GETTER DONE GALS

PEARLS OF WISDOM

2011-10-10T09:13:00.000-07:00

By Welda Grider

April 20, 2008

Pearls of wisdom

Filed under: General — Julie @ 8:38 pm

Â ”Mama, when I grow up, I’m gonna be a cowboy.”
“Make up your mind son, because you can’t do both.”

Comments (0)

April 19, 2008

Reasons not to assault a ranch woman

Filed under: General — Julie @ 10:56 am

This story was written by a friend of mine, Welda Grider, published in a local newspaper and has quickly made the rounds of the internet. It’s too good not to continue its path around the world.Â Julie Carter
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Reasons not to assault a ranch woman
By Welda McKinley Grider
Violence does not scare us. We ride 1,500 pound horses and stare down an alley full of mad, snot-slinging cows that weigh over 800 pounds. We’ve held down calves that outweigh you by four times.
Don’t try to intimidate us. Most of our husbands stand a head and shoulders taller,outweigh us by 100 pounds and we aren’t scared of them.
Why would be we be frightened by someone who can’t keep their pants up?
Every time we work cows, our husbands threaten us if we don’t get out of the gate. They threaten us if we don’t stay in the gate.We are pretty much not impressed by threats.
Plus, if you get much closer we may give you some threats of our own to consider and be able to back it up.
Don’t wave that knife at me, boy. I castrate when we brand, throw the “mountain oysters” on the fire AND eat them, dirt and all. You probably don’t want to go there.
Don’t threaten to steal my pickup. I work for a living, so have insurance. The chances of you being able to drive a standard are next to none and there is no spare.
I’ve walked home from the back side of the ranch, I can walk from here.
You want my purse? Take my purse. It has little money in it because, as I mentioned, I work for a living.
You will find various receipts for feed and vet supplies, some dried up gum and the notice for my next teeth cleaning.
The only “drugs” you will find is something that is either aspirin or a calf scours pill but its been in there so long I’ve forgotten which it is.
Don’t threaten to hurt me. I may look old and fragile to you, but I can ride horseback for 12 hours, with nothing to eat or drink. I have been kicked, bucked off, run over and mucked out.
I’ve had worse things happen to me in the corrals than you have experienced in the little gang wars you’ve been through, and still cooked supper for a crew.
You may whip me, son, but you’ll be a tired, sore S.O.B. in the morning and yes, I will remember your face because I am used to knowing which calf belongs to which cow.
I’ll also remember which direction you went and what you were wearing because I’ve tracked many a cow with less information than you’ve given me.
You are not going to scare me with that little “Saturday Night Special” when I have a .38 in my boot.
You need not think I won’t shoot you. I’ve shot several coyotes and numerous rattlesnakes. I put down my horse when he broke his leg and shot my pet dog when he killed some sheep.
Don’t think I won’t consider you a rabid dog and go on my way.
Welda McKinley Grider was raised by a ranch woman, knows many and would pity the thug that tried to rob them.

THE LANGUAGE OF THE COWBOY

2011-08-07T07:08:00.000-07:00

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy By Julie Carter

Language ranks among the most visible, audible, extensive, and useful cultural evidence that human societies create. Undeniably, it is one of the more important parts of any culture.

Anyone looking into ranch life and cowboy history will find that the culture of the American West has a language all its own. Yankees don’t understand it and rarely recognize it as a real language.

I know that my personal dialect is that of a direct plain-spoken Westerner. I use words that others don’t recognize as words and I leave out words (that) others would place in the thought process I’m expressing. See parenthesis. They might call it correct grammar, I call it unnecessary.

While I possess in the recesses of my upbringing a full vocabulary of “range vernacular,” some very skilled mentors managed to round off the edges of my speech.

As a young girl my mother came to the West from the civilized world bringing with her a refined vocabulary. I was also blessed with teachers that were able to guide me to hold my own in polite company when it came to conversation.

I’m not embarrassed that I often have to look up the meaning of words used casually and easily by my fellow scribes. Given the opportunity, I could give them a few they would have to investigate, not because they are unlearned but because it’s a foreign language to them. And those words won’t be in ordinary dictionaries.

In the language called cowboy, jingle isn’t the sound that a bell makes or a rhyme. It is a verb that means to gather the horses.

By definition, hooley-ann isn’t a country girl but a type of loop thrown to catch a horse. Hoolihan is something completely different. While dew claw is a part of bovine anatomy, the labels for saddle horses from the remuda could include crow-hopper, craw-fisher or the blind bucker.

The early cowboy was generally not highly educated but he never lacked for expression. The sharp directness of his speech seemed novel and strange to conventional people but no one could accuse him of being boring. His ability to turn a picturesque phrase was as refreshing as it was unexpected and often showed his keen sense of humor.

His figures of speech are descriptive and clearly accurate. Trying to accomplish the impossible is “like tryin’ to scratch your ear with your elbow.” When expressing his idea of prominence he might say it “stuck out like a new saloon in a church district.”

Pretty is “prettier than a spotted dog under a red wagon,”and ugly is expressed in colorful descriptions like “so narrow between the eyes he could look through a keyhole with both eyes.” Chouse is chase -- cows or girls and sometimes both.

Today’s cowboy is quite often very educated, but you will find that the book learnin’ never takes away his ability to employ his words in a way that suits him. He will arrange them in a manner that best expresses his idea and be completely unrestricted by tradition.

That cowboy slang, twang and verbal saunter is often worn like the camouflage of a chameleon. It is not unusual for a cowboy to use it to beguile his listener, lulling them into a false sense of superiority.

The dumb-ol’-boy trick has made many a cowboy a pile of money. Their theory is to not ever tamper with the natural ignorance of a greenhorn.

Whatever their dialect, phraseology, and vernacular, the cowboy has always had a way of expressing a big thought in a few words.“Success is the size of the hole a man leaves after he dies.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself.

Julie knows a cowchip is paradise for a fly. She can be reached for comment at jcarternm@gmail.com.

THE DAYS OF KOOL-AID SUMMERS

2011-07-30T06:27:00.001-07:00

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

It was about now, in the middle of a long hot summer, that I would start to miss school. Not school for the education, but school for the friends and the activities.

Rural living for us as kids was defined by isolation at the ranch in the southern Colorado Mountains.

No one "went to town" once school was out in May, except maybe Mom who made her once a month trek to the grocery store. Our return to civilization didn't happen until after Labor Day when the school bell rang once again.

The decade of the '60s took me from 8 to 18 and was jammed with life lessons and foundational principles. All the things I had but didn't know were important would not become apparent to me until I was old enough to mourn their loss, value their existence, and understand the lessons that came with them.

It was before we knew sugar wasn't good for us and Kool-Aid was our year-round beverage of choice either in the liquid form or frozen into popsicles in the summer. The alternative was the gallons of fresh raw milk that completely filled the top shelf of our refrigerator.

Summer days ran together in an endless manner that changed only in the way I changed. As a pre-teen, I began each day with figuring out what to do to keep me busy so the chore list from my mom wasn't increased. Saying "I'm bored" was a sure way to win half a day of weeding the gigantic garden, cleaning stalls or some like sentence.

Hay meadows and a nearby cold, mountain creek provided an enchanted play world for all of us -- three brothers, two summer resident kids and the occasional visiting cousin or two.

When I reached the age that I knew boys didn't really have cooties and that being a teenager made everyone else so very hard to communicate with, I was still in isolation.

I found solace in spending the days wandering the hills on my horse, talking to my faithful Australian-shepherd sidekick and daydreaming of a more romantic world that had no real definition. I spent hours reading books and writing long letters, both of which took me to an outside world I didn't really know.

I'd only heard about the "hippies" and all that went with what most people recall of that decade. Vietnam was on the news and a world away. A stamp was five cents and so was a Hershey bar. I am vague on where I was when the Beatles hit the scene, but I remember where I was when JFK was shot.

Civilization in the form of the nearest town of a few hundred people offered lessons in what it was to be draggin' main and the finer details of a Chinese Fire Drill. An icy Coca-Cola and a basket of French fries in town was the height of delight.

Duck tail haircuts, beehive hair, hip-hugger pants and mini-skirts were about as "with it" as any of us at school got. Go-go boots and shoulder-length hair with that perfect flip made you "cool." The way-out kids wore Nero-collared shirts and sported peace sign necklaces.

"Gunsmoke and Rawhide", (yes, in black and white) were favorites but we didn't get that channel and had to settle for "Wagon Train" and "Bonanza" on the one we did receive. "Big Valley" made its debut mid-decade, as did "Days of our Lives", back when a half-hour sufficed for soap opera drama.

There isn't a '60s memory that doesn't include late night radio from Oklahoma City. KOMA brought the latest and greatest in the world of Rock and Roll to every country kid in several states between there and the Rocky Mountains. The Beach Boys, Righteous Brothers, Mamas and Papas, the Supremes, Simon and Garfunkel and so many more. And, of course a few slow dances with Bobby Vinton.

The window to a world I was yet to know was as simple as a nine-volt battery in a transistor radio.

Julie can be reached for comment at jcarternm@gmail.com

'COWBOY' IS A PROCESS

2011-07-18T13:47:00.000-07:00

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

“Riding for the brand” and “making a hand” are two expressions that are short on words but big on meaning, which seems appropriate for the Western genre they represent. Much like the word “cowboy,” there is a lifetime of components built into it.

Every cowboy kid grows up hearing these phrases - knowing it is part of what and who he is destined to be. How he gets there is just part of everyday living.

Ranch kids are given big responsibilities at a young age. It might start with simple chores like daily taking out the ashes from the wood stove, filling the wood box, bringing in the milk cow every evening, and gathering the eggs from the chicken house which includes eluding the rooster that is always waiting to attack.

Right around that same age, the youngster will unassumingly be given some responsibilities in the pasture beyond the usual seemingly permanent position of riding drag behind the herd.

As his dad rides off one direction, he’ll tell the young button to ride down a long draw as he points to it, bring along any cattle he finds and meet the cowboys at the gate at the end of the canyon.

With some pride filling his heart, the button will sit a little taller in the saddle as he rides off.

As his horse picks his way through the quakies, a few head of cattle lift their heads from their grazing and start moving down the draw ahead of him.

The lad pulls off a small branch from a sapling as he rides by it and pops it on his leather chaps in a rhythm that matches the gait of the trotting cattle. He doesn’t know it yet, but those moments will be remembered by him as some of his happiest.

He keeps an eye on the ridge above him, hoping he’s not ahead of the rider coming that way or not too far behind the ones he is to meet. A few times a little worry eases its way into his gut. What if he wasn’t in the right canyon or not going the right way?

When he rode out of the end of the draw and no one was at the gate, he again gave thought to the possibility he wasn’t where he was supposed to be or maybe they’d forgotten about him.

The few head of cattle he’d pushed out hit the fence line. He trotted ahead of them, got them stopped and then sat quietly while they settled down.

He knew he should just wait. At least he had some cattle to show for his efforts.

He slouched in the saddle and began, one by one, stripping the leaves off the branch he’d brought along. He chewed on one and tossed the rest at a make-believe target a few feet away. Then he began peeling off the bark, keeping one eye on the cattle, and keeping his hands busy and mind occupied. Killing time he wasn’t sure he had to kill.

He stood in his saddle and looked in every direction for signs of anyone, anything.

He listened for the sounds of cracking branches and horse shoes striking rocks, or the sounds of cattle moving through the trees. Still nothing. Knowing he needed to trust his raising and for sure better be where his dad told him to be, he waited it out.

Finally, in a far distance he could hear an occasional “whoop” and “h’yah” as the cowboys moved a big herd down the fence line from the backside of the pasture. The button grinned, again sitting tall in the saddle, looking every bit the cowboy he wanted to be.

His dad rode by him and gave him a nod. It said all he needed to “hear.” In that gesture was “Good job son. You made a hand.”

Those times are the confidence builders that build a foundation for a life and it plants seeds for loyalty and pride in a job well done.

"It was probably a step in the making of a cowhand when he learned that what would pass for heroics in a softer world was only chores around here." Wallace Stegner, Wolf Willow: A History, a Story, and a Memory of the Last Plains Frontier

Julie can be reached for comment at jcarternm@gmail.com

WORTHLESS?

