit.
...and it was good; remembering old feelings, professional dedication, hurts, wrongs, victories, and the sublime?
God grants each person a "lifetime" of experiences, challenges, and opportunities.
All have choices at every juncture, at every age, and in every station in life.
When one achieves dotage, it is a true blessing if the calculation of positive performance in all things can at least match the burden of failures along life's highway.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Weekends
The ranch hand has been steadily employed for near bout 42 years.
That means "weekends" have meaning. A time to rest or time for chosen pleasures.
Normal routine for the ole fat boy is to do the "town" thing M-F and then work like hell on the ranch Saturday and Sunday (and crawl/limp back to town every Monday morning?).
Got lazy today and just "vegged" around the bunkhouse.
Damn, a body could get used to this?????
That means "weekends" have meaning. A time to rest or time for chosen pleasures.
Normal routine for the ole fat boy is to do the "town" thing M-F and then work like hell on the ranch Saturday and Sunday (and crawl/limp back to town every Monday morning?).
Got lazy today and just "vegged" around the bunkhouse.
Damn, a body could get used to this?????
The Test
The neophyte "pit boss" emerged from the bunk house at the crack o' 6:30 yesterday morn to launch his fabled pork rib odyssey.
Dry rub (black pepper, granulated garlic, salt, and a touch of red pepper) had been lovingly worked into the racks and they fairly begged for the sauna effect of the steel smoker.
The ranch hand kindled the oak that had gently seasoned for three years and patiently (not!) waited for the pit to even out at 225 savory degrees.
Slapped them puppies in the place of honor and let 'em bask for five hours (low and slow) and then wrapped them in "tin foil" and continued the culinary journey for five more hours (low and slow).
Gently eased the 'cue prizes from their hazy haven and slid them into an insulated cooler to allow them the dignity of "resting" in private as their juices redistributed for an hour.
Then came THE TEST (drum roll).
Laid the precious protein in front of the bride's whole fam damily and watched the results?
Bottom line: wasn't nuthin left but white bones that looked like they had been bleached in a desert for a century after the marrow was sucked out!!!!
Ah, success is a sweet wine, best savored with an audience.
Dry rub (black pepper, granulated garlic, salt, and a touch of red pepper) had been lovingly worked into the racks and they fairly begged for the sauna effect of the steel smoker.
The ranch hand kindled the oak that had gently seasoned for three years and patiently (not!) waited for the pit to even out at 225 savory degrees.
Slapped them puppies in the place of honor and let 'em bask for five hours (low and slow) and then wrapped them in "tin foil" and continued the culinary journey for five more hours (low and slow).
Gently eased the 'cue prizes from their hazy haven and slid them into an insulated cooler to allow them the dignity of "resting" in private as their juices redistributed for an hour.
Then came THE TEST (drum roll).
Laid the precious protein in front of the bride's whole fam damily and watched the results?
Bottom line: wasn't nuthin left but white bones that looked like they had been bleached in a desert for a century after the marrow was sucked out!!!!
Ah, success is a sweet wine, best savored with an audience.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Saint Ranch Hand
Twas the night before smokin'
And all thru the home
Not a rib rack was stirrin'
Not even a bone.
The ribs had been dry rubbed
By the pit apprentice with care
In hopes that a "smoke ring"
Would soon be there.
The family was nestled
All snug in their beds
With visions of Saint Ranch Hand
Dancing in their heads.
And the "boss" in her kerchief
And the fat boy in his cap
Had just settled in
For a long pre-bbq nap.
When out on the lawn
There arose such a clatter
The meat burning miscreant
Sprang from his bed to see what was the matter?
Away to the window
The dry-rub seasoning wannabe flew like a flash
Tore open the shutters and threw up the
(47 col' beers consumed before beddy-bye time?)
The moon on the breast of the seasoned oak row
Gave lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When what to rum-dum wondering eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny white tail deer?
As the dry leaves before the wild hurricane flew
Them acorn munchers arrived like an allergy "ACHOO"!
Drawing in my head
And turning around
Down the smoker stack came
Saint Ranch Hand with a bound.
Smoke encircled his head like a fireplace wreath
And one easily envisioned cooked pig in his teeth?
He had a round face
And a huge rotund seat
That belied his position
That he didn't eat steamed meat.
He spoke not a word
But went straight to his foray
As he focused attention
On the ranch hand's entree.
He sprinkled magic seasoning
And turned with a jerk
Then laid a finger aside his nose
As he finished his work.
Suddenly he sprang to his sleigh and to his team gave a whistle
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight:
"HAPPY CUE'ING TO ALL, AND TO ALL GOOD NIGHT!"
And all thru the home
Not a rib rack was stirrin'
Not even a bone.
The ribs had been dry rubbed
By the pit apprentice with care
In hopes that a "smoke ring"
Would soon be there.
The family was nestled
All snug in their beds
With visions of Saint Ranch Hand
Dancing in their heads.
And the "boss" in her kerchief
And the fat boy in his cap
Had just settled in
For a long pre-bbq nap.
When out on the lawn
There arose such a clatter
The meat burning miscreant
Sprang from his bed to see what was the matter?
Away to the window
The dry-rub seasoning wannabe flew like a flash
Tore open the shutters and threw up the
(47 col' beers consumed before beddy-bye time?)
The moon on the breast of the seasoned oak row
Gave lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When what to rum-dum wondering eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny white tail deer?
As the dry leaves before the wild hurricane flew
Them acorn munchers arrived like an allergy "ACHOO"!
Drawing in my head
And turning around
Down the smoker stack came
Saint Ranch Hand with a bound.
Smoke encircled his head like a fireplace wreath
And one easily envisioned cooked pig in his teeth?
He had a round face
And a huge rotund seat
That belied his position
That he didn't eat steamed meat.
He spoke not a word
But went straight to his foray
As he focused attention
On the ranch hand's entree.
He sprinkled magic seasoning
And turned with a jerk
Then laid a finger aside his nose
As he finished his work.
Suddenly he sprang to his sleigh and to his team gave a whistle
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight:
"HAPPY CUE'ING TO ALL, AND TO ALL GOOD NIGHT!"
HAPPY
"Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."
-- Benjamin Franklin
The ranch hand ain't sure Brother Franklin was the best authority on theological matters, but he surely knew the heart of a country barbecue pit master apprentice.
Don't reckon it would be possible to enjoy meat smokin' to its fullest without the chef imbibing a bit of that cold brew? The suds seem to flavor the process while slowing time to its most delicious crawl.
A low, slow oak fire...curls of dark cloud slithering skyward from the stack.....and the promised olfactory hint of precisely burned protein on a plate before the day's end.
Ole Ben may have something there cause this fat boy sure is "happy" when the pit is hot and the adult beverage is cold.
-- Benjamin Franklin
The ranch hand ain't sure Brother Franklin was the best authority on theological matters, but he surely knew the heart of a country barbecue pit master apprentice.
Don't reckon it would be possible to enjoy meat smokin' to its fullest without the chef imbibing a bit of that cold brew? The suds seem to flavor the process while slowing time to its most delicious crawl.
A low, slow oak fire...curls of dark cloud slithering skyward from the stack.....and the promised olfactory hint of precisely burned protein on a plate before the day's end.
Ole Ben may have something there cause this fat boy sure is "happy" when the pit is hot and the adult beverage is cold.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
More Smokin"
BBQ is without doubt a state of mind.
A smell, the waft of aged oaken smoke, the glow of cooking coals.
Naturally one must imbibe a cold adult beverage during the process, but that is self evident.
Creating a "smoke ring" on one's chosen protein is without doubt a pleasure of masculinity.
The ole fat boy "seasoned" his newly acquired smoker and yesterday paid tribute to his heritage by first "smoking" some cheap wienies (would have smoke a bologna log, but didn't know where to get one???)
Today, the ranch hand progressed to yard bird. Will do the illustrious chicken till "cued" perfection and add the obligatory "beans" till sated.
Got brisket and ribs in the freezer and fairly chompin to experiment with future culinary delights.
Ya gotta love it!
A smell, the waft of aged oaken smoke, the glow of cooking coals.
Naturally one must imbibe a cold adult beverage during the process, but that is self evident.
Creating a "smoke ring" on one's chosen protein is without doubt a pleasure of masculinity.
The ole fat boy "seasoned" his newly acquired smoker and yesterday paid tribute to his heritage by first "smoking" some cheap wienies (would have smoke a bologna log, but didn't know where to get one???)
Today, the ranch hand progressed to yard bird. Will do the illustrious chicken till "cued" perfection and add the obligatory "beans" till sated.
Got brisket and ribs in the freezer and fairly chompin to experiment with future culinary delights.
Ya gotta love it!
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Chicken Scratch
The ole fat boy's Mom (Thelda) was a saint's saint.
That blessed woman took near bout as good care of her chilluns as ever a woman could.
Gene's Wright City clan didn't have such as extra money, but Mom did all she could.
The grandparent's had chickens. Chickens ate "scratch". Scratch was sold in cotton cloth bags with a decorative print of some sort stained therein. Said print has been used by "poor folk" to make clothes since Moby Dick was a minnow.
Accordingly, Mom used store bought patterns to make the ranch hand and sisters dresses, shirts, underwear, and whatever was needed from the "chicken scratch" sacks.
The ubiquitous sacks naturally had "labels". Ink printed information as to the brand, etc that the manufacturer added. Mom surreptitiously placed this info in inconspicuous location so as to not be displayed. As an example, boys shirts lovingly made on the home Singer sewing machine placed the "label" on the tail of the shirt to be "tucked" into one's Levi jeans.
