Gabriel Mills Opera

Our neighbor recently purchased a new 94 HP John Deere tractor. After a few days he commented that the engine was louder than he expected and apologized for any concern that may be causing.

He could not know that nothing could be further from the truth. I am convinced that I inherited some recessive gene which causes me to love everything about tractors, but especially their sound.

I have previously memorialized my first tractor, Poppin' Johnny. The two cylinders of that old John Deere produced a slow baritone "pop" each time a spark plug fired. The more load placed on the engine, the slower the "pop". It produced a symphony that soothed my soul and placed the world at large in positive perspective.

The classical, but occasional cacophony offerings of these wonderful machines, are simply music to my ears. I love the sound made when they are being started, the initial praise they offer when brought to life, and the eager buzz of tireless toil rendered when they are under maximum load.

No sir neighbor, that John Deere ain't a problem. Just keep stoking it with diesel and turn up the volume of our Gabriel Mills Opera.

Weeds

In the Parable of the Mustard Seed, Jesus compares the Kingdom of Heaven to a mustard seed. He also tells his disciples to have faith like the tiny seed. Although starting as a small insignificant dot, the mustard plant grows to a large size with a persistence of growth powerful enough to crack concrete.

Turns out the ranch hand's "mustard" is apparently bermuda grass seed.

The new bunkhouse is surrounded by a sea of bare topsoil. The rain of late turns it into a sea of mud while rearranging it in drifted banks downhill from the house. This led me to the agriculturally brilliant idea of acquiring bermuda grass seed as ground cover to hold the soil until the native grasses take over.

This decision led to the following conclusions:

1. If a mustard seed is smaller than bermuda seed, I would not be able to see it without a microscope?

2. Bermuda grass seed is precious at the rate of $5 per pound.

3. Sow it using a broadcast spreader in a high wind and $100 of that stuff goes "somewhere???", but not in the yard (dammit!).

4. Buy more (almost) invisible seed, wait for a calm day and "sow" again while praying for rain.

5. Get prayers answered and watch micro-midget seeds wash away with the remaining topsoil.

6. Sharpen the blades on the tractor shredder because somewhere at the bottom of the slope there is going to be one hell of a grass patch (just not in the bunkhouse yard?)

7. Pour concrete all over the yard and paint it green.

8. Pray that a mustard seed don't get a toehold in my new high dollar concrete?

Lord, I have the faith, just help me with the implementation issues and the weeds will take care of the rest!

Drawer Wads

OK sports fans, we are off to the races with the latest edition of the zip code wars at full tilt.

With the sad demise of the Andice post office, the old ranch had to once again change his address with the world at large.

I always like to tackle Goliath first so I called the vendor for the only credit card I own. I gave Andre my info including the new zip code for the rural mail box planted at my front gate. Andre informed me that was NOT my zip code cuz the government provided software he was using says otherwise.

I told brother Andre that I wasn't sure what country he was from, but in my country the zip for the town for my mail delivery was what I gave him. Nope, if the government says so, that's the way it is. (the conversation sorta started a downhill slide from this point?)

While talking thru somewhat clenched teeth I 'splained that I have worked for the damn gov-mint for 40 years and he could take my word for it that "they" ain't always right. Andre countered that it didn't matter because the zip put in by the machine couldn't be changed.

Then we sashayed toward the "everybody got a boss" routine so "let me talk to your boss". As Andre's boss began to read from the same script, I realized that spit was starting to drip off my phone due to the fiery saliva running out the corners of my mouth.

Next I 'splained my conviction that the credit card company wanted the bill paid on occasion and a reasonable person would assume that I would need to receive the bill in order to remit. Same bull shit answer????????

OK, "Who is your boss?" Got put on hold a bit and the second dummy comes back on the line and says his boss "over rode" the software and put in the zip code I requested.

As an extension of the olive branch, I stated that I realized that software programming mistakes do occur. The reply, "We aren't saying there was a mistake, we are just changing the zip to please you."

Well, I must have said at least forty more words before I realized the bastard had hung up on me?

Why is it always the small stuff in life that gets your drawers in a wad the most?

All God's Creatures

It's dawn on the Tin Star and a brief fury of blessed rainfall has just passed.

The calm following the storm has left all refreshed and greening while the morning birds sing their joyful praise of another day.

As I sit in the bunkhouse office and contemplate the solemnity and miracle of Easter celebration, I just glanced out the windows to the west. To my astonishment I am looking at two wild turkeys foraging about 20 feet from my perch. This momentous event is in concert with five deer that are currently in the backyard browsing for sustenance.

The normally wary creatures are completely at ease in my proximity. They seem to impart that He has risen and all God's creatures are as one on this blessed day.

Truly I am thankful for this rare and special moment in my life.

Idiot Stick

In East Texas we called it a "yo-yo".