2011-03-06T16:48:00.000-08:00

by Julie Carter
"There's just one thing that keeps him from being the best cowboy ever - he's worthless."

That quote from John Erikson covers a lot of things, not just cowboys. However, as usual, my story heads down that trail.
Troy is cowboy, a roper, a contractor, husband, father, grandfather and a horse trader.
The trader qualities likely negate the credibility of the others and the stated order is probably not in proper priority according to Troy. However, the story will set that straight.
This week Troy has four good rope horses. They come and go. Sometimes he's afoot and has to borrow horses to rope on.
When he will finally, actually buy a horse for his own use, some fool will come along and offer him big bucks and it's gone.
He is the quirky kind of roper/horseman -- one that can make any plug look like a winner. People buy his horses because they think that the horse will make them as good a roper as Troy.
When Troy is afoot and needy for a horse to rope on, he gets pitifully melancholy.
He'd been to a benefit roping over the weekend and it set his mind to thinking perhaps he needed such a roping for himself.
The roper benefiting from the roping had an appendectomy. He was a truck driver, working for a big company and had health insurance, but was having trouble meeting the $500 deductible because he had to save his money for entry fees.
He also needed some time off to recuperate. He was running out of sick leave and didn't want to use any of his vacation days. He needed those for ropings come summer.
The "benefit" package of such a roping was looking good to Troy.
His personal pity party included the recall of all his most recent woes.
He'd spent a couple days sitting around a distant hospital waiting on a grandbaby's arrival. Once that happened, his wife gave him permission to go home.
He hit the ranch gate at in full anticipation of fun. He went directly to gather up his horses, get them saddled and head over to this local benefit roping.
As he led the horses to the trailer, he noticed one of them was limping. A close examination revealed he needed to call the horseshoer.
So he headed back to the house to use the phone and simultaneously remembered he was supposed to be watching his other two grandchildren who had been dropped off just as he arrived.
He called his father-in-law to come get the kids, called the horseshoer and then went back out to the barn.
When he got there, his hired hand yelled at him that water was "coming out of the house."
He remembered that he had to gather clothes for the kids anyway, so he went back to the house.
He found massive amounts of water gushing out of a wall.
Quickly taking the siding and the insulation off, he found that the pipes that had been frozen earlier in the week, were now thawing and broken.
Recognizing that the repair was going to be a major job, he shut off all the water to the house. After all, the wife was still off with the new grandbaby business, what did he need water for?
Eventually, the father-in-law showed up and Troy had to shortcut him from going into the house.
He got the clothes gathered up for the kids, the horseshoer arrived and did his thing and finally, Troy left for the roping.
There was a nice big buckle to be won and Troy took it as part of his plunder for the day. He roped all day long, rode down his two good horses and only came out $16 in the hole. Success is relative.
What sealed the deal for is desire for a personal benefit roping was when Troy greeted another roper he knew.
"Hey man, haven't seen you in a while. Where have you been?"
"Aw, I've been working three days a week," was the pitiful reply from the accomplished #8 roper.
"Three days? How's that working for you?" Troy asked.
"Well, had to go to three, two didn't work out, I couldn't pay my bills."
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net

The cowboy went to war

2010-11-13T21:13:00.000-08:00

The cowboy went to war

Julie Carter Cowgirl Sass & Savvy

They all dressed alike once they got there. Field and combat olive-drab uniforms, laced-up military-issue combat boots and a rifle just for starters.

In a sea of soldier faces, you can't tell the cowboys from the accountants. Not in any of the previous wars and not now. But there have always been plenty of men of all ages that left the ranch and headed to war.

Sadly, it took me until I was well into adulthood before I realized the dangers these "boys" and most were just boys, put themselves in when they proudly went to defend their country.

There's something built into the male that moves him to do just about anything to become a soldier and fight for what he has known as home, family and freedom.

New Mexico's Claude Hobbs, the oldest of 10 children, was drafted in 1942 in the Army Automatic Weapon Battalion and away from his $1-a-day job driving mules to build dirt tanks with a fresno and breaking horses for $5 a head.

His first stop was the beaches of Normandy. Before he was able to come home, he saw five major conflicts and earned bronze and silver stars as well as two good conduct medals.

My dad, George Baker, and his two brothers, all Colorado cowboys, did their stints with the army. Dad, one brother and a cousin were all in Korea during and just after that war that no one really won and where conflicts remain still today.

My brother left the "glamour" of ranching, haying and working for Dad to join the Army and make a career of it. His expertise ultimately landed him at the end of his career serving for three years as a drill instructor and training waves of troops during the Desert Storm conflict.

Today we are sending our cowboys to the Middle East to fight a war like no other. And even then, you can take the cowboy off the ranch, but you can't keep him afoot. If there is a horse around, which is actually a tactical warfare method in Afghanistan, he'll find it even if it's not "Army issue."

Northern New Mexico cowboy Frank van Buskirk spent four years fighting government red tape to be allowed into the service. His burning desire to fight for his country set him on a journey that ultimately landed him with the Rangers in southern Afghanistan on a fire base.

There in the remoteness of the country was an Afghan horse that was about to meet a New Mexico cowboy. Frank soon became friends with Achmed (his name for his new steed) who learned there was more to life than being petted and standing around.

Frank found an old saddle in a shed that was covered in decades of dust and had extremely dry leather --crumbling and brittle with age.

Making do with what was at hand, he soaked it in motor oil to soften the leather so he could make repairs. He found a snaffle bit and made a head stall for it out of the parachute cord that came tied around the Army supply packages.

Frank's dedication and sacrifice were highlighted, along with the horrors of war, with good moments with Achmed. The other notable to his story is the fact that he turned 60 years old shortly after returning home to New Mexico.

As Claude Hobbs put it in recalling his war years 65-plus years ago, "You see a lot of things you forget, and a lot of things you don't forget."

And for that reason, thanking a veteran isn't just a "holiday" action. It's something that should be done every day for every one of them that have ever served, whether they wear a cowboy hat or not.

Julie can be reached for comment jcarter@tularosa.net

The Blackberry -- Not just for pie anymore

2010-11-13T21:05:00.001-08:00

The Blackberry -- Not just for pie anymore

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

There is no argument that the face of cowboying has changed. While the basics of the job still require some of the same skills and tools, technology has made great strides in sneaking into the world of the cowboy.

Fifteen years ago, there were only a few cell phones in the pockets of the range riders and every now and then, you could find one with a computer and the ability to send an email.
Five years ago it was rare to see a cowboy under the age of 40 without a cell phone and today, it's a whole new game.

In talking to one technology-adept cowpuncher, I found that not only was his new Blackberry phone functional for the usual communication, but he used it as a tool for his multi-tasking way of making a living.

"I use the calendar all the time," he said. "It separates the scheduling for hunting, ranching, day work, and my horse shoeing appointments so I don't book one thing on top of another. Then it backs it up through the home computer in case I should lose my phone."

He laughed and said he was sitting in the pickup sending me the email telling me about his phone while he was filling up a water tank for some pasture cattle.

He called it a "fancy gadget" and admitted it took some time to learn how to use it. "They aren't for the old timers," he said, "but for me, it has been a money-maker."

Taking the Blackberry phone with him everywhere, he was able to book $6,000 in hunts in a week and didn't have to be stuck in the house waiting for replies.

That's more than he paid for the phone, he pointed out.

This cowboy uses it to take pictures of parts -hydraulic fittings to saw blades-and then sends the picture to the store clerk to make sure he gets the right one the first time.

He watches the cattle market reports for all the sale barns in the country and if the auction barn has an internet camera, he can even make a bid if he sees a good deal.

The weather channel sends him alerts and he can watch the weather maps which he deems pretty handy during calving season.

"I even had a cow with a weird tumor on her leg," he said. "So I took a picture of it, emailed it to the vet and saved a client the 100-mile trip that it would have taken to haul her to the vet. The vet later told me it was a great idea and now he has clients send a picture of 'emergency' calls. You know, just in case it is something that might be able to wait until later. You know, from those hypochondriac horse and dog owners."

And because he guides hunts through various seasons, his ringtone is a turkey gobble sound. "It doesn't spook the game or the livestock," he laughed. "But if I put it on vibrate, it will absolutely cause a bronc to blow up. And, it's best to not get bucked off in water. That does kind of mess up the phone."

He laughs about the not always having service but says he can usually send a text. Or if the phone at home is busy, email still goes through. "If I'm in a big wreck, maybe the wind knocked out of me where I can't talk, I can just take a picture and send it. A picture worth a thousand words. They'll get the point."

While he was doctoring a sick calf that he had roped and tied down, a call came in requesting that he select one of two styles of feed bunks to be delivered to him. Since he happened to be near some feed bunks at the time, he simply took a photo of them and texted the photo to the dealer. The matter settled, he let the calf up, mounted his horse and rode off,

"I never forget how to wire up the pressure switch on the well house," he said. "I take a picture of the old one on my Blackberry and use it as a pattern to wire up the new one. I can also have people video their horses that need special shoeing and send it my phone so I can get an idea what is wrong before I get there to shoe."

The cell phone - a tool for the new age of cowboying, ranching and rural living. Much like the Leatherman or the Plammer fencing pliers, you should never leave home without it.

What's next? Bluetooth built into the saddle horns?

Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net

The cowboy and the skinwalker

2010-10-29T12:34:00.000-07:00

The cowboy and the skinwalker

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

It happened on a high desert ranch in Navajo country.

The mesa lands surrounded the canyons and the cedar-covered hillsides and all were painted in layers of bold colors.

The day wore a hushed stillness broken by the occasional flapping sound of a crow on the wing.

A lone cowboy was checking cattle, riding along at a slow trot when a movement caught his eye.

Across the canyon, very deep and wide, he could see a man walking. He pulled his horse to a stop, squinting to make sure of what he was seeing.

In the distance, he could see what he knew to be an Indian dressed in the traditional animal-hide apparel of a century ago.

The fact that the Indian was afoot so far from civilization raised a curiosity in the cowboy.

He navigated his way across the canyon in one of the few places that it could be crossed. There he found some old cliff dwellings and "picture rocks," bringing him to the thought that perhaps the Indian had been praying there in an ancient place of worship.

The cowboy looked around but the man seemed to have disappeared. He rode to the spot where he saw him from across the canyon and found not the man, but where he had been sitting, along with another curious sight.

Hanging on a large cedar, like ornaments on a Christmas tree, were little figurines made of grass and bound with string. One of them, swaying only slightly in a non-existent breeze, was quite clearly a man on a horse.

A cold shiver went down his spine. He shook it off and began to look around for signs of the man he'd seen.

He found the Indian's tracks and followed them for a short distance. They all but disappeared in the rocks so he circled the area looking for more tracks.

All he could find were the tracks of several coyotes.

"I figured he was hiding in the huge cracks in the rocks so as not to be bothered," the cowboy related in telling the tale "So I rode away respectfully, crossed back over the canyon and went on to finish my day's work."

The next night, the cowboy was joined in camp by a Navajo friend of his named Bobby. They sat by the fire and over coffee, the cowboy told Bobby about what he had seen the day before.

Even in the dim firelight, the cowboy could see Bobby's deep brown skin turn very pale.

He was visibly spooked when he asked the cowboy if he believed in witches and demons or devils.

The cowboy, without hesitation, replied a simple, "No."

Bobby, his voice shaking, began to tell the cowboy about skinwalkers. Although they are most frequently seen as a coyote, wolf, owl, fox, or crow, the yee naaldlooshii is said to have the power to assume the form of any animal they choose, depending on what kind of abilities they need.

Some Navajo also believe that skinwalkers have the ability to steal the "skin" or body of a person.

The Navajo believe that if you lock eyes with a skinwalker they can absorb themselves into your body.

Bobby told the cowboy that his lack of belief in bad spirits made his soul too strong for the skinwalker.

"The little doll on the horse that was hanging in the tree was the tool he made to call you over to his side of the canyon," Bobby told him. "When you lost his tracks, then found several sets of coyote tracks, it was him and his clan leaving when he couldn't enter your body.

"Only one of them will change shape and be seen," said Bobby. "That's why you only saw one man. They didn't want you to feel outnumbered. Stay away from them, and they'll move on."

The legend of skinwalkers comes with many stories and warnings, all common with their elements of evil and elusiveness that are magnified by the dark of night.