Your humble scribe remembers with crystal clarity the first time he tried on a store bought shirt and noticed something unusual????
No printed "chicken scratch" label on the tail.
That blessed woman took near bout as good care of her chilluns as ever a woman could.
Gene's Wright City clan didn't have such as extra money, but Mom did all she could.
The grandparent's had chickens. Chickens ate "scratch". Scratch was sold in cotton cloth bags with a decorative print of some sort stained therein. Said print has been used by "poor folk" to make clothes since Moby Dick was a minnow.
Accordingly, Mom used store bought patterns to make the ranch hand and sisters dresses, shirts, underwear, and whatever was needed from the "chicken scratch" sacks.
The ubiquitous sacks naturally had "labels". Ink printed information as to the brand, etc that the manufacturer added. Mom surreptitiously placed this info in inconspicuous location so as to not be displayed. As an example, boys shirts lovingly made on the home Singer sewing machine placed the "label" on the tail of the shirt to be "tucked" into one's Levi jeans.
Your humble scribe remembers with crystal clarity the first time he tried on a store bought shirt and noticed something unusual????
No printed "chicken scratch" label on the tail.
Skillet Potential
The customary image of country folk is those that raise cattle, pigs, whatever?
The reality of POOR country folk is that chickens are too much of a financial issue to sustain.
The bottom line is that the ranch hand don't know squat bout raisin animals, etc., as never had the fiscal resources to gain experience?
Launched into that endeavor this last March by purchasing a load of bream and bass for the Tin Star pond.
Been feeding them puppies floating protein fish food ever since. Talk about "trained" animals....all the ole fat boy gotta do is get near the pond... and the varmits near bout swarm the shore with mouth open beggin' for groceries?
Ya reckon they know that a hungry ole country boy is evaluating their skillet potential?
The reality of POOR country folk is that chickens are too much of a financial issue to sustain.
The bottom line is that the ranch hand don't know squat bout raisin animals, etc., as never had the fiscal resources to gain experience?
Launched into that endeavor this last March by purchasing a load of bream and bass for the Tin Star pond.
Been feeding them puppies floating protein fish food ever since. Talk about "trained" animals....all the ole fat boy gotta do is get near the pond... and the varmits near bout swarm the shore with mouth open beggin' for groceries?
Ya reckon they know that a hungry ole country boy is evaluating their skillet potential?
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The Red Freight Train
Many moon's ago Dad took a notion to build a bar-b-cue smoker.
He had the basic tools (welder, cutting torch) to do it and somewhere found a large piece of oil field pipe that was what he called, "long as a freight train".
Most folks would have cut the pipe into manageable pieces to construct the fire box and meat smoking areas separately. Not Dad.
Dad welded the pipe onto an axle with wheels, cut out doors for the meat and wood burning areas, and finally stuck on a smoke stack.
One more thing. Smoker pits are traditionally a flat black color to match the smoke stains that will inevitably appear. Wouldn't you know.... Wright City Gene painted his the brightest RED he could find.
Dad and son had no clue how to smoke meat properly, but being dumass in an area of expertise never slowed us down much (especially if lubricated with cold adult beverages?).
We set out to the local woods, cut a bait of hickory, and proceeded to smoke (don't remember what?) from early til late. Trouble was, ya ain't never tasted AWFUL til ya chow down on meat smoked with green wood...go figger?
Now some 25 years later the ole ranch hand has acquired his own smoker....store bought, traditional flat black color....and laid in a large store of oak firewood seasoned over the last few years in Tin Star wood racks.
Do ya reckon I will ever be able to use my rig without thinking bout Dad and his Red Freight Train?
He had the basic tools (welder, cutting torch) to do it and somewhere found a large piece of oil field pipe that was what he called, "long as a freight train".
Most folks would have cut the pipe into manageable pieces to construct the fire box and meat smoking areas separately. Not Dad.
Dad welded the pipe onto an axle with wheels, cut out doors for the meat and wood burning areas, and finally stuck on a smoke stack.
One more thing. Smoker pits are traditionally a flat black color to match the smoke stains that will inevitably appear. Wouldn't you know.... Wright City Gene painted his the brightest RED he could find.
Dad and son had no clue how to smoke meat properly, but being dumass in an area of expertise never slowed us down much (especially if lubricated with cold adult beverages?).
We set out to the local woods, cut a bait of hickory, and proceeded to smoke (don't remember what?) from early til late. Trouble was, ya ain't never tasted AWFUL til ya chow down on meat smoked with green wood...go figger?
Now some 25 years later the ole ranch hand has acquired his own smoker....store bought, traditional flat black color....and laid in a large store of oak firewood seasoned over the last few years in Tin Star wood racks.
Do ya reckon I will ever be able to use my rig without thinking bout Dad and his Red Freight Train?
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Simple Pleasures
The Tin Star tractor best "sings" when tuned to be in concert with its brush hawg shredder.
There is something of a mindless narcotic to shredding weeds on a ranch.
The powerful drone of the diesel, the whir of the shredder blades, and the distractions of blue sky, birds, and all manner of trees.
Time seems to stand still and perturbing thoughts have no chance of creeping into perspective.
Simple pleasures are still the best and this day was no exception.
There is something of a mindless narcotic to shredding weeds on a ranch.
The powerful drone of the diesel, the whir of the shredder blades, and the distractions of blue sky, birds, and all manner of trees.
Time seems to stand still and perturbing thoughts have no chance of creeping into perspective.
Simple pleasures are still the best and this day was no exception.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Happy Birthday
If Dad were alive, he would be 78 today.
He didn't make much of birthdays, but he stated his date of birth enough times that the senile ranch hand seems to always remember it: July 25, 1932.
Dad was remarkable in many ways. He was physically the strongest person I ever knew, he was the "wildest" person in the world to the outside, but the most loving person to his family, and he had the funniest sense of humor one could ever imagine.
Dad, I miss you more than you could ever know. I feel that you talk to me, so please know I hear you.
I strive each day to be a person that deserves being your son.
Happy birthday Dad.... I miss you so much.
He didn't make much of birthdays, but he stated his date of birth enough times that the senile ranch hand seems to always remember it: July 25, 1932.
Dad was remarkable in many ways. He was physically the strongest person I ever knew, he was the "wildest" person in the world to the outside, but the most loving person to his family, and he had the funniest sense of humor one could ever imagine.
Dad, I miss you more than you could ever know. I feel that you talk to me, so please know I hear you.
I strive each day to be a person that deserves being your son.
Happy birthday Dad.... I miss you so much.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
GLORY
As previously "mentioned", my Dad was a "dauber" welder.
He got accomplished what he wanted to do, although on occasion it was "butt ugly"?
The ranch hand has chronicled the acquisition of a gasoline engine welder, a trailer, and related appurtenances.
Today marked near 30 hours of hot, sweaty labor to "marry" all into a workable "rig"!
Glory be to heaven as it actually came together in a symmetrical eye appealing (and functional) manner.
I felt you today, Dad, when I wheeled that puppy out of the barn. There is no doubt in my mind that you knew what had been accomplished, and you felt pride in your onliest son's work.
Damn, I miss you.....
He got accomplished what he wanted to do, although on occasion it was "butt ugly"?
The ranch hand has chronicled the acquisition of a gasoline engine welder, a trailer, and related appurtenances.
Today marked near 30 hours of hot, sweaty labor to "marry" all into a workable "rig"!
Glory be to heaven as it actually came together in a symmetrical eye appealing (and functional) manner.
I felt you today, Dad, when I wheeled that puppy out of the barn. There is no doubt in my mind that you knew what had been accomplished, and you felt pride in your onliest son's work.
Damn, I miss you.....
Friday, July 23, 2010
SILENCE
There is an inner sense which points one to the silence of being and awareness.
As an example, the ranch hand believes that God can not be best be found in noise and restlessness. On the contrary, our Savior is the friend of silence.
Silence can be a lucid and elegant drama, or it can be a balm that soothes the nerve that is vibrating ad infinitum.
We find in Ecclesiastes 3:7, "there is a time to speak and a time to be silent".
The ole fat boy learned long ago that which follows:
* Be still, and be quiet, and nature will speak to one as though there is no other
* Folks like to talk, and they like someone to listen; ya can be consider "wise", just by keeping your trap shut,
* Become one with silence, it is a blessed blanket of comfort
* We seldom put our proverbial "foot in mouth" when the pie-trap is shut
Nuthin' heavy here, just more ramblin' from yur country scribe?
As an example, the ranch hand believes that God can not be best be found in noise and restlessness. On the contrary, our Savior is the friend of silence.
Silence can be a lucid and elegant drama, or it can be a balm that soothes the nerve that is vibrating ad infinitum.
We find in Ecclesiastes 3:7, "there is a time to speak and a time to be silent".
The ole fat boy learned long ago that which follows:
* Be still, and be quiet, and nature will speak to one as though there is no other
* Folks like to talk, and they like someone to listen; ya can be consider "wise", just by keeping your trap shut,
* Become one with silence, it is a blessed blanket of comfort
* We seldom put our proverbial "foot in mouth" when the pie-trap is shut
Nuthin' heavy here, just more ramblin' from yur country scribe?
COURAGE
The ole ranch hand once read that courage is being scared to death and saddling up anyway.
Ya gotta figger a man that says he has never been "scared" is either a liar or an ignorant fool?