Basically it was a scythe. The design include a long handle which ended in a metal fork which held a blade at tension. It's purpose was to be swung back and forth in order to cut tall weeds.

Before the advent of mechanized weed eaters, lawn mowers, and such, the "yo-yo" was the only way to keep the steady creep of growing nature at bay around one's home yard. My mom's dad (Papuh) told me that during the Great Depression he was very lucky to get a job slinging a "yo-yo" in the bar ditches of county roads for the princely sum of 50 cents per day!

Trust me based on my personal experience, the business end of a "yo-yo" will wear your butt down to a nub in a heart beat on a humid August day. Driving that puppy ain't for the faint of heart.

Dad just called it an "idiot stick". Only a very desperate person, or an idiot, would wind up and repeatedly force the sharpened cold steel blade through the bahia, sedge, or blue stem that prolifically sprouted in Wright City, Texas.

Today was a history making event for the ole ranch hand. I planted a rural delivery mailbox at the front gate.

Yeah, I've received mail in a country mail box in front of the house. I have just never been the one to drop that particle seed in the earth to see what it might grow in the form of postal delivery.

Enter the modern IDIOT STICK:

Tin Star Ranch country is a quarter inch of topsoil on top of 40 miles of solid rock. You want to dig a hole to stab the post on a mail box, you pound the crap out of the ground with a "rock bar".

That's right sports fans, said ROCK BAR is 6 feet of case hardened steel with a sharpened chisel point that tips the scales at no less than 40 pounds. Don't take no rocket surgeon to operate it. Peruse the simple step by step formula:

1. Stand with the desired post hole betwixt yore lawgs.

2. Raise the idiot stick toward heaven.

3. Drive that sucka into the earth like your life depended on it (MISS YORE TOES!!)

4. Repeat the above til your soul leaves your miserable,worn out, spent (old-fat) body.

5. Take great joy in the 3-4 inches of rock you have excavated?

6. Curse the inventor of rural delivery mail.

7. Long for the days of easy work like slinging a yo-y0.

8. Aw hell, drink a col' beer and see if the hole will dig itself?

9. Finally decide to "shorten" the hole and leave the mailbox about a foot higher than planned?

10. Step back and admire the "masterpiece" of an idiot stick operator extraordinaire.

Now don't try to tell me the ole fat ranch hand don't lead an exciting and rewarding lifestyle!

Sofa Pillers

In an urban environment, "tagging" is a blight wherein delinquent cretins leave their chosen mark with paint or other indelible substance on all manner of property belonging to others. The variety of the "signatures" is surpassed only by the absurdity of the practice.

Needless to say, moving from town to the country relieved the ranch hand of a number of aggravations, including the galling sight of having personal "stuff" tagged by mindless spastics.

Now to the point of all this:

My morning ranch news is chunked at the front gate of the Tin Star near bout 5 in the AMish and is recovered for casual perusing by yours truly bout 5:30A. In a worst case scenario, the plastic bag containing the daily offering has wee bit of dew therein.

This mornings I casually stooped in the driveway to acquire the venerable Austin American Statesman in the yellow glow of my headlights and was shocked to find it TAGGED!!!!!

That's right sports fans, Mr. Racoon done performed his morning constitutional smack dab in the middle of my tabloid. I'm talking fresh, steamy, slime about the size of a saucer that fairly screamed, "We was here first Sucka, so don't forget it"!!!!!

I guess the next thing will be varmit street gangs and felonious fowl wrecking havoc on our rural garden of Eden.

Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition. If its trouble they want, there's a new sharuff in town and his twice barrel shootin' iron ain't loaded with sofa pillers!

Beer and Ice

In 1899, the Reverend Wm. Isaac Newton decided that the burgeoning population (150) of Stapp, Texas deserved the services of a post office.

When the preacher submitted the application to the U.S. Postal Service he did so in the name of his son, Audice. The name was misread, however, and the approval came back for "Andice".

Actually, the local legend is more entertaining. Seems the wits claim that the venerable Andice store had a sign that said, "Beer and Ice" (and the "Beer" part of the sign fell off one day?).

Regardless of the origin of the name, the community of Andice has been loyally served for 110 years by a local postmaster. I am confident that through this century of service, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stayed Andician couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds. All this in spite of the fact that the current population is estimated at 25 (which coincidentally is the approximate number of postal boxes available).

A few months back, your humble ranch hand was blessed to move into this community and proudly rented a post office box secure in the knowledge that I would live out my remaining days as part of this proud tradition.

......and then the odyssey began.....

The sign in front of the post office provides the date of inception (1899) and the zip code (78628). Only thing is, when I rented the box I was told my zip code would be 78733. When I questioned this discrepancy, I was told that since a certain date, all new residents were being assigned the new zip code. I was further assured by the resident government bureaucrat that "it will not make any difference"?????

Then the trouble started:

1. When vendors enter your zip code in a computer, software populates the city/state fields. The zip code I was assigned (and changed my address to with the entire friggin world) would enter "Georgetown".