But there is one cowboy that knows what he saw in broad daylight.

Never again did he ride the desert canyon lands without feeling there were many eyes upon him.

Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net or at her website at www.julie-carter.com

Cowgirls don't cry

2010-10-29T12:32:00.000-07:00

Cowgirls don't cry

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

Little girls are not all born "cowgirl" tough. They also don't have to be a cowgirl to have the trait.

However, many of those lessons are taught in the dust of a corral or at the end of a day so long that her saddle becomes a torture chamber and the dark has overtaken everything.

Daughters and their daddies have a special relationship that is an unpredictable mixture of tenderness and toughness.

With a soft heart he will give in to her natural wiles that turn him to putty with the sound of her voice and the batting of her eyelashes.

With an iron-tough determination, he will go beyond the bounds of good sense to protect her, even when it means evoking her anger and forcing a daughterly pout directed at his resolve.

With a soft voice reserved only for her, he will tell her that life will let her down and like the falls she has taken from her saddle horse, it'll hurt, but only for a little while.

"Honey," he'll say, "cowgirls don't cry."

In his guidance, he'll tell her, "When you fall off, you get right back on and ride. Don't wait, don't think about. Just do it. And honey, cowgirls don't cry."

Those life lessons will always serve her well.

The taste of dirt in her mouth, the pain of a hard-ground landing and the sting of the tears as she fights them back are physical memories that translate to that "grown-up living" everybody talked about.

True to her training, she never let the world see her heart break; she was determined there would be no evidence of a "fall apart." In the recesses of her mind, those words echoed like down a long canyon, "Honey, cowgirls don't cry."

Life gives no quarter to those in boots and jeans. It batters and buffets, tosses and slams. Whether natural or man-made, the storms in life keep coming.

There have been times in my life when, in spite of that stainless-steel badge of courage I was handed as a very young girl, I cried.

I cried when my first horse, Ranger, died. I was 5 years old, he was 20-something and in a running fit of his last breaths of life, he raced the length of a meadow and then lay down as his heart stopped beating. I lost my first best friend that day.

I cried when my best buddy, our blue-eyed Australian shepherd, Sally, was no longer at my bedroom window every night to be let back into the house after my dad had put her out.

The loss surpassed all the usual teenage heartbreak brought by peers, boys and the drama of growing up.

I cried when my dad sat before me and told me that we were moving from the ranch I'd known as home all my life.

I was 16 and recall the moment still with a sharp pain in my heart and tears waiting to fall, not because of his words, but because it made him cry too.

Until that moment, I'd never seen my dad cry.

Through the years, there have been other occasions for tears. Happy tears and heart break tears.

Sometimes I let them fall, but more often, I did not. "Honey, cowgirls don't cry."

When my dad lay dying at the age of 50, cheated of the life he worked to create, I cried every tear I hadn't cried up until then.

It seemed as if they'd been stored for that moment when the pain of the loss far surpassed the indoctrination of "cowgirls don't cry."

And when it was over, so were the tears of that magnitude. I knew the lesson was not in the "not crying." It was in the determination to get back on and ride again.

I finally understood that he wasn't telling me not to cry, not really. He was telling me to not quit and not stop trying.

What he was really saying was, "Cowgirls never give up."

Julie can be reach for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net

Bits and peices from the boot box

2010-10-15T12:20:00.000-07:00

Bits and pieces from the boot box

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

As short, funny stories fly through my life, I latch on to them and save them in a boot box to be shared with the world at some point. Boot boxes are the perfect place to store about everything.

Destination weddings

Missy and Randy planned to get married just as soon as she finished her Finance final at college. They had a "destination wedding" planned. Their destination was the local courthouse.

As they were leaving the courthouse, the deed done, signed and sealed, Randy told Missy she needed to drive, he was tired. New-wife dutiful, she obliged.

About a block away from the courthouse he said to her, "You know, I don't have a big old money tree like your daddy."

Missy slammed on the brakes bringing the pickup to an abrupt halt. "My God Randy, couldn't we have had this conversation about 10 minutes ago? I'm already married to you now."

Women get the last word in every argument. Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument. Missy has proved that to Randy for 38 years now.

Happily ever after

Not long ago a Southern Belle barrel racer was given her Senior Association Gold Card for being 75-plus years old and still competing.

She thanked the committee for their recognition and told them how much she appreciated the gesture.

The association president assured her it was their pleasure. He mentioned how much they enjoyed seeing her and wished they could catch up with her a little more often.

She replied, "Hopefully I'm going to be able to go to more rodeos now, because last week I put my husband in a rest home."

The president nodded and thought, "This lady makes team ropers look human."

Turning blue

Cleverness abounds when it comes to cowboys. Team ropers, contrary to common misconception, are no exception.

Tim had "had it." Every time he went to a roping, someone stole his roping gloves out of the back of his pickup.

Standing before his washing machine, he dumped an entire bundle of new white cotton gloves into the tub along with a box of blue Rit dye.

Quite pleased with himself and this grand idea, he said, "Now I'll know immediately who's stealing my gloves."

Soon after, he called his girlfriend up and asked if she'd like to come along to a roping. He suggested she could sit in the grandstands where she could easily spot those who were wearing blue roping gloves. He'd appreciate her help and the information.

Situating herself with a good viewpoint, it wasn't long before she was nearly rolling off the bleacher seats with uncontrollable laughter. Everybody that rode in the arena was wearing blue roping gloves.

No one would admit to stealing his gloves, even when Tim waved around the empty box and pointed out everyone had on blue gloves.

Nope, no siree, didn't steal them, they told him with conviction. Bought them at the feed store right there locally. Didn't he know? Blue was the new fashion color.

Tim rode away muttering something about "I swear to Jesus, next time I'm dying them pink!"

The blue story wasn't over. Soon after the blue-glove roping, Tim called up his girlfriend in some distress. He didn't know that the blue dye would stay in his washer and he now had all blue shirts, all blue socks and all blue underwear.

In complete sympathy, sort of, she laughed and asked if there was any chance he thought someone was stealing his underwear? She suggested a Saturday night at the local honky tonk, checking to see who else might have blue underwear.

He was not as amused at the idea as she thought he should be.

Priorities

Reminiscing about his rodeo career, a handsome 40ish cowboy stated, "I started riding bareback horses and bulls when I was 15. I rode both until I turned 22. Quit the bulls because I was a little better at the horses. And besides, I didn't like waiting around after the bareback riding to ride a bull at 10 p.m. I had to get to the dance!"

Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net

2010-10-15T12:18:00.000-07:00

Whispers of the cottonwoods

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

A single cottonwood tree, gone bright yellow in the season, its leaves and branches framing a deep blue sky, looms above gently waving prairie grass wearing muted shades of beige and rust.

The scene is timeless both in reality and symbolically. The cottonwood tree is woven into the fabric of our lives, our history and better yet, our memories.

Whether you played in a schoolyard lined with them like sentries, or as a youth you lay in your bed on a summer night and listened to rustle of the leaves in the breeze through an open window, for most of us the cottonwood trees serve as reminder of the distant past.

And so it is with our country.

In 1718, Franciscan monks and Indian converts built San Antonio de Valero, later to be named the "Alamo," the Spanish word for cottonwood, and referring to the stand of cottonwoods that line the nearby river.

Lewis and Clark stopped along the Yellowstone River on their return trip in the summer of 1806, "to make two canoes" out of cottonwood trees. A reference in their journal to the towering cottonwoods later gave name to the town of Big Timber, Montana.

Historically, travelers making their way across the vast and deserted plains scanned the horizon for the sight of cottonwoods, indicating a water source and possibly civilization.

The virgin forest of cottonwoods that once formed a rounded grove, the Bosque Redondo, was cut in the 1860s to build Fort Sumner, New Mexico. They served as fuel for the fires for hundreds of soldiers and civilians who lived at the fort, as well as the 9,000 nomadic Native Americans who were forced to live on the surrounding reservation.

In three years, the groves were completely harvested causing a fuel shortage and severe soil erosion in the surrounding farm grounds. A year later the fort commander ordered 5,000 trees to be planted on the ditch banks and lining all bordering roadways.

America has a dozen or so towns named after the tree including Cottonwood, Arizona, a town birthed in 1874 and famous for bootlegging, feeding the miners and later, filming movies.

New Mexico had at least 12 towns named Cottonwood, none of which exist today.

Southeast of Abilene is Cottonwood, Texas, founded about 1875 by J.W. Love, who didn't think his name lent itself to town-naming, so the local abundance of cottonwood trees directed a second choice.

A reported rash of shootings with fatal results during the town's embryo period provided for a brief but colorful history. However, Cottonwood, Texas came only close to a real claim to fame in the Wild West. The Newton Brothers, train and bank robbers from Uvalde, Texas, used to live near Cottonwood.

In 1937, Kansas officials adopted the cottonwood as the official state tree, most of which were planted by early pioneers.

My own history with cottonwoods is that of those friendly giants in our yard on the ranch in Colorado as well as the endless number of them lining miles of creek banks and hay meadows.

In the fall, as children we played in the leaves, and in the spring, we endured the beaded strings of "cotton" that brought a season of sneezing. That perhaps was offset by the right-of-passage in learning how to fold a cottonwood leaf and make a whistle.

They provided shade in the summer, wore a tire swing in perpetual motion, endured makeshift ladder rungs nailed to a trunk, and gave way to endless hours for countless years of boys climbing up and down and around.

They canopied a magical playground limited only by our imaginations as we built forts and had secret hideouts in the groves of the living as well as the dead trees.

As a teen, my daydreams were brought to life when I became Velvet Brown, the girl who rode her horse to victory in the Grand National steeplechase.

I would select a path through the fallen trees that allowed my horse to gather enough speed and momentum to jump over the larger deadfall. I soared in my dreams as I soared in the saddle.

I still love to lean against the trunk of a grand old cottonwood, slide my back down the rough bark to sit very still and quiet on the ground. And then listen.

Shhhhh, you can hear the leaves as they whisper secrets from the past.

Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net.

The ultimate farmer

2010-10-01T10:36:00.000-07:00

The ultimate farmer

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

The realtor’s invention of the 40-acre ranch brought agriculture holdings to town, so to speak. Those that dreamed of being landowners, ranchers and yes, even farmers, gained a way to fulfill that fantasy.

On a recent trip, I learned the dream is alive and well.

A well-heeled couple walked through the door of the Southern Colorado tractor store and explained to the man at the counter that they were setting up a big farm and needed to buy some equipment.

Dutifully he walked them through all the sizes and styles of tractors available as well as the assorted attachments. The missus emphasized their requirement for the “heavy duty” stuff so it would hold up to the hard use they planned to give it.

The tractor she picked out had nine steps to get up in the cab -- one of those really big monsters.

They also bought discs, hay rakes, balers, blades, plows, harrows and everything else that the dealership offered, taking advantage of the ongoing special -- “Buy one, get 3 percent off the next one.” Can't be too cash conscious when you're going into farming.

The next day the couple invited the implement dealer down to see their farm and for him to bring the papers to sign for all the equipment. Jake arrived at what he assumed to be only the headquarters of the farming operation, not knowing for sure just how far toward the horizon the borders of this “big farm” went.

He looked around and the lady came out of the house, saying, “Come on, I'll show you around the farm.”

He walked with her to a brand new (still with the paper license plate) Grand Cherokee which had a trailer attached. He noticed the trailer had one 12-inch tire and one 18-inch tire on it.

She complained that the trailer was not pulling very well at all. Kindly, he explained what he thought the problem to be. But just as if she didn’t hear him, in her next sentence she declared that since she is obviously going to have to buy a new trailer, she might as well get a new pick-up too.

Rather than unhook the trailer, she suggested they just walk around the farm. The tractor dealer was a little taken aback in that he really didn’t plan on spending all day hiking to look at a farm. It was then he found out the farm was 58.2 acres.

So as not to discourage the sale he was making, he indeed walked around the farm, even managing to keep a straight face.

During this stroll around the farm, the lady asked, "What do you think we should raise on our farm?"

Jake’s thoughts were, "You couldn't raise hell with a jug of whiskey. This is nothing but a rock pile."

But he said nothing, just shrugged and maintained a blank look.

Before he departed, the couple set up a time with him to get some tractor driving lessons, since neither of them had ever been close to a tractor except the day they were at the implement dealership.