Your humble scribe has spent forty years in a profession that is 99% boredom and 1% sheer terror. Those who survive in a job of this nature are those that find a way to push aside the "scared" part and do the right thing for the right reasons....right now.
This is not and never will be a political blog, but damn a body can't help but wish our country's leaders could show a bit more "courage" these days?
My esteemed reader(s?) might want to memorialize this brief treatise on the state of the U.S. "guvment" as it will likely be the first/last, given that the TSRH offerings are reserved for 24 carat bull shit with no value stated, implied, or intended?
Ya gotta figger a man that says he has never been "scared" is either a liar or an ignorant fool?
Your humble scribe has spent forty years in a profession that is 99% boredom and 1% sheer terror. Those who survive in a job of this nature are those that find a way to push aside the "scared" part and do the right thing for the right reasons....right now.
This is not and never will be a political blog, but damn a body can't help but wish our country's leaders could show a bit more "courage" these days?
My esteemed reader(s?) might want to memorialize this brief treatise on the state of the U.S. "guvment" as it will likely be the first/last, given that the TSRH offerings are reserved for 24 carat bull shit with no value stated, implied, or intended?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Priceless
This humble blog has chronicled the ranch hand's long lost lust for fishing.
The old fat boy went from worship of piscatorial pursuit on a multi-day per week basis to "nuthin" for the last 20 years.
Sad, but true.
Given the realization of opportunity lost, the remembrance of a blessed passion, and ample reason to recapture a portion of life's simple pleasures, the ranch hand resolved to once again pick up a rod and crank a reel.
The backsliding addiction to feel the pulsing throb of a scaled creature in mortal combat to remain in its watery world has become of late a headliner on the ubiquitous "bucket list".
This last week included "escape" from the routine of ranch life and journey to the cool high country in the north of America.
The New Mexico mountains, in idyllic areas of "Eden" include lakes and rivers brimming with trout.
Your neophyte fly rod "chunker" indulged his long lost love while glorifying in the God given scenery, cool mountain air, and soul satisfying exaltation of the simple act of temporarily removing Michelangelo quality rainbow trout from their liquid lair.
PRICELESS!!!!!!
The old fat boy went from worship of piscatorial pursuit on a multi-day per week basis to "nuthin" for the last 20 years.
Sad, but true.
Given the realization of opportunity lost, the remembrance of a blessed passion, and ample reason to recapture a portion of life's simple pleasures, the ranch hand resolved to once again pick up a rod and crank a reel.
The backsliding addiction to feel the pulsing throb of a scaled creature in mortal combat to remain in its watery world has become of late a headliner on the ubiquitous "bucket list".
This last week included "escape" from the routine of ranch life and journey to the cool high country in the north of America.
The New Mexico mountains, in idyllic areas of "Eden" include lakes and rivers brimming with trout.
Your neophyte fly rod "chunker" indulged his long lost love while glorifying in the God given scenery, cool mountain air, and soul satisfying exaltation of the simple act of temporarily removing Michelangelo quality rainbow trout from their liquid lair.
PRICELESS!!!!!!
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
The Test
Kenneth and Archie were Mom's step-brothers. They were mostly white-trash alkies, but they did have one enviable trait. They were industrial welders that could pass the "test".
Dad said to get the high paying welding jobs as a pipe fitter, ya had to take a test where ya welded some steel and then the weld was x-rayed to determine its quality. Apparently Kenneth and Archie could easily past the "test" every time. Dad started out trying to learn this trade, but he said he could never weld over his head while the white hot slag was raining down on him?
Dad managed to weld a bit over the years, but he called what he did "daubing" (like a dirt dauber wasp building a mud nest).
After welding on and off for the last several years, the ole ranch hand has decided that the progression of welding skill is as follows:
1. Daubing
2. Sorry beads
3. An occasional good bead, but ya have no clue how ya did it?
4. More frequent good beads, but just as frequent relapse back to daubing??
5. Mostly good beads with occasional "disaster"???
6. All welds that a metal grinder can make purty!
7. Purty welds that a metal grinder can make better!!
8. "Test" quality welds????????
After two eight hour Saturdays in the barn with the new Miller Wildcat humming all day, the old fat boy has "progressed" from number 1 to number 6 (and back to number 1 a time or two?).
The goal is number 7 with consistency.
Forget about number 8 (I couldn't drink that much hooch anyway).
Dad said to get the high paying welding jobs as a pipe fitter, ya had to take a test where ya welded some steel and then the weld was x-rayed to determine its quality. Apparently Kenneth and Archie could easily past the "test" every time. Dad started out trying to learn this trade, but he said he could never weld over his head while the white hot slag was raining down on him?
Dad managed to weld a bit over the years, but he called what he did "daubing" (like a dirt dauber wasp building a mud nest).
After welding on and off for the last several years, the ole ranch hand has decided that the progression of welding skill is as follows:
1. Daubing
2. Sorry beads
3. An occasional good bead, but ya have no clue how ya did it?
4. More frequent good beads, but just as frequent relapse back to daubing??
5. Mostly good beads with occasional "disaster"???
6. All welds that a metal grinder can make purty!
7. Purty welds that a metal grinder can make better!!
8. "Test" quality welds????????
After two eight hour Saturdays in the barn with the new Miller Wildcat humming all day, the old fat boy has "progressed" from number 1 to number 6 (and back to number 1 a time or two?).
The goal is number 7 with consistency.
Forget about number 8 (I couldn't drink that much hooch anyway).
Sunday, June 27, 2010
WEEKENDS
Ya work your whole life and at times, seem to live for the "weekend".
Leisure time, chores around the house, bonding with the "fam".
Then ya retire, and the weekend is when the workin' folk are on the roads and in the stores "in the way" while you may want to shop?
Go back to a job after "retirement" and ya start to live for the weekends again??? (and Monday mornings renewed as a butt pain of monumental proportions?)
The ole fat boy done been on both ends of that "stick" and is here to tell ya that the retired part of the equation is the WINNER.
Leisure time, chores around the house, bonding with the "fam".
Then ya retire, and the weekend is when the workin' folk are on the roads and in the stores "in the way" while you may want to shop?
Go back to a job after "retirement" and ya start to live for the weekends again??? (and Monday mornings renewed as a butt pain of monumental proportions?)
The ole fat boy done been on both ends of that "stick" and is here to tell ya that the retired part of the equation is the WINNER.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The Warrior
From teen years the old ranch hand knew he wanted to do some welding.
Mr. Holmes had an oil field welding shop in Turnertown and it fascinated a dumass country boy to see things fabricated from steel and welded into their final design.
Wanting the "stuff" to weld and prioritizing it with family and such delayed any equipment acquisition until about 1984. Yep, the ole fat boy waltzed into Montgomery Ward's and purchased their finest (cheapest) "popcorn" welder to take to the ranchito in Wright City.
Course, knew Dad was a bit of a welding "dauber" himself so he would naturally be "borrowing" the new "prize" from time to time.
"Time to time" turned into immediate "planting" in Dad's backyard (where it resided until his demise 15 years later?)
The Ward's warrior is currently in the ranch barn in an honored capacity commemorating its long years of service to Dad.
This fine day, the ranch hand cranked his newly acquired gasoline engine welder-nator contraption and spent eight of the finest hours one could imagine "daubing" flux coated, sputtering, steel rods applied to a project that your humble scribe prays Mr. Holmes and Dad would be proud of?
Yeah Dad, I knew I wouldn't have the time to fire up that Monkey Wards machine when I bought it, but I also knew you would wear its butt out with a vengeance.
Mr. Holmes had an oil field welding shop in Turnertown and it fascinated a dumass country boy to see things fabricated from steel and welded into their final design.
Wanting the "stuff" to weld and prioritizing it with family and such delayed any equipment acquisition until about 1984. Yep, the ole fat boy waltzed into Montgomery Ward's and purchased their finest (cheapest) "popcorn" welder to take to the ranchito in Wright City.
Course, knew Dad was a bit of a welding "dauber" himself so he would naturally be "borrowing" the new "prize" from time to time.
"Time to time" turned into immediate "planting" in Dad's backyard (where it resided until his demise 15 years later?)
The Ward's warrior is currently in the ranch barn in an honored capacity commemorating its long years of service to Dad.
This fine day, the ranch hand cranked his newly acquired gasoline engine welder-nator contraption and spent eight of the finest hours one could imagine "daubing" flux coated, sputtering, steel rods applied to a project that your humble scribe prays Mr. Holmes and Dad would be proud of?
Yeah Dad, I knew I wouldn't have the time to fire up that Monkey Wards machine when I bought it, but I also knew you would wear its butt out with a vengeance.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Kuntry Butt Kickin'
The old fat boy decided this last fine weekend to make the ranch brush bow down and ask forgiveness for its encroachment.
Bad mistake.
Worked two days in the magnificent Texas heat and humidity with scarcely a break...and dang near foundered?
Cuttin' and stackin' that stuff is the devil's own punishment in heat as it wipes out an old fat man quicker than mercury will shine a dime?
Bottom line: missed work today at the town job as too dad-gum tuckered to drive in?
Brush "1" and ranch hand "0", AGAIN?????
Wouldn't ya think a dumass from Wright City would learn sooner or later??????
Bad mistake.
Worked two days in the magnificent Texas heat and humidity with scarcely a break...and dang near foundered?
Cuttin' and stackin' that stuff is the devil's own punishment in heat as it wipes out an old fat man quicker than mercury will shine a dime?
