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?

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!

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?

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.

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?????

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.

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!"

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.

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!

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.

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 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?

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.