He secured permission from a guy he knew to use a vacant 80 acres for the tractor driving lessons. His plan was to put the tractor and driver square in the middle of it and let them practice. He also promised to replace any fences that might get torn up.

Later that same day, he the missus driving a new Ford King Ranch pickup. He assumed that she is now also a rancher.

Read on The Ultimate Farmer continued....watch this Green Acres duo put more money into circulation faster than a Wall Street bailout plan. You just can’t make this stuff up.

Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net.

The ultimate farmer continued

2010-10-01T10:34:00.001-07:00

The ultimate farmer continued

Cowgirl Sass and Savvy by Julie Carter

Farming wasn’t their first choice for a new “retirement “career. You will recall, this couple moved from the city to the country, purchased a farm (something less than 60 acres) and were buying every farm implement available, ready to go to work.

The farming plan was initiated by health issues suffered by Dr. Hicks, a pediatric surgeon. He graduated valedictorian from medical school in Ohio, migrated to a big hospital in Denver and until recently, enjoyed a lucrative successful career.

Now in his mid-50s, he had some sort of come-apart nervous wreck. The verdict was that he should retire, not be allowed around sharp objects and should take up a hobby.

Fishing was Dr. Hick¹s first choice. That went very well through the gearing up and making plans phase. However, when he actually got in his newly purchased boat, he just as quickly fell out of the boat, taking with him any delusion that this was the sport for him.

Next, Mrs. Hicks decided that he should take up hunting. He couldn¹t be trusted with a knife, so she got him a gun. Makes perfect sense to me.

She bought him a canned hunt on a high-fence game ranch and he shot one little doe. In his delight, he agreed that, indeed, this was the hobby for him. He had bagged this marvel with a .223 and promptly decided he needed a bigger gun. So he bought a .30-30 which seemed to be more appropriate for him.

Mrs. Hicks didn¹t want him having all the fun, so she opted to go along on the hunts. In preparation, she bought a .45-70, which is a genuine buffalo gun and certainly adequate for your average size elephant, should you encounter one. If she actually managed ever to hit anything she was hunting, it would need picked up with a stick and a spoon. Beyond that, guaranteed, it would knock her on her citified rear and dislocate her shoulder in the process.

Details aside, they now had a hobby.

Next they needed some place to shoot. That would explain their purchase of the rocky 58.2 acres. It came with a small herd of deer that called it home.

Immediately they planned to high fence the new farm, trap all the deer inside and shoot them, said Mrs. Hicks. It had not yet occurred to them that because of the high fence, once those deer were gone, no others would be able to access the farm.

They bought bundle after bundle of 15-foot T-posts for the high fence, making sure they had plenty. A quick use of a calculator, which they did not, indicated that if all the posts they bought were used, they would be about 9-1/2 inches apart around the entire perimeter of the 58.2 acres.

Jake, the man from the tractor store, had so impressed them with his knowledge of farming, fencing, tractors and all things necessary to their new life, they offered to hire him as their farm foreman.

He told them that as attractive as that sounded, he was pretty well tied to the tractor store.

The first tractor driving lesson went exactly as suspected.

Jake put Mrs. Hicks in the tractor in the middle of the borrowed 80-acre hay field. He reported that at one point, he and Mr. Hicks were running as fast as they could. When asked if they were trying to rescue the Mrs., he said, “Hell no, we were running for our lives. She was about to run over us.”

After the lesson, Mrs. Hicks asked Jake if there was any good place nearby to eat. Noting that Mr. Hicks was looking kind of pale and needed nourishment, he recommended a Mexican restaurant not far away.

Mr. Hicks got a happy look to his face just before Mrs. Hicks said, “You can¹t have Mexican food, it gives you gas.”

Jake, thinking it would be OK for Mr. Hicks to pass gas on his own farm, didn’t say so, but suggested a greasy spoon place on the square in town. “The hamburgers are pretty good,” he said.

Mrs. Hicks asked how to get to the square and Jake told her to drive to the center of town where the big courthouse was and it would be right there.

When they didn’t return after lunch, Jake wondered if perhaps he should have given the return directions as well.

The need for more tractor driving lessons was quite evident, but unfortunately Jake deducted that he is booked solid for at least the next year and is very unavailable.

Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net. Visit her website at www.julie-carter.com

Cowboy loving ways

2010-09-16T22:24:00.000-07:00

Cowboy loving ways

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

They weren't newlyweds by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, just days after this birthday event I'm going to tell you about, they celebrated their 35th anniversary.

Keeping that in mind, this tale will give a glimpse of the depth of love and tolerance honed over that period of longevity.

It was his bride's birthday and since her favorite thing was to go somewhere and see something notable, preferably historical, he offered a blank check in the "travel" department.

"Where would you like to go?" he asked, knowing she understood that didn't include destinations that required travel agents or airports.

She wasn't caught off guard with the request but truly didn't have a burning desire to visit anywhere in particular. So he decided for her. Also not a surprise.

"We'll go to East Texas," he announced helpfully. "Pick a town in East Texas."

The only town she could think of was Jefferson, selected because it had a rich history and would not require six months of travel time.

They loaded up and headed east, getting as far as Fort Worth. It was lunch time and since Joe T. Garcia's is, according to her, the best place in the world to eat, they stopped and did just that.

A $7 margarita for the birthday girl, reportedly with plenty of kick to it, sufficed as dessert and they soon were back on the road.

"Any place in Fort Worth you'd like to see?" he asked her.

She remembered the Fort Worth Water Gardens downtown and suggested that she would like to see that again.

"It is truly beautiful," she recalled. "A waterfall, a river, a stream, a pond, a cascade and anything else you can imagine doing with water.

It takes up an entire city block and you walk around in it and look at all the ways that water is distributed. It is fascinating."

Aiming to please, the cowboy headed the pickup that way.

He drove around the block a half dozen times looking for a place to park and finding none, he quickly lost interest in this particular destination.

His bride heard it coming as much as saw it. Knowing that when he's about to turn to a "silver-tongued devil," the timbre of his voice changes. So she takes a deep seat because what is next is always a "suggestion."

"You know baby, you have this wonderful memory, actually an amazing memory," he said with a glib smoothness to his words. "Since you have already seen this water display once before, how about you just remember it."

Parking problem solved, the loving couple is once again headed east.

"The east side of Fort Worth does not need seeing," she recalls. "The good news is that it was still daylight and we were relatively safe as long as we kept moving."

The redeeming factor for the trip through the seedier side of Fort Worth was summed up by the birthday girl.

Always looking for the positive aspect of things she said, "If we hadn't gone that way, I would never have known where the Bloody Knuckles Bar was."

Realizing that by now they were way in the hell on the other side of Fort Worth, they finally located the freeway. At first opportunity, they got back on it and began driving at freeway speeds to escape the adventure of the Bloody Knuckles neighborhood.

True to country-folk navigation, they ended up on the west side of Fort Worth again, at about the same point of arrival earlier in the day.

Taking matters into his own hands, the cowboy decided they'd just go on home. If he didn't tarry too long, he could still rope that evening.

Being married to a cowboy for 35 years will teach a gal how to say with a straight face, "It was a wonderful birthday."

Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net. Visit her website at www.julie-carter.com

JUST ABOUT PERFECT

2010-09-12T11:11:00.000-07:00

By Julie Carter

In my book, fall is about as perfect a season of the year as any of the four.

It is the time when all things that make cowboys, rednecks and assorted combinations thereof the very happiest.
At the ranch, it's payday time. Cattle buyers resurrect from out of nowhere and all eyes, ears and cell phones are on the markets.
Whether the crop is yearlings or fresh-weaned calves, every year is a new episode of "let's make a deal."
The blooms on everything green, nurtured by summer rains and sunshine, are at their peak of beauty.
Flowers abound both in the yards and thanks to the rains this year, also in the fields and on the hillsides.
While your cowboy might not be big on posies, I guarantee you he's happy with the tall grass and practically gleeful over the fat cattle lying in that grass, bellies full and hides licked slick.
The camouflage corps have their binoculars focused and their weapons of choice tuned while they dream dreams of the perfect hunting season(s).
Let a hint of crisp slip into the morning air and hunters everywhere trade in their hammocks and barbeque tools for game calls and camping gear.
Cattle trucks start rolling down the highways between the ranches and the wheat fields or feedlots.
Every small-town café has a parking lot periodically filled with flatbed pickups pulling stock trailers along with other pickups loaded with 4-wheelers, coolers and all the trappings of a Cabela's made-to-order hunting camp.
Here in the Southwest, throw in the smell of roasting green chiles to complete the fall ambiance and life is just about as perfect as you can get it.
If that isn't enough to paint a picture of the best of the year, add to the mix some pre-season football that seamlessly morphs into a regular season of high school, college and professional games.
Whether football is your "thing" or not, the onslaught of sports-mania permeates the air, unsurpassed by anything including politics.
Neighbors helping neighbors to get all the fall cattle work done is a jewel in the crown of ranching.
Calendars are full of marks on dates for the ranch up the road, the ranch down the road and another one an hour or so away.
Those days will be dedicated to the time-honored custom of "neighboring" -- where the work and the fun, and there is always some of that, is shared with folks that know you'll be there when they need an extra man, horse and help.
Now is the time for all good men ... and horses, dogs, kids and ranch wives ... to rise to the call of long hours, dusty corrals, sunrises that bless the "waiting on daylight" mornings, rattling trailers, ready ropes, the smell of sage and cedar, hot coffee poured from a campfire pot and the camaraderie of cowboys working a vocation they wouldn't trade for anything.
The life is not all that glamorous or romantic, but it does have an intangible something that anchors men's souls to the land.
Whether they own it or hire on to be part of it, it transforms an occupation into a belonging and an existence into a passion for living.
Julie, steeped in fall nostalgia, can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net

HAVE YOU MET A LEATHERMAN?

2010-09-12T11:08:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter

Back in 1975, a man named Tim Leatherman was traveling through Europe on a shoestring budget in a cranky car with leaky pipes.
It was during this trying time he birthed the idea of pocket survival tool. That tool today is known simply as a "Leatherman."
By 1977 the tool had taken on a rough form and in 1980 "Mr. Crunch" was patented.
Through the '90s and with more than 200 employees, new and better designs were released setting the standard in the all-purpose pocket tool industry.
For those of you that are still in the dark ages, the Leatherman tool is a fold up tool that incorporates all the following tools in one handy frame: Needle-nose pliers, regular pliers, wire cutters, hard-wire cutters, clip-point knife, serrated knife, diamond-coated file, wood saw, scissors, extra small screwdriver, small screwdriver, medium screwdriver, large screwdriver, Phillips screwdriver, can / bottle opener, wire stripper and lanyard attachment.
In the West, the land of "real men carry pocket knives", the Leatherman phenomenon was at first slow to catch on. A Leatherman was deemed pretty pricey for a pair of pliers, and "I already have a good knife" made it easy to blow off the multipurpose handy for anything tool.
The tool would sometimes show up under the tree for a Christmas gift and promptly end up in the drawer next to the initial embroidered hankies and ugly boxers.
In the meantime, the world knew something we didn't. Other tool companies began manufacturing acceptable, affordable imitations of the revered original. Gerber, Seber, Sears and an assortment of companies not proud enough to even put their name on the tool, flooded the market in every shape size and color.
Someone even put a teensy version on a key chain, handy for nose picking and nail cleaning.
Then it happened. Some "real" man dared to show up in the branding corral with one of the versions of that "fad" on his belt, neatly snapped in a little case.
He used it to pull cactus out of a horse's leg and change the needles on a vaccine gun. He loaned it to a kid to use for a cooking utensil while they cooked calf fries on the branding iron burner. He twisted and tightened the wire on a gate that was doubling as a hinge. He tightened a screw in the emasculators and popped open the lids on an assortment of things.
That amazing day of demonstration opened the eyes and the dresser drawers of those "real men with pocket knives." No longer did they break the good blades on their high dollar pocket knives prying and digging with them.
No longer did they have to stick their heads under the seat of the pickup breathing unmentionable kinds of dust to find that pair of pliers or a wrench they knew was there somewhere.
Today it's standard equipment on more belts than not. The women wear them or carry them in their purse. You will see the daintiest and most delicate of well-coiffed, finely garbed ladies slip a Leatherman from their fine leather purse and go to work with the tool like she'd been doing it forever.
The list of uses is as varied as the number of tools all hooked up into that one handy dandy tool.
There are stories of lives being saved, babies being birthed and legendary feats all because of a Leatherman.
Tomorrow when you strap yours on your hip, know it just might go down in history next to Smith and Wesson.
Julie can be reached from comment at jcarter@tularosa.net