Bottom line: missed work today at the town job as too dad-gum tuckered to drive in?
Brush "1" and ranch hand "0", AGAIN?????
Wouldn't ya think a dumass from Wright City would learn sooner or later??????
Friday, June 18, 2010
Ephiphany
Your humble scribe of this blog is somewhat below the level of the amoeba in intelligence, but above the average in "wannabe"?
Included in this quotation is the desire to be something of a photographer????
Done learned that equipment has a degree of importance, and sure, skill has its proverbial input, but....dadgum...luck is ever so prevalent in any "shoot"?
This ole fat boy "spied" his resident backyard rat snake a'slitherin' crossed the backyard this day and managed to capture his image on the digital NIKON?
Who would a' figgered....captured the picture taker in the eye of the beast as well...
Ya gotta love epiphanies that ya had no part in an can't reproduce under any circumstance??
Included in this quotation is the desire to be something of a photographer????
Done learned that equipment has a degree of importance, and sure, skill has its proverbial input, but....dadgum...luck is ever so prevalent in any "shoot"?
This ole fat boy "spied" his resident backyard rat snake a'slitherin' crossed the backyard this day and managed to capture his image on the digital NIKON?
Who would a' figgered....captured the picture taker in the eye of the beast as well...
Ya gotta love epiphanies that ya had no part in an can't reproduce under any circumstance??
Things Undone
The ranch hand has achieved a bit more than twelve lustrums.
Bein' across half way to the century mark has the ole fat boy cogitatin' on "things undone".
It's mostly trivial, worldly crap, but just the same it is "stuff" that has been long neglected in order to appropriately foster family, groceries, etc.
For likely 50 year, your humble scribe has coveted a gas engine driven welder to, well "create"? Always the same story.....too much other obligation to indulge such a trivial desire.
Today one of the "things undone" on the bucket list got "done". The neophyte wannabe "welder" ordered delivery of a gen-u-ine Miller Wildcat 200 with appropriate accoutrement's therein.
Hell, life is so damn good these days that a big steel bar-b-que smoker can't be far down the road?
Bein' across half way to the century mark has the ole fat boy cogitatin' on "things undone".
It's mostly trivial, worldly crap, but just the same it is "stuff" that has been long neglected in order to appropriately foster family, groceries, etc.
For likely 50 year, your humble scribe has coveted a gas engine driven welder to, well "create"? Always the same story.....too much other obligation to indulge such a trivial desire.
Today one of the "things undone" on the bucket list got "done". The neophyte wannabe "welder" ordered delivery of a gen-u-ine Miller Wildcat 200 with appropriate accoutrement's therein.
Hell, life is so damn good these days that a big steel bar-b-que smoker can't be far down the road?
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Fidouche
Courage is a tenuous thing.
Most folks want to believe they have the capacity to exhibit moral fortitude as required, but the real deal don't manifest itself til the excrement hits the oscillator in real life.
Which brings the ranch hand to his dawg. El fido would not be your normal country reared, junk yard, testosterone variety of mutt. He mostly is shy, he is not intrusive other than wanting constant assurance of acceptance and human affection, and he don't bark with an excess of enthusiasm or frequency; until today.
Your humble scribe parked at the ranch house following his nominal "tour of duty" on the town job and promptly heard the resident canine "alpha" barking like the Apocalypse reincarnated at the rear of the casa?
Wasn't nuthin to do but "investigate" and yours truly found the following forensic scene:
1. Sir fido was "ears back", "tail down" an barkin' like the devil his-self was crawlin' up his rear? No amount of "sic 'em" or "come here" was productive in the least?
2. A wild-ass feral cat was sittin" on the back porch in front of mr. macho's dawg house. Yelling at that dumass cat fearin' cretin was like telling a teenager to stop "texting" at the dinner table.
3. Ever time the feline quivered/flinched, the dawg near bout pooped with fear????
4. The conquering hero (tom-cat) eventually got bored and "vacated"?????
5. The fragile "ego" of fidouche may be forever splintered by the encountered?
Lessons learned:
1. Dawgs are the same as men; neither one understands why anyone could ever justify the existence of cats?
2. A dawg's mother-in- law will never visit you (OK, that is manufactured bull shit, but the ole fat boy likes the conceptual question?)
3. Ya call (or yell) at a cat, they are instantly deaf; call a dawg's name (hell, any name) and your dawg will act like he heard the angels sing (unless the idiot is steroidally focused on a barnyard mouser)?
4. Canine varmits obviously "practice" acting excited when ya git home, but ya instantly know the hysterical barking gig is less than heartfelt when ya hear the same lines YELLED in fear?
5. It's a cinch that if dawgs could talk it would take all the fun out of owning one!
Most folks want to believe they have the capacity to exhibit moral fortitude as required, but the real deal don't manifest itself til the excrement hits the oscillator in real life.
Which brings the ranch hand to his dawg. El fido would not be your normal country reared, junk yard, testosterone variety of mutt. He mostly is shy, he is not intrusive other than wanting constant assurance of acceptance and human affection, and he don't bark with an excess of enthusiasm or frequency; until today.
Your humble scribe parked at the ranch house following his nominal "tour of duty" on the town job and promptly heard the resident canine "alpha" barking like the Apocalypse reincarnated at the rear of the casa?
Wasn't nuthin to do but "investigate" and yours truly found the following forensic scene:
1. Sir fido was "ears back", "tail down" an barkin' like the devil his-self was crawlin' up his rear? No amount of "sic 'em" or "come here" was productive in the least?
2. A wild-ass feral cat was sittin" on the back porch in front of mr. macho's dawg house. Yelling at that dumass cat fearin' cretin was like telling a teenager to stop "texting" at the dinner table.
3. Ever time the feline quivered/flinched, the dawg near bout pooped with fear????
4. The conquering hero (tom-cat) eventually got bored and "vacated"?????
5. The fragile "ego" of fidouche may be forever splintered by the encountered?
Lessons learned:
1. Dawgs are the same as men; neither one understands why anyone could ever justify the existence of cats?
2. A dawg's mother-in- law will never visit you (OK, that is manufactured bull shit, but the ole fat boy likes the conceptual question?)
3. Ya call (or yell) at a cat, they are instantly deaf; call a dawg's name (hell, any name) and your dawg will act like he heard the angels sing (unless the idiot is steroidally focused on a barnyard mouser)?
4. Canine varmits obviously "practice" acting excited when ya git home, but ya instantly know the hysterical barking gig is less than heartfelt when ya hear the same lines YELLED in fear?
5. It's a cinch that if dawgs could talk it would take all the fun out of owning one!
Thursday, June 10, 2010
HOMESICK
When the ranch hand was near seven year old, Aunt Rubye blessed his deprived country self by allowing a stay with her and family in Ft. Worth for a couple of weeks.
A "couple of weeks" don't sound like no step for a "stepper", but for a first grade neophyte away from home for the first time....that turned into a bit of a challenge.
Seems the Wright City kid developed a serious case of "homesick"...yeah, missed his mama, dad, sisters, and whatever.....Sweet aunt Rubye understood and cut the visit short to take the mama's boy home early...bless her soul!
Forty years ago, a naive, know-nuthin bumpkin started Texas Highway Patrol school and found no challenge whatsoever...the physical training...the academics....the mental pressure so expertly applied by the platoon sergeants...nothing...EXCEPT the "homesick" part started to eat away at the soul felt resolve to succeed............?
The good news is that the ole fat boy prevailed and lasted forty years in his chosen profession.
The "interesting" news: Your humble scribe has sit his butt in Huntsville Texas all week for some mandatory po-leese training and he would readily confess to all as to being "homesick"?
Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home, and that fact shall never change!
A "couple of weeks" don't sound like no step for a "stepper", but for a first grade neophyte away from home for the first time....that turned into a bit of a challenge.
Seems the Wright City kid developed a serious case of "homesick"...yeah, missed his mama, dad, sisters, and whatever.....Sweet aunt Rubye understood and cut the visit short to take the mama's boy home early...bless her soul!
Forty years ago, a naive, know-nuthin bumpkin started Texas Highway Patrol school and found no challenge whatsoever...the physical training...the academics....the mental pressure so expertly applied by the platoon sergeants...nothing...EXCEPT the "homesick" part started to eat away at the soul felt resolve to succeed............?
The good news is that the ole fat boy prevailed and lasted forty years in his chosen profession.
The "interesting" news: Your humble scribe has sit his butt in Huntsville Texas all week for some mandatory po-leese training and he would readily confess to all as to being "homesick"?
Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home, and that fact shall never change!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Memory Leviathans
There is always music amongst the trees in the garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it. (Minnie Aumonier)
The ranch hand spent his pup years in deep East Texas where tall bull pine trees ruled the landscape.
These glorious green giants most often stood with stately grace serving as scribes creating a literature that was testament to serenity. Yet, on occasion, they glorified in raging storms with swirling arms of enthusiasm that fairly shouted the joy of life.
The shaggy bark conifers provided a cornucopia of sustenance to the resident varmits. They lavished a brown carpet of sweet smelling needles on the forest floor....and they shaded our sorry butts with shelter from the summer sun.
The many years your humble blogger spent absent from the long leaf and lob lolly evergreens of youthful endeavor in Wright City have been years of longing for the passion of youth, a time of care free days, and thoughts associated with family and friends.
This week has been spent in the city of Huntsville, Texas. Huntsville is blessed with a myriad of the 60-70 foot tall leviathans of past memories.
