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.
Monday, March 1, 2010
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?
Sunday, February 14, 2010
OBITUARIES
Ever noticed how "ole folks" read the obituaries more religiously than others.
The ranch hand used to think that was curious. Now he are one?
Ya see folks you knew, folks you wish you had known, and weird stuff?
However, wouldn't it be more interesting if obituaries included more information:
Ya see a picture of a long hair, tattooed dude with a "f*** you" look on his face and wonder if the "obit" should say, "Booger John was drunk on his ass when he mounted his Harley, handed Imogene his beer, and said, watch this shit cause ain't nobody gonna believe it!"
Ya see a pic of a sweet ole woman with an angelic face and wonder if there should include verbiage about her wild college days where she bucked common morals by raising her skirt to knee length and exposed her arms to a tanning sun while secretly sipping a prohibition era adult beverage? (and did she pre-date Booger John in getting a tattoo, but kept it hidden all her life?)
Ya see the heartbreaking image of a child and wonder about the lifetime of experiences that will be missed.
Nothing too deep here, just some random thoughts from an ole fart who has become an habitual obituary reader?
The ranch hand used to think that was curious. Now he are one?
Ya see folks you knew, folks you wish you had known, and weird stuff?
However, wouldn't it be more interesting if obituaries included more information:
Ya see a picture of a long hair, tattooed dude with a "f*** you" look on his face and wonder if the "obit" should say, "Booger John was drunk on his ass when he mounted his Harley, handed Imogene his beer, and said, watch this shit cause ain't nobody gonna believe it!"
Ya see a pic of a sweet ole woman with an angelic face and wonder if there should include verbiage about her wild college days where she bucked common morals by raising her skirt to knee length and exposed her arms to a tanning sun while secretly sipping a prohibition era adult beverage? (and did she pre-date Booger John in getting a tattoo, but kept it hidden all her life?)
Ya see the heartbreaking image of a child and wonder about the lifetime of experiences that will be missed.
Nothing too deep here, just some random thoughts from an ole fart who has become an habitual obituary reader?
Saturday, February 13, 2010
BAD DECISIONS
Bad decisions make good stories.
As a yonker, the ranch hand decided "stealin'" papuh's watermelons would be more fun than just asking him for one. (didn't figger on falling in the bull nettles in the dark while carrying out the purloinment of the free fruit?)
Became a teen and was hell bent on being "grown up" by smoking cigarettes? That is a special kind of first time "sick" when ya suck down an unfiltered Camel or two?
Got "full grown" as a baby Trooper and figgered could wade into a crowded mex bar in south San Antone and "whup 'em all". WRONG!!!!!!!!!!!
Tackled all ya could eat menus, tried to out-figger Gene Waller, and reincarnated a 1959 Willis Jeep into a Chevy powered "jump the front wheels off the ground" pavement pounder?
The miracle is that the ole fat boy lived to tell the "tales". Who woulda figgered?
Bad decisions make good stories?
As a yonker, the ranch hand decided "stealin'" papuh's watermelons would be more fun than just asking him for one. (didn't figger on falling in the bull nettles in the dark while carrying out the purloinment of the free fruit?)
Became a teen and was hell bent on being "grown up" by smoking cigarettes? That is a special kind of first time "sick" when ya suck down an unfiltered Camel or two?
Got "full grown" as a baby Trooper and figgered could wade into a crowded mex bar in south San Antone and "whup 'em all". WRONG!!!!!!!!!!!
Tackled all ya could eat menus, tried to out-figger Gene Waller, and reincarnated a 1959 Willis Jeep into a Chevy powered "jump the front wheels off the ground" pavement pounder?
The miracle is that the ole fat boy lived to tell the "tales". Who woulda figgered?
Bad decisions make good stories?
Sunday, January 31, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
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?
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?
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