KIDS DON'T GET TO PICK THEIR PARENTS

2010-09-12T11:05:00.000-07:00

By: Julie Carter

Name your event - football, basketball, baseball, track, rodeo, livestock shows and the occasional beauty pageant or bake-off - and if it involves kids, you will find their parents embarrassing them.
I'm not talking without knowledge. I am a parent and I had parents. We have all been embarrassed about or by each other at one time or another.
Fortunately, it wasn't ever because of our behavior at a competition event.
My folks were not shouters, screamers or blame assigners. To this day, I'm grateful for their dignified rooting for the home team at ball games and other public possibilities for a display parental pride.
There were then, and still are now, plenty of others willing to take up the slack in the "make a fool of yourself" department.
As school administrations buckle down for another year of pushing academic excellence along with their individual attempts at molding our children into productive citizens, I fortify myself for the "bleacher coaches" that haunt every sporting event.
Even from the sidelines, where I move up and down the periphery of the event to photograph it, I cringe at the level of crude audacity some parents find necessary to use to promote a team.
There doesn't seem to be a magic formula to make adults act like adults, let alone expect them to rein themselves in enough to not mortify their child while he or she is competing. You know who you are.
Call me an advocate for your children because they are stuck with you, I am not. For those that insist on assigning themselves the task of re-educating coaches and referees, I will suggest that a healthy dose of chill pills be your prescription of choice along with frequent deep breaths of restraint.
The sigh of relief you hear will be from your child (and the guy sitting next to you).
The sparkling smile you are flashed from the floor or field will be signatory of the gratitude from a very relieved child.
As a side note, if the guy next to you smiles like that, he probably hopes you aren't going to eat that hot dog you set down so you could jump and holler. He'd actually, really like to eat it.
We are the examples for tomorrow's leaders. Think about that when you shuffle to the top of the bleachers this weekend to take in some sun, canned nachos and a hometown, home team ball game, high school rodeo or volley ball game.
It matters not if your athlete wears a cowboy hat and swings a rope, or is suited up in layers of red, blue, black or orange synthetics snugged over plastic armor with a football under his arm; they will do the best that they can possibly do at any given moment.
Ask no more of them, because your incessant rants at the referees, judges, and coaches etc., will not make the difference.
No one will be harder on your athlete than they will be on themselves, so please, don't pour your toxic terseness on the scene and expect it to manifest victory just because you called it so.
Your relationship with your child is a team sport. Save yourself from yourself and let your teenager find the joy of the competition without fear eating out the pit of his stomach knowing he may have to watch his parent be escorted from the game by security personnel.
If this admonition made you angry, then it was for you.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net, or at the next high school football game.

TRAPPED IN THE QUAKIES

2010-09-12T11:01:00.000-07:00

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter
I let my cowpony pick his own path through the deadfall as we worked our way down a steep slope toward the cattle at the bottom of the canyon.
It was late summer at the ranch, but in this high mountain pasture signs of fall were already creeping through the aspens. Their heart-shaped leaves were wearing tones of gold as they shimmered and fluttered in the afternoon breeze, true to their "quaking" name.
The incline became arduous, and if I'd been older or wiser, I might have thought I should be fearful. The loose leaves that had fallen on the ground and the slick black soil still wet from a rain the night before complicated the already precarious descent.
The downed timber lay every which way like a game of Pick-up Sticks gone bad. In my youthful oblivion, I whistled a tune while the big bay methodically navigated his way through the quakies.
When the angle of the terrain forced him to slide, he worked athletically to keep his butt up under him in an equine sort of squat. He never wavered in his determination to get where we needed to go.
He knew there were cattle at the bottom, the same as I did. Sometimes the "cow" in cowhorse is an instinct more powerful than self-preservation.
Gathering yearlings for fall shipping was an adventure with my Dad. Especially so in this pasture, as it involved some overnight camping in an old log cabin complete with lanterns, wood-stove cooking and fresh trout from the creek.
Waking early to saddle when the dew was still heavy and the sun was just making it's first shadows in the long canyon was the stuff of Zane Grey and old Western movies.
On this day, I was to learn a lesson that would serve me all my life. Before I realized what had happened, Bay and I were at the bottom of small crater-like hole near the base of the ridge.
We had literally traversed our way right into a trap. The sharply inclined sides of the crater were littered with fallen trees, an undergrowth of shrubbery and turf that was slick and nothing short of treacherous. Coming down that maze of obstacles was one thing, going back up looked impossible.
Immediately, I realized two things. No one knew exactly where I was, so help may not come anytime soon. And, I could walk out of there, but that meant leaving my horse, an option I wasn't ready to consider.
For a while, I hollered for help, feeling more than just a little foolish. I sat quietly for another long while, hoping to hear any noise that would indicate that maybe Dad had found me, if he was looking. I wasn't even sure about that.
It was several hours later before my horse's head snapped to attention, his ears forward and he rumbled out a low nicker of a greeting.
I could hear timber cracking and brush popping as someone hollered at the cattle I could hear running through the trees. So I hollered a little myself, and in response, my brother and my dad were soon peering at me over the edge of the hole.
My Dad quickly assessed my dilemma while my brother started to offer some smart-alecky comment before my Dad could send him on after the cattle. It was obvious my Dad was trying not to laugh at me and obviously refraining, perhaps knowing I was already feeling pretty stupid.
Looking back, I know there were days we were more trouble to him than we were help, and this was quite possibly one of them.
Not one for explaining much, he told me to get off my horse and tie his reins around his neck. I did, and then he told me to climb on out of the hole. I didn't want to, but obeyed, thinking I was leaving Bay there to die and it was my fault.
When I got to the top, my dad turned his horse and began to ride away. He told me to follow him afoot. I was mortified that he'd just ride off like that, but knew better than to argue.
My bay gelding decided there was no way he was going to get left behind. He began an Olympian effort to pull himself up the slope, over the logs, and in spite of the mud. There were dreadful noises of grunts, groans and crashes. I turned to see what was happening just as he appeared at the rim of the hole. Apparently, just like my Dad knew he would.
The lesson? What seems hopeless isn't remedied by trying to holler up a solution. Some well-placed wisdom flavored with a touch of obedience could possibly offer a successful resolution.
Dad's are pretty smart that way.

THE YOUNG GUNS HAVE ARRIVED

2010-08-06T15:59:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter

He was only about 3 feet tall - boots, hat and all. He stood looking through the rails of the arena fence as his daddy and three other cowboys rode into the arena, pulling their hats down tight and shaking out their ropes.
His little brother played in the dirt on the ground behind him, driving a toy truck and trailer through freshly built "roads" headed toward a tiny stick corral. His interest in the arena was intense, but only for short periods of time. He had "work" to do.
It was ranch rodeo time, in the infancy of the sport as a competition. That was 20 years ago.
Today, both those little cowboys are grown up.
The older one rides into that same arena with his britches tucked in the tops of his boots, a trendy shape to his straw hat and a cocky grin on face.
The other, sitting solid in the saddle on a horse that isn't as calm as he is, wears a look of serious competitive intent.
A cousin rides in next to him, followed by a friend that rounds out the team of four.
The game is on. The young guns have arrived and before the day is over, they will have proved themselves a force to be reckoned with.
Ranch rodeo is a family sport as much as any has ever been. As it evolved through the years, the youngsters of the early days fell eagerly into the footsteps of their fathers, holding out for the day they too could participate.
Father and son, father and daughter, husband and wife, cousins, brother-in-laws, father-in-laws and any other assorted family connection possible, team up, enter up and in the spirit of competition, spend a day roping, riding and hoping to claim a little of the prizes at the end of the day.
Youth ranch rodeo hit the scene some years back, serving to fine tune the young buckaroos into competition-ready young adults.
A cowboy with a baby on the saddle in front of him during the warm-up or after the rodeo is a common sight. Before long, that same baby is the toddler at the arena fence shouting "Go Dad," with all his might.
The family dynamics at any event make it a kinfolk reunion as much as a rodeo competition. There will be several family patriarchs and matriarchs watching the events and being greatly entertained as they observe different branches of the family compete against each other, young and old.
There isn't much left out here in the West that keeps families connected like they were 50 years ago.
The few remaining big family ranches maintain a connection through the work they do, but this venue for ranch family playtime has added a new dimension.
Whether the "kids", taking in all ages from 9-60, arrive from the ranch, from a titled job, a college campus or anywhere in between, it all comes together in the competition.
Watching brothers rope and load a steer into a trailer with the same banter and sibling "encouragement" going on as would happen in the middle of a four-section pasture, takes "reality" entertainment to a new level.
And that little cowboy I saw last week standing on the fence rail hollering encouragement to his dad?
He'll be a third generation ranch rodeo cowboy and with any luck, his old dad might be given a spot on the team.

Julie has been watching ranch rodeo for two decades and still loves the next one just as much as the first one. Reach her for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net

HUSBAND SITTER

2010-08-06T15:47:00.000-07:00

By Julie Carter
Word recently came that the Husband Sitter had left town and Ineta was back in the spotlight as the fulltime recipient of her spouses attention. The demands were wearing her patience thin.

"What's a husband sitter?" you ask.
What would normally seem to be an awkward situation when Ineta's ex-husband and her current husband, Daryl, re-instituted their long-standing friendship. In reality, it was a convenient brotherhood on many levels.
Ineta's definition of a husband sitter is: Constant companion to validate every comment, complaint, and action of the husband. Who better to do that than an ex-spouse of the current wife?
Daryl and the Husband Sitter were team ropers. Daryl had a flourishing but time-consuming business to run, so he needed help to keep his considerable collection of rope horses ridden and tuned as well as seeking a steady practice partner. Putting the Husband Sitter on the payroll to do that job made perfect sense, as least to Daryl, and certainly to the Sitter, who preferred that to any structured, "real" job. You recall that I mentioned that he's a teamroper.
Only someone with Ineta's sense of humor could look at the situation, laugh at it and actually enjoy the fact that Daryl had a friend to go play with, leaving her some freedom to do other things.
After all, as she pointed out, the Husband Sitters job description including being available at all times to keep the husband company.
The Husband Sitter was in charge of all the "honey-do chores" the husband couldn't or wouldn't do and no errand was too menial for him to accomplish.
He tuned and trained the rope horses; saw to it that they were fed, vetted, shod and ready to haul.
He frequently chauffeured Daryl's rig and horses to ropings that were days and statelines away, meeting Daryl at a nearby airport when his private plane landed.
Other times, he was steady company for Daryl on all the long road trips.
Evening television was a bonding sport for Daryl and his Sitter. They liked to watch the same cop shows, Westerns and hours of RFD TV. Like two kids at a matinee movie, they'd sit and laugh or discuss the programs as they aired.
The Sitter also provided for a ready and willing breakfast, lunch and dinner partner. He was available to be a constant drinking companion and conversations about the "old days" could be repeated frequently without a note of "I've already heard that."
In deference to a testosterone related malady that causes exaggeration and expansion of the feats related in the "old stories," the Sitters job required that he never doubted the facts as presented. He also knew there would be only one storyteller and it wasn't him.
The benefits for Daryl were many. He had a built-in "Wife Complaint Department."
Since the Husband Sitter was on the payroll, he automatically always agreed and usually limited his comments to, "I know what you mean."
When the drinking partnership was in play, the Sitter could be known, to Daryl's delight, to add a few observations of his own.
Details of the broken partnership are sketchy, but Daryl seems to be content not to have to complain about his former Sitter, which sounded much like his complaints about his wife. A pattern may be emerging.
Much to Ineta's relief, already a new Husband Sitter is in place and this time, one that has not shared any "family" history.
The concept of a Husband Sitter isn't really as unusual as it may sound. Tell the story a few times and you'll almost always get a return story of equal or better value.
Human nature is entertaining when we step back and let ourselves look at ourselves.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net . For those interested, Walmart will soon offer a "husband sitter" section located next to household goods

TRY TO REMEMBER...OR WAS IT REMEMBER TO TRY??