The moments spent this week simply gazing at their majesty and remember times past have been a therapy that is priceless.
Thank you, oh Lord, for your grace and wisdom in the creation of this magnificent blessing in our daily lives. May we be forever grateful for the genius of Your creations and the bounty they provide.
The ranch hand spent his pup years in deep East Texas where tall bull pine trees ruled the landscape.
These glorious green giants most often stood with stately grace serving as scribes creating a literature that was testament to serenity. Yet, on occasion, they glorified in raging storms with swirling arms of enthusiasm that fairly shouted the joy of life.
The shaggy bark conifers provided a cornucopia of sustenance to the resident varmits. They lavished a brown carpet of sweet smelling needles on the forest floor....and they shaded our sorry butts with shelter from the summer sun.
The many years your humble blogger spent absent from the long leaf and lob lolly evergreens of youthful endeavor in Wright City have been years of longing for the passion of youth, a time of care free days, and thoughts associated with family and friends.
This week has been spent in the city of Huntsville, Texas. Huntsville is blessed with a myriad of the 60-70 foot tall leviathans of past memories.
The moments spent this week simply gazing at their majesty and remember times past have been a therapy that is priceless.
Thank you, oh Lord, for your grace and wisdom in the creation of this magnificent blessing in our daily lives. May we be forever grateful for the genius of Your creations and the bounty they provide.
Monday, June 7, 2010
The Prodigal Son
Mom's Dad told me once that he went to the initial day of first grade and didn't like it so he never went back to school. He was a treasured memory of the ranch hand's childhood, but (bless his soul) he could not read or write one lick.
The ranch hand's Dad had his own challenges and joined Paphu in not knowing "a" from "z".
Then comes the prodigal son.
Sometimes ya wonder if a vacuum on one side creates a tidal pool (or tsunami) on the other?
This ole fat boy been suckin' in ed-u-ma-ca-tion for nigh on 1957 til present day (53 years for the math majors in the crowd).
Dad used to say his onliest son must be the dumest sum-bitch on earth for schoolin' for so long? Amongst friends, I confess to being embarassed and never could even fathom an answer to Dad's perpetual comment????
After three college degrees, four professional certifications, and a P-H-D from the school of hard knocks (including kicking natural downhome ass as a member of the constabulary in every venue imaginable.....and having same done to ones self in every major city in Texas) , one would begin to think Dad had an extremely valid point?
Bottom line: The gospel of Luke tells us that a father counsels his son, "You are always with me and everything I have is yours" (Luke 15-32)
I can think of no finer tribute to my forefathers than gratitude for their part in making me what I am and to feel incredible gratitude for their contribution to who I am...
The ranch hand's Dad had his own challenges and joined Paphu in not knowing "a" from "z".
Then comes the prodigal son.
Sometimes ya wonder if a vacuum on one side creates a tidal pool (or tsunami) on the other?
This ole fat boy been suckin' in ed-u-ma-ca-tion for nigh on 1957 til present day (53 years for the math majors in the crowd).
Dad used to say his onliest son must be the dumest sum-bitch on earth for schoolin' for so long? Amongst friends, I confess to being embarassed and never could even fathom an answer to Dad's perpetual comment????
After three college degrees, four professional certifications, and a P-H-D from the school of hard knocks (including kicking natural downhome ass as a member of the constabulary in every venue imaginable.....and having same done to ones self in every major city in Texas) , one would begin to think Dad had an extremely valid point?
Bottom line: The gospel of Luke tells us that a father counsels his son, "You are always with me and everything I have is yours" (Luke 15-32)
I can think of no finer tribute to my forefathers than gratitude for their part in making me what I am and to feel incredible gratitude for their contribution to who I am...
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Road Warrior
The ranch hand has toiled in the same profession for a bit more than 40 years now.
Like all licensed professions, periodic "schoolin" is required to continue being licensed.
This ole fat boy is planted in Huntsville for the entire week to study up on "stuff" due to a mandatory training requirement that has come due.
Being in the extreme twilight of a waning career, one has to wonder if this is the "Swan Song" for an old road warrior who has almost run his race to its conclusion.
Nuthin deep here, just contemplating a lifetime of trying to master the knowledge required to do a job half decent and realizing that it will soon be time to let the young lions take up the chase with one less member in the pack?
Like all licensed professions, periodic "schoolin" is required to continue being licensed.
This ole fat boy is planted in Huntsville for the entire week to study up on "stuff" due to a mandatory training requirement that has come due.
Being in the extreme twilight of a waning career, one has to wonder if this is the "Swan Song" for an old road warrior who has almost run his race to its conclusion.
Nuthin deep here, just contemplating a lifetime of trying to master the knowledge required to do a job half decent and realizing that it will soon be time to let the young lions take up the chase with one less member in the pack?
Bob War Juice
East Texas was geometrically criss-crossed with bob war (barbed wire).
The prickly stuff was just a natural decoration on the landscape and folks didn't pay it that much attention.
Some was stretched til ya could tune it like a fiddle (Grandaddy's) and some was less tight wound like their owners.
On rare occasion one would happen upon a fence with regular wire (no barbs) that was attached to metal posts with a plastic holder. Anybody of "normal" curiosity would approach and grab hold that strange contraption....ONE TIME!
Them puppies was juiced by a fence charger that would near "kill" ya with surprise when some unknown volume of electricity would trickle thru your veins.
At first it was a hazard to be avoided at all costs. Then, boys being boys, it was as challenge to "explore".
Exploration included touching the menace with various items to test it's conductive qualities. Dry sticks, green sticks, whatever, along the progression of boyhood frivolity.
Bottom line: Ain't never lived a boy what hasn't finally been overcome with the desire to pee on one them damn fences. Yep, bob war juice that ya won't NEVER forget (and will not ever do again!)
The prickly stuff was just a natural decoration on the landscape and folks didn't pay it that much attention.
Some was stretched til ya could tune it like a fiddle (Grandaddy's) and some was less tight wound like their owners.
On rare occasion one would happen upon a fence with regular wire (no barbs) that was attached to metal posts with a plastic holder. Anybody of "normal" curiosity would approach and grab hold that strange contraption....ONE TIME!
Them puppies was juiced by a fence charger that would near "kill" ya with surprise when some unknown volume of electricity would trickle thru your veins.
At first it was a hazard to be avoided at all costs. Then, boys being boys, it was as challenge to "explore".
Exploration included touching the menace with various items to test it's conductive qualities. Dry sticks, green sticks, whatever, along the progression of boyhood frivolity.
Bottom line: Ain't never lived a boy what hasn't finally been overcome with the desire to pee on one them damn fences. Yep, bob war juice that ya won't NEVER forget (and will not ever do again!)
Saturday, June 5, 2010
The Son of Man
Near bout everyone I ever knew told me that Dad was an extraordinary country and western dance partner. Even Mom said that when they would go to the Kilgore honky-tonks, all the gals would line up to dance with Dad. I did not witness that particular fan club, but I do remember watching Dad on roller skates making the hardwood floor in Henderson look like an Olympic ice rink as he spun and twirled with his partner dancing in perfect rhythm to the 45 RPM platters of the DJ.
In later years, Dad confessed to employing certain compensating strategies in deference to advancing age and declining health. In simple terms, he would delay dancing until a song was about half over and he would on occasion create an excuse to stop before the end of a song. Seems his lungs and his legs were not of the quality and endurance that he once boasted.
Lacking Dad's enormous talent for "hoofing", the ole ranch hand languished in dance oblivion until the ripe old age of FORTY. At that time, yours truly simply decided to learn the damn "stuff" and then engage in the activity as social graces required.
Big surprise, Gene's only son found it was a fun activity and great exercise, (no...the roller skate version was never an option for the athletically challenged).
What followed was 20 years of occasional public displays, not unlike peacock strutting, with satisfaction that Dad would not be too embarrassed by the choreographed efforts of his offspring.
Bottom line: Went to the outdoor dance floor behind the German restaurant in Walburg last night and the rest is history. The world has come full circle and the old fat boy very gratefully resurrected Gene's strategy as a hedge against embarrassment.
"For the Son of man shall come in the glory of his Father" (Mathew 16:27)
In later years, Dad confessed to employing certain compensating strategies in deference to advancing age and declining health. In simple terms, he would delay dancing until a song was about half over and he would on occasion create an excuse to stop before the end of a song. Seems his lungs and his legs were not of the quality and endurance that he once boasted.
Lacking Dad's enormous talent for "hoofing", the ole ranch hand languished in dance oblivion until the ripe old age of FORTY. At that time, yours truly simply decided to learn the damn "stuff" and then engage in the activity as social graces required.
Big surprise, Gene's only son found it was a fun activity and great exercise, (no...the roller skate version was never an option for the athletically challenged).
What followed was 20 years of occasional public displays, not unlike peacock strutting, with satisfaction that Dad would not be too embarrassed by the choreographed efforts of his offspring.
Bottom line: Went to the outdoor dance floor behind the German restaurant in Walburg last night and the rest is history. The world has come full circle and the old fat boy very gratefully resurrected Gene's strategy as a hedge against embarrassment.
"For the Son of man shall come in the glory of his Father" (Mathew 16:27)
Saturday, May 29, 2010
HAMBURGERS
Consider, if you will, the lowly hamburger.
Simple in presentation, abundant in flavor-lish-ish-ness, yet pungent in its oniony presentation (no pickles please).