In order to "fix" this problem, my brilliant edumacated brain notified all (the entire friggin world again) that my zip was actually (trust me on this) 78628.

2. "Fixing" that problem created a geometrically superior problem. When you use a credit card in certain applications, you must input your zip code. Now I had to "guess" if the records for a card listed my old Austin zip, my first Andice zip, or my alias assumed Andice zip (just because you notify your creditor/vendor of an address change doesn't control when their records are updated).

Here's the kicker, you only get one "guess" and the card vendor "locks" your account. It assumes that if a dumass don't know his own zip, he must have stolen the card. It don't pay no never mind that you are at a gas pump and your fuel tank is on vapors. It could care less if you have just consumed a sumptuous meal (with no cash in your pocket) and there is a long line of customers behind you at the cash register. The demon merely roars if your daughter is residing hundreds of miles away and financially founders because the credit card daddy provided will not function??????????

As is the way of things, the travesty finally settled out, the zip code nightmare subsided, and life in the country resumed its blissful pace.

Until yesterday........................

The ole ranch hand innocently sauntered into the Andice Post Office and found a note in his box giving notification that the post office will permanently close its doors at the end of this month. It survived storm, pestilence, the Great Depression, and two world wars only to be scrapped for the sake of "efficiency and economy of scale" (or more likely a communist plot??)

And the worst part: Now the zip code nightmare begins anew.

All yall pray for the ranch hands' continued semi-sanity on this one!

Biscuits

Prior to beginning construction on the new bunkhouse, we routinely observed all manner of wildlife on our property. After construction started, we noticed a sharp decrease in "visitors" due to the flurry of activity and noise.

We have been settled at the ranch for about three weeks now. Each day there is evidence of acceptance by the varmits as they perceived that the new house is a normal part of the landscape.

On a daily basis we are watching deer and turkey casually browse the "back yard" (a five acre area) with no apparent concerns. Yesterday two turkeys walked almost up to our back porch steps as we sat quietly and marveled at the blessing.

Are these back yard neighbors pets? NOPE!

If a cat had kittens in our oven we wouldn't call 'em biscuits and just cause the critters are "friendly" don't make 'em pets.

Anywho, those internal cravings I experience are for deer (not pet) sausage!

Thelda

On occasion, I contemplate what my deceased parents reaction would be to the Tin Star Ranch.

I most often think of Dad when I am outside working on the land in any way. There has been any number of times that I have sat down on a stump and looked to the sky while talking aloud to Dad. I am convinced he is with me spiritually and takes deep satisfaction in my appreciation of our property.

I more often think of Mother (Thelda) in relation to what her reaction might be to our new home.

Sweet Bill tells a story that deeply touches my heart. Seems that after returning from my mom's funeral, Bill was in her yard and was visited by a beautiful humming bird. Feeling the spirit of my mom in that delicate gift, Bill addressed the visitor by saying, "Hello Thelda".

This morning when I opened the garage door, I was blessed by a stunning hummingbird flying in and hovering over me for about five minutes. After my precious visitor departed, I decided to memorialize by blogging in my office.

As I sat contemplating the solemnity of the moment, the hummingbird appeared outside my office window, hovered a moment looking through the glass, seemed to nod, and then disappeared into the blue of the morning sky.

I thank Sweet Bill for sharing her memories of my Mother, but I thank my Lord and Savior for the blessing of his creation of all things beautiful and for the incredible blessing of Thelda and all that her memory provides.

Deere, Dawgs, and other Ramblin's

About 1983, I acquired an old John Deere "B" model tractor. The 1940's era jewel was universally known as a "popping Johnny" due to the characteristic "popping" that came from its exhaust when running.

The "B" model was a bit of a challenge to handle in tight places and didn't have a reserve of power, but I absolutely loved the slow deep baritone of the engine. Besides, when enthroned on that tall iron mule, I felt like a part of history. The generations were being spanned as the ghosts of men multiple generations removed smiled from the sky to acknowledge my appreciation for their old faithful green friend.

About 1990, I retired ole poppin' Johnny to my pasture and picked up a 1950's model John Deere gasoline fueled tractor. With its hydraulic brakes and tighter turning radius, I felt that I was at the pinnacle of agricultural excellence? Again, the longevity of the machine made an impression on me as I cogitated on its 40 years of endeavor toiling for farmers and such.

During 2007 I purchased my beloved BIG DAWG. Big Dawg, my sole new tractor, is a 32 horsepower Kubota with awesome power, all modern conveniences (auto transmission no less?) and total reliability.

At odd times I have mused as to whether those who inherit Big Dawg after my demise will ever contemplate the endeavors and appreciation of previous owners such as I?

Til then, I humbly salute all who take pleasure in the peace and solitude afforded when operating a faithful piece of machinery during a labor of love on one's own property.