FULL CIRCLE

One of the oldest memories of the ranch hand concerns one of nature's most pure joys.

Uncle Charlie and Uncle Reggie each had a farm pond. The ole fat boy had unfettered access at any time on any day.

The neat part is that the fun started from the moment the "fishing" urge occurred.

Bamboo cane grew wild in East Texas. It was considered a nuisance to the ranchers as it grew wildly while resisting any form of growth control. It was a blessing to a country yonker with no money to buy piscatorial pursuit gear.

Yeah, just wade into a 'cane break, whack off a fishin' pole, and ya had a start in "business". Add a braided black line, sharpen a rusty hook, fold a bit of lead on the line, add a flotation cork....and ya was stylin' (in a pasture sort of mode?)

The walk to the pond was equally inviting. The promise of the thrills to come quickened the step while the pursuit of the ever elusive "bait" (grasshoppers) were being stored in a brown, cork sealed snuff bottle.

Approach to a pond demanded quiet stealth. Talking or sudden movement was forbidden.

Coax a brown juice spitting "hopper" from the bottle, ease its thorax onto a hook, and "professionally" present the "lure" to the prey.

Now here is the good part. Ya had no clue what was going to dunk that cork. We caught blue gill bream, red ears, sun perch, goggle eye, channel cats, mud cats, turtles, and stuff we didn't even know the name???

Hours passed like seconds. The days were a blur of carefree pleasure with no thought of the outside world. JRM would say it was the closest thing to Heaven one might find on earth.

Somewhere along the road of life the ole ranch hand lost that thread of pleasure....and it is a damn shame.

In the remaining years of life, my personal pledge is to regain that thrill involving the most simple of pastimes.

Your humble scribe wishes to once again feel that throb of exuberant resistance below the water's surface while holding the business end of a fishing pole. It will be a joy to again see the sun glistening on the wet flesh of a water bound creature, and to know a simple, but magnificent pleasure has come full circle.

The Pain

Hey who's to say
I might have changed it all
And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end
The way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I've of had to miss the dance
(Garth Brooks)

The ole ranch hand has had the privilege of an awesome life thus far.

Yeah, some fairly excruciating pain along the way, but what a dance.

No need to dwell on the "pain" as it is water under the bridge, while the future is a promise of pleasures yet to be experienced.

Lord, I humbly pray for continued endurance to shrug off future adversity, while intensely wringing every ounce of elation provided by family, friends, and all that life has to offer.

Let the dance continue.

Memory Blankets

Today ends the ranch hand's 40th season of harvesting venison.

There is meat in the freezer and horns on the mantle as a tangible reminder of the experience. More importantly, there are a comfortable blanket of memories remaining.

The ranch hand has been privileged to experience the soft black velvet of predawn, the joyous call of Rio Grande turkeys arising from slumber, and majestic aerobatics of a resident hawk.

God has afforded the visual pleasure of His warming sun peeking from the east horizon, the auditory comfort of song birds anticipating the morning feast, and diligent squirrels frenetically gathering their winter harvest.

There is a true comfort in feeling as one with land which has been acquired, improved, and assimilated as a nurturing "home" in every positive sense of the word; and which also serves as a base for the privilege of "hunting".

Lord, I pray that this ole fat boy can continue to approach absolute peace, harmony, and appreciation for the blessing that we call the TIN STAR RANCH.

Earth Bound Existence

Birthdays are entirely a matter of perspective.

At 10, the ranch hand was consumed with rompin' in the outdoors, gobblin' groceries, and generally rough shodding thru life with a grin for bein' so lucky to be alive.

At 20, the baby Trooper felt invulnerable, invincible, dog bite proof, and ten feet tall.

At 30, one begins to reflect a bit on solidifying a long term financial and professional strategy (mixed with a more measured amount of bravado and impunity).

At 40, a certain comfort level is assumed due to perceived increased financial security, professional accomplishment, and the innocently naive belief that it will last forever?

At 50, ya start to spend entirely too much time wondering about twinges, aches, pains, soreness, and "why the heck don't my clothes fit anymore"?

The ole ranch hand hits the 6-0 mark in a few. He would confess to looking backward as much as frontward here lately. A life lived, some part of life left to live.

An ole fart can't change one dang thing about the past; not the good, and certainly none of the bad. Ya just gotta make each day count as one that ya did ya best for the right reasons at the right time.

Here's to the future, each remaining blessed day on earth, ,and the saving grace of my Lord and Heavenly Father.

Help me, oh Lord, to value each day, wring every last ounce of pleasure from the same, and to make a positive difference in the world and all contacted for my remaining time of earth bound existence.

The Sissy Butt

The ranch hand's first foray into deer hunting was 40 years ago in Sabinal, Texas.

Having no clue about anything remotely related, said neophyte hunter was transported in the pre-dawn chill to a remote location and stationed atop an elevated platform. No walls, no chair, just a wooden platform to sit on. Think COLD! Cold that a pair of Levis and a light jacket just made the wind derisively laugh? No deer that day, but the beginning of an education.

Later years brought additional object lessons in survival during hunts that included ice storms, rain, and every imaginable discomfort one might conceive...all in the interest of "fun"?

Fast forward to the era of the Tin Star Ranch. This season the ole fat boy has had the option of either sitting in the venerable deer blind...or sitting in a recliner inside the house (with the same view as in the blind).

Guess whose sissy butt has spent more time in the house (shooting out the back door) than shivering in the deer blind?

One would like to think that age brings better judgement without mitigation of the "sporting" side of a man?