No pretension of savoir faire, no well intended advertisement (Eat More Chiken), no meaning to be beyond its intended ground beef demise.
Not unlike chile, this ubiquitous morsel mouthful is all that is to be to the masses, somewhat lacking to the uneducated, and the "manna" from heaven for the tyrols.
Aw, that we could (absent cholesterol considerations) forever have that canola oil delicacy "dripping" from our porcelain elbows ad infinitum.
Such is life.
Simple in presentation, abundant in flavor-lish-ish-ness, yet pungent in its oniony presentation (no pickles please).
No pretension of savoir faire, no well intended advertisement (Eat More Chiken), no meaning to be beyond its intended ground beef demise.
Not unlike chile, this ubiquitous morsel mouthful is all that is to be to the masses, somewhat lacking to the uneducated, and the "manna" from heaven for the tyrols.
Aw, that we could (absent cholesterol considerations) forever have that canola oil delicacy "dripping" from our porcelain elbows ad infinitum.
Such is life.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Tree Lament
Oak wilt is a fungal disease that can quickly kill a Texas live oak tree by blocking the capillary flow of sap within the tree.
The landscape of Williamson county is sadly becoming a skeletal graveyard of magnificent oaks that this pernicious attack has devastated.
The Tin Star has largely escaped this scourge....until now.
The ole ranch hand is watching with a heavy heart as the damn arboreal illness is creeping on it's deathly paws with killing talons from tree to tree. The eulogy count is near ten and will no doubt over the years take away all of the gorgeous leafy companions that we so enjoy?
The spanish oaks and the cedar elms are in sufficient numbers to continue the shading effect, but once gone, the oaks will not be replaced in our lifetime.
Thank you, oh Lord, for the present grace and comfort of our resident live oaks. Your's is a grander plan than we might imagine in eliminating these trees, but we acknowledge and hold faith in your wisdom.
The landscape of Williamson county is sadly becoming a skeletal graveyard of magnificent oaks that this pernicious attack has devastated.
The Tin Star has largely escaped this scourge....until now.
The ole ranch hand is watching with a heavy heart as the damn arboreal illness is creeping on it's deathly paws with killing talons from tree to tree. The eulogy count is near ten and will no doubt over the years take away all of the gorgeous leafy companions that we so enjoy?
The spanish oaks and the cedar elms are in sufficient numbers to continue the shading effect, but once gone, the oaks will not be replaced in our lifetime.
Thank you, oh Lord, for the present grace and comfort of our resident live oaks. Your's is a grander plan than we might imagine in eliminating these trees, but we acknowledge and hold faith in your wisdom.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
TURTLE WARS
Worship of worldly possessions is likely a sin...but bein' tickled bout a utility vehicle shouldn't be too far down the road to eternal damnation???
The ole fat boy acquired a ranch "buggy" recently. Two seater-six passenger, sun shade atop the frame, four wheelin' deelux, an plum RURAL in its presentation.
Does the ranch hand use it???? (does a fat dawg fart??)....well fer example...today yours truly loaded the venerable 2-2 semi automatical rifillian with (not sofa pillers), equipped the "all terrain, weather impervious chariot with (adult beverages) and stealthily (spun the damn tires and whup/whipped betwixt the trees and bushes) down to the piscatorial procreation facility (pond) to control (shoot the shit out of) the eleventy-seven turtles therein whut has been scalin/filetin'/humpin' the recently purchased ($0.95 each) baby hybrid (soon to be RECORD BREAKING!) fish (if not consumed by the voracious prehistoric predators)?
Forthwith (what the hell that word mean???) the GREAT WHITE HUNTER (while suckin' on a cold adult beverage) commenced to prodigiously bust caps on them murderous semi-aquatic hubcap reptillian turtle bastardians!
Did not hit shinola, but the new "buggy" did not sit in judgement, comment, or offer an expression of disdain in any discernible form???
"Did not sit in judgement" would be a bit of a stretch for the ranch hand's child bride who wuz never overtook with bashfulness?
Onliest thang to do is brang mo' ammo and spray a better pattern on them murderous fish baby thieves (bride says less beer, but what do wimmen know??)
The ole fat boy acquired a ranch "buggy" recently. Two seater-six passenger, sun shade atop the frame, four wheelin' deelux, an plum RURAL in its presentation.
Does the ranch hand use it???? (does a fat dawg fart??)....well fer example...today yours truly loaded the venerable 2-2 semi automatical rifillian with (not sofa pillers), equipped the "all terrain, weather impervious chariot with (adult beverages) and stealthily (spun the damn tires and whup/whipped betwixt the trees and bushes) down to the piscatorial procreation facility (pond) to control (shoot the shit out of) the eleventy-seven turtles therein whut has been scalin/filetin'/humpin' the recently purchased ($0.95 each) baby hybrid (soon to be RECORD BREAKING!) fish (if not consumed by the voracious prehistoric predators)?
Forthwith (what the hell that word mean???) the GREAT WHITE HUNTER (while suckin' on a cold adult beverage) commenced to prodigiously bust caps on them murderous semi-aquatic hubcap reptillian turtle bastardians!
Did not hit shinola, but the new "buggy" did not sit in judgement, comment, or offer an expression of disdain in any discernible form???
"Did not sit in judgement" would be a bit of a stretch for the ranch hand's child bride who wuz never overtook with bashfulness?
Onliest thang to do is brang mo' ammo and spray a better pattern on them murderous fish baby thieves (bride says less beer, but what do wimmen know??)
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Baby Sisters
Ain't nobody got but one baby sister.
They is one to a customer, singular, unique, and mostly just special.
When you are a yonker and they are...well a baby sister...ya pick on them, aggravate, or just ignore like they was a "bother".
When ya spend the years finding they are among your bestest friends, a joy to be with, and the nearest thing to an angel on earth imaginable.........well, then maybe the "ignore" part becomes a bit embarassing....so ya just spend the rest of your life making up for it?
The ranch hand's baby sister is a PEACH.....sweet, loving, beautiful, and just near bout sumpthin as special as ever was!!!!!!!!!
That gal had a B-day this week and she was ?? years young (how did that happen given my youthful existence????)
Just know, little one, that you are valued more than you can ever know by one old fat man who you call "big brother".
They is one to a customer, singular, unique, and mostly just special.
When you are a yonker and they are...well a baby sister...ya pick on them, aggravate, or just ignore like they was a "bother".
When ya spend the years finding they are among your bestest friends, a joy to be with, and the nearest thing to an angel on earth imaginable.........well, then maybe the "ignore" part becomes a bit embarassing....so ya just spend the rest of your life making up for it?
The ranch hand's baby sister is a PEACH.....sweet, loving, beautiful, and just near bout sumpthin as special as ever was!!!!!!!!!
That gal had a B-day this week and she was ?? years young (how did that happen given my youthful existence????)
Just know, little one, that you are valued more than you can ever know by one old fat man who you call "big brother".
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Blessings
Saturdays on the ranch with blue sky and warm temps are a gift so extraordinary that words alone can never describe.
Today included bluebonnets, indian paint brushes, yellow daisies, thistles out the wazoo, doves, squirrels, one wore out blue hound dawg, breezes, baby fish in the tank, and a whole lot of "damn this is the closest thing to heaven ever!!!!!!!!!"
Thank you Lord for the blessing of the Tin Star Ranch and all it entails.
Today included bluebonnets, indian paint brushes, yellow daisies, thistles out the wazoo, doves, squirrels, one wore out blue hound dawg, breezes, baby fish in the tank, and a whole lot of "damn this is the closest thing to heaven ever!!!!!!!!!"
Thank you Lord for the blessing of the Tin Star Ranch and all it entails.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Hog Mutton A La Mode
The bride used to whup up a mean skillet of vermicelli when the kids was yonkers and they would wolf it down like they was huggin' a hound.
Asking fer "thirds", they would want to know what manna from heaven had fallen in their plates. Mama would reply, "Hog mutton a la mode". Our chilluns would gratefully parrot, "More hog mutton a la mode Mama".
The ranch hand figgers all folks that grow up "poor" have similar stories.
In Wright City, our tongues used to spank our tonsils when Mom would fry some Spam or salt pork and we would be placed in instant grocery gratification. Let her put a slice or two in an offering of baloney before it went in the Crisco and we were slobberin' like a team of sled dawgs?
Hey, we were fed, clothed, loved, and had an only semi-leaking roof over our heads.
How much better can life be?
Asking fer "thirds", they would want to know what manna from heaven had fallen in their plates. Mama would reply, "Hog mutton a la mode". Our chilluns would gratefully parrot, "More hog mutton a la mode Mama".
The ranch hand figgers all folks that grow up "poor" have similar stories.
In Wright City, our tongues used to spank our tonsils when Mom would fry some Spam or salt pork and we would be placed in instant grocery gratification. Let her put a slice or two in an offering of baloney before it went in the Crisco and we were slobberin' like a team of sled dawgs?
Hey, we were fed, clothed, loved, and had an only semi-leaking roof over our heads.
How much better can life be?
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Dreams Fulfilled
The ole ranch hand has in past times chronicled his passion for fishin'.
Over the last year the ranch modifications have included "cleaning" and "shaping" the pond followed by a monsoon season of tank filling rain.
This Friday past included accepting delivery of baby hybrid bass, bluegill bream, and a slew of minnows for ranch residency.
Releasing those puppies into the clear pond water fairly shouted promise of future days watching a bobber waltz or feeling the throb of a hooked bass resisting monofiliament confinement.