2010-08-06T15:42:00.000-07:00

Into the wild blue yonder.

By Julie Carter
Someone found it necessary to make and share a list of the advantages of living past the age of 50, or 60 and climbing to 70.

I tend to believe that every day above ground is a good day, but there are other perks to hanging on to life in the second half of your century of living. I'm also an optimist.
1. Kidnappers are not very interested in you. I find that to be absolutely true. I have never been kidnapped nor even threatened with abduction. In fact, the only reference to it that was ever made in my lifetime was by my dad. His comment was something about having pity for the kidnappers. Age doesn't seem to be the real factor in this one.
2. In a hostage situation, you are likely to be released first. See No.1 for references.
3. No one expects you to run, anywhere. Speed takes on a more relative definition with each passing decade.
4. People call at 9 p.m. and ask, "Did I wake you?" I have yet to be able to answer, "yes" to this query because I have a teenager in the house.
5. People no longer view you as a hypochondriac. Instead, one has to learn the polite art of not monopolizing the conversation with long, detailed renditions of aches, pains and remedies.
6. There is nothing left to learn the hard way. However, I keep testing that theory daily.
7. Things you buy now won't wear out. The Maytag man never considered that he might never see you again when he promised that the new washing machine he just delivered would last you 25 years.
8. You can eat supper at 4 p.m. or breakfast at noon. This holds true if you are unemployed, single and living alone.
9. You can live without sex but not without your glasses. Enough said, except to note, well ... never mind.
10. You get into heated arguments about pension plans. That may have changed with the recent political black cloud that came over people's plans for retirement. There is no edgy humor here.
11. You no longer think of speed limits as a challenge. In fact, you no longer think of them at all. That may indicate more habit than age.
12. You quit trying to hold your stomach in no matter who walks into the room.
Bulkier sweaters, "big" shirts, and jackets allow breathing. Oxygen is so much better for your health than holding your breath.
13. You sing along with elevator music and the designated "oldies" radio station is your "home station" while driving anywhere. There is comfort in knowing the words to the songs if you don't dwell on the fact that they were on 45s when they were first popular.
14. Your eyes won't get much worse. Refer to No. 9 and buy reader glasses in bulk at Sam's or Costco.
15. Your investment in health insurance is finally beginning to pay off. The medical industry keeps inventing more tests to run on us to make sure that happens.
16. Your joints are more accurate meteorologists than the national weather service. While that's not actually saying much, it's true. The "weather knee" is a valuable indicator and every old timer has a good story to go with it.
17. Your secrets are safe with your friends because they can't remember them either. It takes several friends to keep a good rumor going.
18. Your supply of brain cells is finally down to manageable size, if I could just remember what to do with what I have.
19. You notice that you are drawn more and more to things written in big print and you have learned the keystrokes on the computer keyboard to make the font on websites bigger.
20. You can't remember where you saw this list before and why you thought it was funny at the time.
Enjoy today, whatever the age. Tomorrow is not promised. Now, where are my glasses?
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net.

CLASS REUNIONS

2010-07-17T11:19:00.000-07:00

By Julie Carter

Summer - when class reunions reign and people travel great distances to reunite with former classmates they hope they recognize after decades.

Not unlike family reunions, alumni gatherings bring together all ages of people from all demographics with one sure thing in common - time spent in a classroom in a land and time far away from present "life" in progress.
This year was my daughter's 20th class reunion and my 40th. The differences are as comical as the similarities are notable.
When my class stepped off the bus at the conclusion of our senior trip in June 1970, we had nothing on our minds except this perfect, exciting, dynamic future ahead of us. We were sure of it.
It didn't even remotely occur to us then that we might never see each other again or at best, rarely. At 18, we had no appreciation for the relationships we'd forged through years of school and related events.
And yet, placed in the same room 40 years later, it all so easily and quickly came flooding back. However, this time, it was through the eyes and emotions of adults who had seen enough of life, good and bad, to know how special each of us is in our own way.
The 20-year "youngsters" at 38 years of age were surprised at their lack of ability to "party like they used to." The 40-year crowd, fast approaching the new decade of 60- years-old, were well aware of their limitations and without mention of it, moved quickly to coffee and ice water after one drink.
The 20-year kids were scrutinizing each others' aging with comments such as "Remember Jan House? Well she fits her name now." Or "Remember how pretty Sissy Ahrens was? Well, she now paints her eyebrows on and in the wrong color, and Missy Little, the homely high school girl, she moved to Texas and came back a beauty queen."
The 40-year "kids" were, first, happy to be alive, and then very proud of how great we all looked. No one thought any differently, and all of us knew we were better now than we will be in 10 more years. So it's all good.
We didn't have to mention that we whitened our teeth, scheduled manicures, sorted through what to wear, got new hair cuts and fresh hair color, plucked chin hairs, and took our medications including ache-and-pain minimizers hoping for at least one good day.
Our class was always a little on the rowdy side with strong personalities and plenty of drive to be the best at whatever we were doing. Our class sponsor told us at the reunion that the reason he took us to Moab, Utah, and the Canyonlands National Park for our senior trip was because it was a place he knew we couldn't tear up.
It was refreshing to see that, even now, we are still a strong and determined group and oh so much fun. We are the same, except better. As one classmate noted, "Now, we are all grown up."
I liked being all grown up and I liked being with my classmates more now than ever. It was my first time to attend a class reunion or alumni event but it certainly won't be my last.
In a gymnasium full of 300 former Custer County High School alumni, I have to say, name tags are an excellent idea. While we are all aging well, we aren't necessarily aging recognizably.
I would like to remind people to use large letters when writing their name, we're old you know. See you next year, one year older.

Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net

THE POCKET WATCH

2010-07-17T11:08:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter
I lay deep in the dust, unseen and missing to the world. As the winds of time put layer upon layer of corral dirt over me, I slipped into history without notice.
Quietly, I remained in my unintended grave, enduring the seasons that came and then left - the long deep winters of driving frost permeating the soils, the warming sun of spring that brought soft living-giving rains and the gentle warmth of summer that delivered the sustaining harvests.
I saw both ends of a family generation make their living off the land near where I rested. As the older ones faded from the horizon, they made way for the young as they too changed, grew, and moved on in one fashion or another.
The circle of life, fueled by a never-ending source of time, continued.
This silent, stationary journey began when I fell from the pocket of a young cowboy easing into his teen years.
The buck deer engraved on my gold cover was the reason his grandmother selected me as a gift for him. He was so proud, feeling rich and elevated in status to own such a fine item - a pocket watch.
He braided a leather fob for me and would often sit and just stare at this treasure of his, flipping the cover open, closing it again. There he scratched his name, laying an eternal claim to me with the "brand" given to him by his parents. It simply read, "Blayke".
For the first couple years, we were inseparable. Then one day in the course of some of the usual cattle work that happened regularly in the family's old pole corrals, fate parted us.
The punchy young cowboy was riding a newly acquired bronc his dad had brought home from the sale barn.
While a little on the spooky side, the short-coupled sorrel, sporting one white sock on a hind leg, a snip of white on his nose and pig eyes that indicated some stubbornness, was the perfect horse for sorting in a corral.
Afternoon rain showers made the ground slick, and in the instant of a quick move by the sorrel to turn back a calf, all four hooves were simultaneously in the air. In a blur of motion, the horse fell hard to the ground, landing with thud on the corral floor.
The cowboy's quick instincts flashed a signal to his brain and he was able to kick loose from his saddle at the onset of the wreck. He hit the ground with a rush of air leaving his lungs, only to return in short gasps as he pulled himself to his feet.
It wasn't until a day later that he realized his gold pocket watch was missing. He returned to the corrals, kicked around in the area of the fall but he never saw me lying in the dirt where momentum had flung me.
A sadness for the loss registered in his heart and as years continued to tick away in the life of the cowboy, that day was moved to share the memories that recorded a sweeter time in his life.
Recently and some 25 years later, I was unearthed by another generation of that family who was cleaning the corrals. My face is still intact and my cover still has the name of the boy that scratched his mark there.
When he was told that I'd resurfaced, basically unscathed by the experience and the years, the cowboy retrieved the memories of that day and period in his life.
In recall, they erupted in Technicolor and were accompanied by emotions now felt deeper by a wiser adult that had seen a lot of country, done a lot of living.
I'll be glad when he has me back in his pocket. We have a lot of catching up to do. Time doesn't stand still, but timepieces can.
Real-life details provided by Blayke Cardenas. Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net.

THE HAT AND THE COWBOY

2010-07-17T10:57:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter

It was black, floppy, completely misshapen and the brim had torn away from the crown in a few places. The hat band was long gone and so was the sweat band inside.
The boy was only 4-years-old, but already he identified his look with that sad looking little "cowboy" hat.
He'd outgrown his first one, the one with an actual shape and look of a cowboy hat. It didn't have time to wear out but then it also didn't get the high mileage that its successor endured.
I wasn't quite sure if he would ever part with that pathetic excuse for a cowboy hat but I vowed it would have a decent burial as soon as he gave it up.
Offers to kidnap it were considered, but I knew it would just come crawling home.
His hat and the way he wore it indicated much of his personality at each stage in his life.
There were not many days in his early years that he didn't have some sort of hat on his head.
The occasional cap sufficed when the wind made that a better choice.
At the onset of his teen years, a cap that stated an allegiance for a sports team or matched his camouflage wardrobe garnered equal time with the classic cowboy version.
Similar to the day he deemed he was too cool to allow his mother to cut his hair, and instead, insisted on a barber, the same professional touch is now required for the shaping of a new felt hat.
It has almost made me yearn for that original piece of limp felt that passed for a hat so long ago.
Giving credence to the priority of a hat in a cowboy's life, much has been written about the reverence required for it.
There is an aura of authority that comes with the man in a cowboy hat.
United States presidents have worn them, even when it was followed by the "all hat, no cattle" insult. The cowboy hat exudes power and macho like no other piece of clothing.
Those with the ability to do so, keep a special "wedding and funeral" hat, usually the once-in-a-lifetime buy off the top shelf.
While created to be, and remains so today, a functional, utilitarian piece of a cowboy's wardrobe, his hat is almost as individually identifying as his name.
The sport of rodeo produced a fashion in hats with event-specific creases in them.
A bull rider's hat has a completely different style to it than a roper's or a bronc rider's.
Ranchers, cattle buyers and stockmen also maintain a uniqueness of style when it comes to the style of their hats.
There is also the territory-specific look of cowboy hats.
Nevada buckaroos are clearly discernable from a cowboy working the brush in south Texas, or the hot plains of eastern New Mexico and West Texas.
Hats are endlessly useful. Horses have been known to drink from hats, as well as get swatted on the behind when needed or "fanned" with them after a successful bronc ride.
Passing the hat to collect money for a specific purpose is part of our culture yesterday, today.
A sweat-stained hat that will stay with you through rain, wind, snow and sun is a valuable tool.
It had earned its place in history with steadfast loyalty.
Women who have "cowboyed" enough to have their own sweat-stained hats are given all the room they need in a group of cowboys.
Cowboys of all ages are attached to their hats. They will get in a fight over them and at the same time, adhere to an age-old superstition that laying it on the bed brings all kinds of bad mojo.
Take a good look at the man and his hat. You'll find a relationship that parallels his standards in life.
And like the man that he is, it evolved over time, from the little boy notion of "good enough" to the desire for proper perfection.
Grab your hat, pull it down tight and hang in there for the ride.