A year from now will tell the tale of of a life long dream to ease off the porch, stroll to the pond, and catch/release til the western sun slips to its slumber.
A dream fulfilled and a quality of life that is priceless.
Ya gotta love it!
Over the last year the ranch modifications have included "cleaning" and "shaping" the pond followed by a monsoon season of tank filling rain.
This Friday past included accepting delivery of baby hybrid bass, bluegill bream, and a slew of minnows for ranch residency.
Releasing those puppies into the clear pond water fairly shouted promise of future days watching a bobber waltz or feeling the throb of a hooked bass resisting monofiliament confinement.
A year from now will tell the tale of of a life long dream to ease off the porch, stroll to the pond, and catch/release til the western sun slips to its slumber.
A dream fulfilled and a quality of life that is priceless.
Ya gotta love it!
A Dawg's Life
The ranch hand is guessing that Fido's memory spans something less than one hour.
Spend half a day with him in constant contact, go in the bunkhouse for a spell, and when ya go back out he reacts like you are a long lost soul mate he has not seen in years.
Swat him on the nose for some inane indiscretion and he will shamefully retire to his "house". Let a few minutes elapse and he will emerge like it is a new world and all is good.
Keep the dawg food dispenser loaded, douse a spot or two of cold water in his bowl, scratch his head, and he is in heaven in every sense of the word.
Do ya ever think that maybe Fido has this ole world best figgered out?
Forgive, forget, and eagerly welcome any and all companion attention.
Makes ya think the good Lord's design for a dawg's life might not be that shabby for us mere mortals.
Spend half a day with him in constant contact, go in the bunkhouse for a spell, and when ya go back out he reacts like you are a long lost soul mate he has not seen in years.
Swat him on the nose for some inane indiscretion and he will shamefully retire to his "house". Let a few minutes elapse and he will emerge like it is a new world and all is good.
Keep the dawg food dispenser loaded, douse a spot or two of cold water in his bowl, scratch his head, and he is in heaven in every sense of the word.
Do ya ever think that maybe Fido has this ole world best figgered out?
Forgive, forget, and eagerly welcome any and all companion attention.
Makes ya think the good Lord's design for a dawg's life might not be that shabby for us mere mortals.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Easter Eve
The dawn sun rays of this ranch morning revealed a blue blanket in the front pasture compliments of eager bluebonnets praising the glory of life, death, resurrection and Easter eve.
The air is crisp, no breeze, and nary a cloud with the audacity to show its marshmallow face.
A walk to the front gate for the obligatory newspaper pilgrimage included the enthusiastic trumpet of the river bottom turkey toms challenging all comers on the opening day of spring turkey hunting season.
Add the joyous bounding of the ranch dawg seeking only the reward of his "alpha's" touch, the distant coo of the resident doves, and the blossoming promise of live oak leaves budding on the myriad acres of trees.
One knows in the bowels of their heart that He shall arise on the next morn and forever provide for the salvation of believers' souls.
Life is good and the ole ranch hand is eternally grateful.
The air is crisp, no breeze, and nary a cloud with the audacity to show its marshmallow face.
A walk to the front gate for the obligatory newspaper pilgrimage included the enthusiastic trumpet of the river bottom turkey toms challenging all comers on the opening day of spring turkey hunting season.
Add the joyous bounding of the ranch dawg seeking only the reward of his "alpha's" touch, the distant coo of the resident doves, and the blossoming promise of live oak leaves budding on the myriad acres of trees.
One knows in the bowels of their heart that He shall arise on the next morn and forever provide for the salvation of believers' souls.
Life is good and the ole ranch hand is eternally grateful.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Flickers and Curls
Thunder is the sound made by lightning.
The sudden increase in pressure and temperature from lightning produces rapid expansion of the air surrounding and within a bolt of lightning. In turn, this expansion of air creates a sonic shock wave which produces the sound of thunder. (Wikipedia)
That's actually a pretty boring explanation.
As the ole fat boy sits in the pre-dawn darkness of his ranch office this morn and listens to the storm passing thru, those claps, cracks, and booms sound anything but boring?
A more likely explanation requires the air to conspire creation of a rumble in our heads. A sound that obscures the dark rolling clouds in order to make way for the flickers and curls of the following lightning.
It is like a hot breath, followed by sweet, hard rain which cools the heat of the bright fire in the sky.
Random thoughts from a country philosopher for what they are worth?
The sudden increase in pressure and temperature from lightning produces rapid expansion of the air surrounding and within a bolt of lightning. In turn, this expansion of air creates a sonic shock wave which produces the sound of thunder. (Wikipedia)
That's actually a pretty boring explanation.
As the ole fat boy sits in the pre-dawn darkness of his ranch office this morn and listens to the storm passing thru, those claps, cracks, and booms sound anything but boring?
A more likely explanation requires the air to conspire creation of a rumble in our heads. A sound that obscures the dark rolling clouds in order to make way for the flickers and curls of the following lightning.
It is like a hot breath, followed by sweet, hard rain which cools the heat of the bright fire in the sky.
Random thoughts from a country philosopher for what they are worth?
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Beer Butt Chicken
Good day today.
Warm sun, blue sky, no wind. Spring is awesome.
Cut some brush, stacked it on the burn pile in the back forty, admired the improvement in the "view".
Adding bodacious "beer butt" chicken slow cooked on the grill to the tune of a cold adult beverage just made it better.
Ya gotta love it!
Warm sun, blue sky, no wind. Spring is awesome.
Cut some brush, stacked it on the burn pile in the back forty, admired the improvement in the "view".
Adding bodacious "beer butt" chicken slow cooked on the grill to the tune of a cold adult beverage just made it better.
Ya gotta love it!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Bunkhouse Weeds
Gardening requires lots of water - most of it in the form of perspiration.
(Lou Erickson)
Last weekend, the bride and the ole fat ranch hand went tooth and toenail after the forest jungle of weeds in the flower beds around the bunkhouse. (Then took two days off for the ache/pains to subside enough to contemplate the next "move"?)
This morn's dawn invoked the soothing auditory blanket of rain as it cascaded from the roof onto the ground. The heaven sent moisture peppered thru the budding tree leaves and whispered to the fallen leaves below in order to softly wick to the thirsty soil.
The cycle of nature continues thru its millennial journey of seasons. Life is renewing.
This week the ritual planting of the Tin Star vegetable garden shall occur thus signalling the onset of our annual waltz with voracious deer, invading insects, and the ever pending specter of drought.
Ya gotta reckon that a safe bet is a man should never plant a garden bigger than his wife can take care of?
(Lou Erickson)
Last weekend, the bride and the ole fat ranch hand went tooth and toenail after the forest jungle of weeds in the flower beds around the bunkhouse. (Then took two days off for the ache/pains to subside enough to contemplate the next "move"?)
This morn's dawn invoked the soothing auditory blanket of rain as it cascaded from the roof onto the ground. The heaven sent moisture peppered thru the budding tree leaves and whispered to the fallen leaves below in order to softly wick to the thirsty soil.
The cycle of nature continues thru its millennial journey of seasons. Life is renewing.
This week the ritual planting of the Tin Star vegetable garden shall occur thus signalling the onset of our annual waltz with voracious deer, invading insects, and the ever pending specter of drought.
Ya gotta reckon that a safe bet is a man should never plant a garden bigger than his wife can take care of?
Monday, March 15, 2010
Life Is Good!
Fishin' was a passion for the ole ranch hand for as far back as he can remember.
Awesome summer days spent in total bliss without care or a sense of the passage of time.
Just a young boy, some crude angling paraphernalia, and free bait worms dug from the rich soil or grasshoppers captured amid the pasture grass. Watch that cork disappear, feel the throbbing surge of the wriggling varmit on the opposite end, and life was good.
Never "owned" a fishing place. Just always dreamed of it.
Near bout four years ago the Tin Star became home. It came with a pond of sorts, but it was silted in from eons of drainage down the creek bed and overgrown with brush.
Finally scraped together enough coins to have the tank cleaned out and reshaped only to find central Texas in drought (think dusty dry pond).
Started raining a few months back and has steady rained since to the point that the pond has been flowing over the spillway for quite a spell.
Now the good part: Went to the feed store in Florence this morn and ordered 100 hybrid bluegill bream, 100 hybrid bass, and about 500 fathead minnows for delivery in about three weeks. Yeah, they will only be 3-4 inches long to start, but it will be a life long dream fulfilled.
Life is good, JRM!
Awesome summer days spent in total bliss without care or a sense of the passage of time.
Just a young boy, some crude angling paraphernalia, and free bait worms dug from the rich soil or grasshoppers captured amid the pasture grass. Watch that cork disappear, feel the throbbing surge of the wriggling varmit on the opposite end, and life was good.
Never "owned" a fishing place. Just always dreamed of it.
Near bout four years ago the Tin Star became home. It came with a pond of sorts, but it was silted in from eons of drainage down the creek bed and overgrown with brush.
Finally scraped together enough coins to have the tank cleaned out and reshaped only to find central Texas in drought (think dusty dry pond).
Started raining a few months back and has steady rained since to the point that the pond has been flowing over the spillway for quite a spell.
Now the good part: Went to the feed store in Florence this morn and ordered 100 hybrid bluegill bream, 100 hybrid bass, and about 500 fathead minnows for delivery in about three weeks. Yeah, they will only be 3-4 inches long to start, but it will be a life long dream fulfilled.
Life is good, JRM!
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Brush Dancing
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I'd of had to miss the dance (Garth Brooks)
The ole ranch hand lucked into purchase of the Tin Star mid-year 2006. At that time, the Star was a brush infested jungle of cedar, oaks, elm, and steroid induced briers.
Now comes four years later after untold hours of sweat, blood, aggravation, and the pure joy of temporarily taming the "beast".
Sweat: Try July/August on the business end of a chain saw with no breeze in sight?
Blood: The old fat boy has a "wound" down the side of his neck this morn from the brush biting back yesterday while engaged in the act of doing battle with nature (and the total "wound" count is legendary).
Aggravation: Run a good chain saw on large timber all day long and it will sing. Ease it into small brush and watch it disintegrate before your eyes. True story, brush will eat a chain saw, spit it out, and stomp on the operator?
Joy: Ain't nuthin' better than sittin' back with a cold adult beverage at the end of a hard day and experiencing the visual pleasure of measuring one's progress in concert with the land.
Yeah, it's just "dancing" since the spring rains will bring the brush back with a vengeance, but simple pleasures are the best kind when one has no intention of ever "finishing" the job (and it amply makes the pain worthwhile!).
I could have missed the pain
But I'd of had to miss the dance (Garth Brooks)
The ole ranch hand lucked into purchase of the Tin Star mid-year 2006. At that time, the Star was a brush infested jungle of cedar, oaks, elm, and steroid induced briers.
Now comes four years later after untold hours of sweat, blood, aggravation, and the pure joy of temporarily taming the "beast".
Sweat: Try July/August on the business end of a chain saw with no breeze in sight?
Blood: The old fat boy has a "wound" down the side of his neck this morn from the brush biting back yesterday while engaged in the act of doing battle with nature (and the total "wound" count is legendary).
Aggravation: Run a good chain saw on large timber all day long and it will sing. Ease it into small brush and watch it disintegrate before your eyes. True story, brush will eat a chain saw, spit it out, and stomp on the operator?
Joy: Ain't nuthin' better than sittin' back with a cold adult beverage at the end of a hard day and experiencing the visual pleasure of measuring one's progress in concert with the land.
Yeah, it's just "dancing" since the spring rains will bring the brush back with a vengeance, but simple pleasures are the best kind when one has no intention of ever "finishing" the job (and it amply makes the pain worthwhile!).
Monday, March 1, 2010
CHICK FLICKS
The ranch hand's bride absolutely LOVES going to the moving picture shows. The ranch hand mostly don't because:
1. The beautiful child bride chooses "chick flicks" almost exclusively.
2. The ranch hand's bladder will no longer endure an entire feature film without relief.
3. The price of the theater groceries would make my Wright City dad swaller his chaw.
4. The "dark" in there makes negotiating the stairs a "trip" (remember the bladder?).
5. The best part is when it is over.
Of course they is advantages:
1. I gets to sit by the most beautiful woman in the world and hold her hand.
2. The bladder thing gives me the excuse to walk around in the lobby a couple times per show.
3. I can eat two gallons of butter soaked pop corn and nobody seems to care.
4. It is so dark nobody can see the ole fat boy "fidgeting".
5. The best part is when it is over.
The bottom line: Going to movies with the wife is a romantic dating ritual that I hope never ends!
1. The beautiful child bride chooses "chick flicks" almost exclusively.
2. The ranch hand's bladder will no longer endure an entire feature film without relief.
3. The price of the theater groceries would make my Wright City dad swaller his chaw.
4. The "dark" in there makes negotiating the stairs a "trip" (remember the bladder?).
5. The best part is when it is over.
Of course they is advantages:
1. I gets to sit by the most beautiful woman in the world and hold her hand.
2. The bladder thing gives me the excuse to walk around in the lobby a couple times per show.
3. I can eat two gallons of butter soaked pop corn and nobody seems to care.
4. It is so dark nobody can see the ole fat boy "fidgeting".
5. The best part is when it is over.
The bottom line: Going to movies with the wife is a romantic dating ritual that I hope never ends!
Soulful Pleasures
Ranch weekends are almost indescribable in their purity of form and substance.
Of course, "weekends" are only a focus because the ole fat boy is still toiling in the salt mine of an employer Monday thru Friday?
This past Saturday morn dawned with a brilliant sun, azure blue sky, and just the slightest wisp of occasional cloud to season the day.
A labor of love is one that satisfies the soul, provides tactile and visual evidence of its existence, and leaves the world a slightly better place for its doing. The ranch hand indulged his soulful pleasures on the recent sixth week day by stacking previously harvested brush on the back forty burn pile. A task simple in its execution, mindless in the transition from its slain earthbound position to atop the "burn" heap, yet soul satisfying to the miscreant performing the actual labor. Dad used to say when approaching a cemetery he maintained, "Ya'll got to excuse me cause it is time I cleaned yall up". This would be "rancher" intuitively understands that call to nature for forgiveness of the human alteration of the landscape of the land.
Yesterday began with a trek to the front gate to retrieve the Sunday newspaper and the unexpected morning trumpet of the resident turkeys calling after their night's slumber in the Gabriel river bottom. Happy to greet another day, the grasshopper wranglers were joyously gobbling their love of life.
Such are the Lord's reminders of all that the humble ranch hand is blessed with on his small patch of earth bound heaven in Gabriel Mills, Texas.
Of course, "weekends" are only a focus because the ole fat boy is still toiling in the salt mine of an employer Monday thru Friday?
This past Saturday morn dawned with a brilliant sun, azure blue sky, and just the slightest wisp of occasional cloud to season the day.
A labor of love is one that satisfies the soul, provides tactile and visual evidence of its existence, and leaves the world a slightly better place for its doing. The ranch hand indulged his soulful pleasures on the recent sixth week day by stacking previously harvested brush on the back forty burn pile. A task simple in its execution, mindless in the transition from its slain earthbound position to atop the "burn" heap, yet soul satisfying to the miscreant performing the actual labor. Dad used to say when approaching a cemetery he maintained, "Ya'll got to excuse me cause it is time I cleaned yall up". This would be "rancher" intuitively understands that call to nature for forgiveness of the human alteration of the landscape of the land.
Yesterday began with a trek to the front gate to retrieve the Sunday newspaper and the unexpected morning trumpet of the resident turkeys calling after their night's slumber in the Gabriel river bottom. Happy to greet another day, the grasshopper wranglers were joyously gobbling their love of life.
Such are the Lord's reminders of all that the humble ranch hand is blessed with on his small patch of earth bound heaven in Gabriel Mills, Texas.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Saint Fido
Saint Vitus (dancing mania) was a social phenomenon that occurred primarily in mainland Europe between the 14th and 18th centuries. It involved groups of people, sometimes thousands at a time, who danced uncontrollably and bizarrely. Men, women, and children would dance through the streets of towns or cities, sometimes foaming at the mouth until they collapsed from fatigue.
Saint Fido has recently decided that he should "dance" on his hind feet while attempting to manipulate the door handle on the back door to the house with a front paw.
He's getting close, but he aint' quite got the door to open yet? If he does and tunes the TV to "Dancing With The Stars", we might have to get that varmit tested or sumpthin?
Saint Fido has recently decided that he should "dance" on his hind feet while attempting to manipulate the door handle on the back door to the house with a front paw.
He's getting close, but he aint' quite got the door to open yet? If he does and tunes the TV to "Dancing With The Stars", we might have to get that varmit tested or sumpthin?
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Yard Poop
Fido (stray dawg) recently "adopted" the Tin Star as his principle abode.
Seein' as how the beautiful bride has apparently declared semi-permanent residence for the cretin, the ranch hand has been trying to put a positive spin on the situation.
Maybe creating a partial list of perceived "advantages" to the other male at the ranch might help?
1. The varmit tracks mud in the house with FOUR feet (covering the tracks of yours truly).
2. His shameless farting allows the transference of blame when he is proximate.
3. Watchin' the dude "sniff" wimmenfolk is a hoot.
4. It wags, shakes, shivers, moans and groans with pleasure at the slightest kindness
(makin' me wish we had trained our kids better?)
5. Both of us think the postman mostly brings crap, so we are suspicious of him.
6. The dawg seems trainable, the ranch hand long since AIN'T.
7. Fido's mom has never tried to visit at the ranch.
8. He NEVER goes shopping.
9. The ranch hand only has to dump table scraps in Fido's bowl to feel like a culinary genius.
....and the ranch hand's personal favorite: he don't poop in the yard!
OK, that's enough, the moocher can stay another day or three?
Seein' as how the beautiful bride has apparently declared semi-permanent residence for the cretin, the ranch hand has been trying to put a positive spin on the situation.
Maybe creating a partial list of perceived "advantages" to the other male at the ranch might help?
1. The varmit tracks mud in the house with FOUR feet (covering the tracks of yours truly).
2. His shameless farting allows the transference of blame when he is proximate.
3. Watchin' the dude "sniff" wimmenfolk is a hoot.
4. It wags, shakes, shivers, moans and groans with pleasure at the slightest kindness
(makin' me wish we had trained our kids better?)
5. Both of us think the postman mostly brings crap, so we are suspicious of him.
6. The dawg seems trainable, the ranch hand long since AIN'T.
7. Fido's mom has never tried to visit at the ranch.
8. He NEVER goes shopping.
9. The ranch hand only has to dump table scraps in Fido's bowl to feel like a culinary genius.
....and the ranch hand's personal favorite: he don't poop in the yard!
OK, that's enough, the moocher can stay another day or three?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)