HEADIN' DOWN THE RODEO ROAD

2010-07-17T10:38:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter
It's the Fourth of July holiday and all roads lead to a rodeo arena somewhere.
As we honor America, our freedoms, and the price paid for both, I find myself also giving some reverent honor to the cowboy as well.
This particular holiday is his "Cowboy Christmas," the most lucrative run of rodeos for the season.
Rodeo rigs are progressively bigger, fancier, and technology has kicked rodeoing up a notch from the days of standing in a pay phone booth to enter a rodeo or find out when you drew up. While so much is different, much is still the same.
Rodeo roots run deep in the heart and soul of the American cowboy. It began as a good-natured competition among the working cowboys.
During more than a century, it has evolved to be a major league sport complete with television media coverage, sponsors and big money.
Today's rodeo, with the exception of the events themselves, resembles little of its beginnings on the open range. The cowboys have advanced to be defined athletes and fewer have ranch cowboy roots.
The addiction to the adrenalin remains the same as does the dedication to the competition.
One of the differences in the sport lies in the technology used to "phone home" reports from the rodeo (aka excuses, near death experiences at the bucking chutes, requests for money, etc.).
Instead of using a pay phone at the local honky tonk, the cowboy now sends a text message to a loved one's cell phone or an email from just about anywhere he is at the Advertisement time.
That's progress. And you will find that today's rodeo cowboy has no idea how anybody managed to get it done without all the current gadgets.
It has been said that rodeoing is an addiction and the only cure for it is more rodeo.
In two ever-popular songs, it is referred to as that "damned old rodeo." Back in the '60s, iconic Ian Tyson, a Canadian rodeo cowboy turned singer, penned a song called "Someday Soon."
The song lamented the love a rodeo cowboy has for the sport and the pain it causes those that love him. "He loves his damned old rodeo as much as he loves me." The song stayed popular for decades with new recordings of it by Judy Collins, Lynn Anderson, Chrystal Gayle, Suzy Bogguss and Chris LeDoux.
Garth Brooks recorded a timeless song about the sport called simply "Rodeo." The lyrics sum it up about as well as any written.
Well, it's bulls and blood
It's dust and mud
It's the roar of a Sunday crowd
It's the white in his knuckles
The gold in the buckle
He'll win the next go 'round
It's boots and chaps
It's cowboy hats
It's spurs and latigo
It's the ropes and the reins
And the joy and the pain
And they call the thing rodeo
She knows his love's in Tulsa
And she know he's gonna go
Well it ain't no woman flesh and blood
It's that damned old rodeo
Fourth of July rodeoing is defined by road-weary cowboys, tired horses, pickups filled with dirty clothes, fast-food wrappers and muddy boots.
A dashboard full of rumpled rodeo programs, Copenhagen cans, empty coffee cups, dusty sunglasses, gas receipts, a ball cap or two and a road map paints the classic scene.
For me, it wouldn't be the Fourth of July if I wasn't in the hot sun, beating rain or dusty wind waiting for the next rodeo event to move the entertainment along.
So that's what I do. However, now I carry a camera and put what I know of rodeo in print.
I don't suppose I'll ever be anywhere else but at a rodeo grounds somewhere on the Fourth of July. However, the option has crept into the recesses of my mind, only to be banished by the sounds of the National Anthem and the bucking horses kicking in the chutes in unison.
Let's rodeo!

CRITTER CRAWLING TIME

2010-06-19T08:31:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter

It's the season. Reports of big snakes, miller moths and coyotes are filtering through the social networks, coffee shops, email lists and spit-and-whittle club members.
A recent headline on the Yahoo web page indicated that snake populations worldwide seem to be declining.
I personally view that as a cause for celebration; however, a British biologist is calling for a worldwide study to determine what is causing this and how to correct it.
I wonder if that Brit ever had to work in country where one eye was devoted to what you were doing and the other was on guard duty watching for a hostile snake.
I'm certain he never carried a gun so he could first shoot a snake before he could turn on the well water for the cattle.
The article seemed to have missed the numbers of snakes gone missing in Taiwan and China where they drink snake blood as an aphrodisiac.
Topping the recent snake stories locally was the 7-foot diamond back bagged on a ranch southeast of Corona, although the 5-footer taken by a little lady near the Capitan Mountains was no less of a threat, the snake or the lady.
Both rattlers were threatening the safety of pets, livestock and children.
Time to pay attention!
Multitasking shooter
I read in an old book about a pioneer woman stirring pancake batter, holding the baby and shooting Indians out the window.
Someone asked her about it, and her response was matter-of-fact.
"Everybody was hungry, the baby would cry if I put him down and the Indians needed shooting."
PawPaw's daycare
When old cowboys go to the house, so to speak, they sometimes take up caring for the grandbabies. In this particular case, the cowboy calls his part in this project PawPaw's Daycare.
All was well in the neighborhood until folks around there had their chickens disappearing in broad daylight.
A shout from Grandmaw was about to change that.
"Get your gun!" she yelled from the yard.
As PawPaw stepped out the door to see what the commotion was about, he saw a fat, well-fed coyote high tailing it across the pasture.
He raised the 30/30 and took aim, squeezed the trigger and missed, but shot close enough to spin the coyote's trajectory another direction.
He levered in another live one. The coyote came out of the sage, still running full tilt at 200 yards out and this time, ran right into a speeding bullet.
Admitting to the possibility of "luck" in the shot, the cowboy explained that the coyote was a Progressive, one who had been eating his chickens without working for them.
"The capitalist in me just couldn't stand it," he said with a grin.
The neighbors, mostly retirees, were impressed over the excitement in the 'hood' and from porches and rocking chairs everywhere you could hear conversations such as: "Bertie, you want to drive over to the Dusty Canyon outfit, hang around and watch that guy cap another chicken-stealin' coyote?"
Sometimes entertainment of any kind comes at a premium.
A documenting photograph showed PawPaw standing under his 10-gallon hat, baby girl in one arm, holding the bagged coyote by the his hind feet in the other. Baby girl might get a nice coyote cape, something Red Riding Hood-style.
"Once you make a nice shot, you just go home and live on the legend," he said. "All is safe again at PawPaw's Daycare."
Women are born with a multi-tasking gene not common to men. There was no pancake batter involved in PawPaw's process of carrying it out a needed shootin'.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net .

NO TRUE WEST IN NEW YORK CITY

2010-06-11T06:32:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter

We who live on the sunset side of this country tend to forget there is a great big world out there that has absolutely no idea what the West really is.
True West magazine hit the "big time news" (their own words) when they became the topic of review by MediaPost's "Magazine Rack."
Headquartered in New York City, you have to surmise this was an adventure for the writer that began as soon as she flipped open the glossy cover of the magazine and proceeded thumbing through the pages.
Her journey commenced with the True West's reputable variety of Western features, illustrations, photos and travel opportunities.
"We get the occasional cowboy," New York writer Fern Siegel said in her review, "but he tends to be more Village People than Buffalo Bill. That's not counting the Naked Cowboy, who corrals Times Square in his underwear."
Siegel lives in downtown Manhattan and claims the Empire State Building as her "true north"-- a world foreign to the real cowboy as illustrated by Siegel's use of Buffalo Bill as a measure of authenticity. The reference to the Naked Cowboy is pure entertainment without any serious evidence of anything more.
A NYC icon, the Naked Cowboy is some dude who performs on Times Square wearing only his BVDs, boots and hat, with a guitar strategically placed to give the illusion of nudity.
Now he is licensed to perform marriages. For a mere $499, you can get hitched by Reverend Naked Cowboy in Times Square.
With acerbic wit, Siegel winds through True West magazine's history, then down a trail to that particular issue's overviews of "extreme historic getaways."
She skeptically doubts the validity of the term "eco-tour" listed on the description of the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge train ride. For her, the giveaway was in the photo that showed, as she put it, "black steam belching coal dust in the pristine sky."
However, she was enlightened with the offering of an Arizona Cowboy College in Scottsdale where "hopefuls learned roping, shoeing and horsemanship."
Siegel's fascination was captured with a feature about the fight for Geronimo's remains and his great-grandson's argument to have them returned from Fort Sill, Okla. to Silver City, N.M., per Geronimo's wishes.
In her written tour through other parts of the magazine, Siegel recognizes True West Executive Editor Bob Boze Bell's desire for historical accuracy, the same that he touts on his "True West Moments" show on Encore's Westerns Channel.
Siegel points out instances in Western movies that might cause Bell's factual meter to quiver.
"I'm guessing the washboard abs and over-pumped biceps Brad Pitt sports whenever he swaggers onto a horse in Ralph Lauren chaps or Clint Eastwood's precision beard, which has clearly made friends with Hammacher Schlemmer's $400 electric razor, are two quibbles," she wrote. "There could be more."
Siegel said the magazine was the "real McCoy" for aficionados. I took that to mean, in the realm of her New York knowledge, it was the real deal ... if you like that kind of stuff.
Remember those popular Pace Picante ads where the Southwestern cowboys made fun of the greenhorn who bought salsa that came from New York City?
While my intent is not to belittle Siegel's review of the magazine, I do find a hint of disdain buried in the flow of her verbiage. So, it was with great delight that I noted the listing of her title at MediaPost. "Deputy Editor."
In the merriment of the moment, I paused to wonder if that position came with a tin star badge; the signature of lawmen of the West.
Nah, not from New York City. Get a rope!
Julie can be reached for comment jcarter@tularsoa.net.

LUCK IS IN THE JEANS

2010-06-07T16:00:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter
Every cowboy has a "secret weapon" that gives them a competing edge. Their arsenal for the illusion, or delusion, of luck runs the gamut of superstitions.
With rodeo and roping season moving into the heat of the year, both by thermometer and by calendar, cowboys are plotting, planning, driving and surviving while taking their best shots at making the finals.
A cowboy's belief in what brings him success, while often falling short on factual verification, will never lack in creativity.
Jim was a calf roper who carried a gallon jug of water in his camper in which to wash his lucky rodeo shirt, never pouring the water out all summer.
"Don't want to wash out the luck so you have to keep it in the water," he'd say.
By the end of a long rodeo season he was noticeably a loner. Apparently, the smell of luck was not as socially rewarding as the possession of it.
As a team roper, Walker always believed that hard work paid off and he endorsed the theory that "perfect practice makes perfect." But lately, he'd begun to wonder if he wasn't standing in the wrong line.
A similar "wrong line" feeling had occurred to him when he was in college. Walker recalled that incident landed him erroneously in the military corps. Repeating that lesson, even hypothetically, was not a good plan.Walker had spent his entire adult life pasture roping in all kinds of weather, most often riding a green colt with no one around to help. Every loop had to count.
When he reached a point in life where he could rope for fun, he built a good arena, kept a supply of fresh Corriente steers, bought exceptional horses and ropes by the boxcar full. And, he practiced non-stop.
He was dedicated to eating right, exercising, regular strength training and of course, took his vitamins. He was selective about the ropings he entered and even more discriminating in choosing his roping partners.
Most of the time, the results were as favorable as the game of team roping ever allows. Win some, lose some.
In his good-natured way, Walker made a lot of friends and was gradually making his way into that elite club of the ropers labeled as "wolves."
Wolves are just ropers too, but ones with impressive, inarguable winning records. Walker's new partner, Les, drives down the highway in the proof of his skill with a rope.
Les' trophy truck has advertising on all four corners that declares him to be a champion. He proves his dedication to the sport by practicing late into the night and would stay at it until it was time to go to work if needed.
Les consistently catches two feet on his end of the steer, keeping his success percentage impressively high. On the rare occasion that he misses, you hear none of the usual litany of excuses --bad cattle, bad flagger, bad barrier, the header's fault, it rained in Brazil, the neighbor's mother's cousin's dog died - you've heard them before.
After watching the duo stop the clock time after time in the practice pen in 100 degree heat with humidity to match, Walker's wife thought she'd ask Les what his secret to success was.
Too late to take it back, Les' answer made her wish she hadn't been so inquisitive.
Proudly Les told her, "Absolutely every bit of ability and success I have, I attribute to my lucky polka dot under drawers."
With that tidbit of information out to the general population, there is likely to be a run on polka dotted BVDs down at the mercantile. A particular color wasn't detailed as necessary.
Although, I do wonder if a trendy zebra stripe or leopard print would be as effective.

GROWING OLD WITH WILLIE NELSON

2010-05-29T07:00:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter

Haircuts don't generally make national news, but when Willie Nelson's braids hit the cutting room floor this week, newsfeeds went rampant with the report.
His fans have come to expect a touch of eccentricity from the legendary crooner, but he pulled off a shocker this time.
However, there is a generation of followers who find it somewhat humorous because we recall when Willie's hair was banker-short and shoe-black dark, and he wore a suit and tie to the stage. Tell that to a Willie fan under the age of 40 and a resounding "Nooooo, never," is their response.
Of course at the time, gas was 25-cents a gallon and America was giving birth to the decade of the "hippie."
He was only 7 when he wrote his first song, "Family Bible" and sold it for $50. Turning 77 last month, Willie can again say "Funny how time slips away," another of the many songs he wrote that someone else made famous. In that same time period, he penned Faron Young's "Hello Walls" and Patsy Cline's rendition of "Crazy."
His gritty, roadhouse sound didn't fit into the traditional Nashville music style in the 1960s and it wasn't until he ditched Tennessee for Texas in the '70s, that his unique brand of outlaw country music took off.
Wearing a little more hair, looking somewhat like the Beatles-gone-to-Austin, Willie launched album after album defining himself in both lyric and title, like "Shotgun Willie" and "The Red Headed Stranger."
In a decade when Glen Campbell and Bobby Goldsboro were crooning the softer side of life, Willie, along with the like-minded and hard-partying Waylon Jennings, made an indelible mark on the Austin music scene.
He took it by storm when he teamed up with Waylon Jennings, Jessie Colter and Tompall Glaser for the Outlaw albums, answering a call to a honky-tonk era that had crossed over the rural-urban boundaries and shouted for some boot-stompin', whiskey-drinkin' music.
In the '80s, Willie sought to recreate that success by making more albums with industry greats.
The "Honeysuckle Rose" sound track album for the movie of the same name was a rowdy rendition of Willie's life "On the Road Again."
Willie and his down-home Texas buddies, including Western-swing fiddle legend Johnny Gimble, songwriter Hank Cochran and the sultry songbird Emmy Lou Harris gave the album a good-timin' vibe that has people, still today, humming the signature song every time they pull out on the highway.
Willie cranked out al-bums with Waylon Jennings, Ray Price, Roger Miller, Faron Young, Hank Snow, Webb Pierce and Kris Kristofferson.
With Merle Haggard in the "Pancho and Lefty" album, the duo gave musical notes to their bad-boy personas with a series of boozer-loser ballads that packed a wallop right up to the "Reasons To Quit" and "No Reason To Quit" double play.
Dubbed the "supergroup" of them all was The Highwaymen, Willie's 10-year gig with Kris Kristofferson, Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash. These four legends of outlaw country music recorded three major label albums and a number one hit penned by Kristofferson, called, of course, "Highwayman".
Willie has written more than 2,500 songs and recorded hundreds of albums. Aside from his brilliance as a song writer and musician, he's funny and charming with a charisma that emanates from the very core of his powerful and oftentimes rebellious nature.
From the 1985 Farm Aid benefit concerts that raised money for American farmers, to the Willie-Aid album, "Who'll Buy My Memories?" made to help him pay off his IRS debts, to his confession of smoking pot before his appearance on "The Larry King Show", Willie continued to perpetuate his personification of the country rebel.
Gray, grizzled and without the signature braids, Willie's unmistakable voice, the one that Nashville turned its back on a half a century ago, is still without equal in its uni-quely "just Willie" way.
The evolution of Willie. You don't have to be a Willie Nelson fan to recognize the legend in his story.
But it seems now, that it was only yesterday
Gee, ain't it funny, how time slips away.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net.

SHARP KNIVES AND WHITTLE WISDOM

2010-05-21T06:22:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter
Long ago, the silver screen warped the image of the cowboy in the minds of the general public. Western wear catalogs and country music singers haven't helped much with the real picture of the cowboy.
No, Virginia, cowboys don't dress like Buffalo Bill.
In lives dictated by work, wind and weather, not necessarily in that order, function trumps fashion every time.
Cowboys and their female counterparts dress to get the work done and wear as many of the necessary tools of the trade as possible.
One of those necessary tools is a knife. These are used daily to cut hay strings, change the minds and attitudes of bulls, cut the rattles off a dead snake, perform tack repairs and traditionally, give the fingernails a trim.
For decades, the pocket knife, sleek in form, was transported by simply slipping it into a front jean pocket for safekeeping.
As it became more of a tool than just a blade for cutting, knives were worn in a scabbard or sheath in a surprising variety of places: attached to the belt, vertical above their back pocket, horizontally on the belt, in a cross draw position in the front or simply in the pocket of their leggings.
Scabbards can be a personal fashion statement. Often adept at leather work, rawhide stitching, knot tying and tooling, cowboys' workday knives are usually cased in sturdy proof of their skill.
Their Sunday-go-to-meeting knife scabbards may even have tooling to match their saddles and gear.
Knives come in a variety of personal choice brands. We're not talking Swiss Army here - these knives are as practical as the cowboys who wear them.
You see everything from working knives to seasonal hunting knives to the finest Damascus steel, fancy inlaid-handled knife for church.
Special folding knives made popular by the ropers come with a clip to hold them in a back pocket for quick access in the case of a tangled endangerment. Sometimes it is necessary to cut a perfectly good rope to save the life of a roper or the leg of a horse.
Panhandle punchers who receive load after load of 400-weight steers and bulls swear that in Louisiana knives are used exclusively for peeling pecans because 99 percent of the male cattle that come from that area are still bulls.
"Steer" is apparently not a Cajun word.
Ranch cowboys are forever using their knives at cattle working time and a measure of pride is taken in just how sharp their knife is, frequently drawing blood just to prove the point as they lightly graze it across their forearm shaving a few hairs as it goes.
However, clean and sanitary is optional. It's not unusual for cowboys to castrate calves all morning and use the same knife to cut their meat at the meal afterward.
Careful ranch wives make sure there is a clean knife strategically placed by the cake plate.
Not often thought of but definitely one historical use of a knife is in horse trading.
Many traders whittle during the often lengthy discussions involved in the bartering.
I'm told that if the trade is going the trader's way, his knife will pull the whittle toward him.
If the trade is going the other way, slivers are driven off the piece of wood toward the buyer.
That's a good point to know. Probably Buffalo Bill was the first to establish that principle.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net. Visit her website at www.julie-carter.com .

CAT WRANGLING AND COWPONY DANCING

2010-05-16T13:45:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter

The hallmark of a cowboy is long days, stupid stunts and never forgetting the story. Laughing at themselves is one of the things they do best.
The agitated cowboy was kicking up dust with his boot while he was paced a small circle, recalling the day with disgust.
His bride had promised to deliver a barn cat to a friend in need of one and his job was to catch it and put it in the pet carrier. No step for stepper, he thought.
The feline was overdue to have a new batch of kittens and the cowboy was sure her cumbersome load would slow her enough for him to get ahold of her and as he promised, carefully place her in the cage that would deliver her to the other side of the county.
As far as he was concerned, a good cat was a long-gone cat.
The noise from the barn was a mixture of snarls, screeches and cussing, all of which came from the cowboy and only some of which came from the cat.
Crashing, banging and at last, the barn door flew open and a flash of fur gave meaning to "running like a scalded cat."
Moments later the cowboy wandered into the daylight wearing a dazed look with his hat sitting slightly askew.
He examined the blood running down his arm and with a cautious hand felt of the claw marks across his face.
"I've been to a hundred county fairs and a goat roping or two," he said, "but I ain't never been as humiliated as I am right now. I've been bit, scratched, hissed at, run over and outsmarted by a cat too stupid not to get pregnant every time she passes by a tomcat."
His degradation plummeted to rock-bottom when his bride came from behind the house still in her bathrobe and slippers, carrying the cat, petting and cooing goodbyes to her as she tucked her inside the carrier.
Where's your horse
The cowboy was day working the area ranches and not one for wasting any daylight, he decided he was up for a little fun when he heard there was a team roping in town that night.
With his horse already in the trailer, he headed to the arena just as thunderheads opened up. Even after entries were taken, the downpour continued so the roping was cancelled. The cowboys got their entry fee money back for another day.
Cash in their pockets and time on their hands is always an ingredient for cowboy mischief.
The Prairie Dog, a local watering hole, filled up fast with the rejects from the rained-out roping. Some lively fun was "fixin' to commence."
Blayke walked in still wearing his chaps and spurs from the day's work. The barmaid, a new hire, was a little on the lippy side and not particularly well-versed in cowboys.
As Blayke headed to the bar, she shouted across the room, "Well cowboy, where's your horse?"
He answered, "Out in the trailer."
"Yea, right!" she said with obvious doubt based on the ignorance she had about cowboys.
"You'll believe me when I ride him around the bar," Blayke said.
"That'll be the day," she naively challenged.
That's all it took. Blayke walked out the door and directly to his trailer, unloaded his bay cowpony and headed back to the bar.
He had to tie his stirrups up so the horse could fit through the door but once inside he let them down again, and stepped up into the saddle.
He began loping slow figure eights around the pool tables while the barmaid stood dumbfounded, mouth open in shock and shaking her head.
The yee-haws from the cowboys leaning on the bar only encouraged the show.
With a glance toward the dance floor, Blayke's intentions were apparent. Some-one handed him a beer as he passed by and the barmaid grabbed a Polaroid camera.
She snapped a picture just as Blayke spun his mount around the floor with his beer held high as if to toast the crowd.
The photo was pinned to the wall for all to see, even years later.
It was documented proof that there isn't much you can challenge a cowboy with that he won't make his best, if unwise, effort to try to meet.
Julie, witness to and part of many unwise cowboy moments, can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net

GETTIN' OLD - NOT A PRETTY SIGHT

2010-05-16T10:25:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter

The plan all along is to get old, but it happens to some folks faster than others.
Cowboys pretty much across the board fit into that category.
The life of cowboy is hard on the physical body.
It doesn't seem to hurt their mind much, but one could argue that if they had much of a mind to begin with, they'd have another vocation.
Perhaps a career that offered better hours and monetary rewards.
A life of having horses pound you into the ground, cows run you over and assortment of other wrecks involving gates, pickups and trailers have cowboys feeling serious aches and pains at an early age.
And that's just from the work part of the job.
The horseplay that goes on endlessly is as frequently the culprit for injury and subsequent lifetime handicaps.
The body is just not made to bend the wrong way as many times as cowboying can make that happen.
Looking older than they are and feeling twice as old happens sooner than usual if the vocation involves the word cowboy.
Bowlegs are a visible symptom of a much worse problem.
Those knobby knees in the middle of that bow are a never ending source of pain, agony and frustration.
An old-in-miles but not-in-years cowboy with knees that had seen Olympic-quality abuse wrote this about the situation:
Where ever you go either you walk or ride.
You use your knees with every stride.
Your stride gets short and the trail gets long.
It sure is hell when your knees are gone.
You jump right off but when you land,
Sometimes your mouth gets full of sand.
You can't stand up and it hurts to crawl.
You ain't no good on the ground at all.
You can't run your horse with any ease,
'Cause of the real bad hurtin' in your knees.
But don't you worry about that ol' pard,
The cowboy life was always hard.
With today's technology, more and more cowboys are signing up for the "spare parts" surgery. Usually these guys need the new knees long before the doctors think it's advisable.
The new parts come with life-span that leaves the cowboy needing a second replacement even before he is eligible for social security.
In an effort to avoid that and to buy a little time, they hobble around dragging a leg, thinking everything they see looks like it needs to be set on, and giving the anti-inflammatory drug business a dramatic sales boost.
At the branding corral, they look for a place to sit and rest where they don't have to be tailed back up when it is time to go back to work.
The grunts and moans you hear is just them trying to get their foot in the stirrup and get back on their horse.
No longer is there any shame in using a log, rock or trailer fender to make that easier.
They find it acceptably easier to the let the young buttons do the work even if it takes longer than it should.
With no apology, they discover a new found fondness for shorter horses and slower women.
And those old cowboys that are recreational ropers?
The secret to their quick catch is simply because their shoulders won't hold up past a few quick swings of the loop.
It can be noted that most of the senior roping events start early in the morning. It's paramount that they get their shot at roping for the money before their pills start to wear off.
This getting' old ain't for sissies.
Julie, somewhat long in the tooth herself, can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net. Visit my website at www.julie-carter.com

I LOVE THEM TOO

2010-05-16T10:15:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter

Dear Moms and Dads,
I want to thank you for your great kids. I am blessed to be able to share with you in their successes as their final days in high school bring the accolades they have earned.
"Our" babies are about to graduate.
I sit at each end-of-the-year ceremony and watch them with tears in my eyes and pride busting out all over, just as you do.
For eight years I've followed them around to sporting events, FFA, 4-H, county fair, rodeo, academic showcases with my camera in hand and note pad ready.
They were 10 years old and about to embark on their fifth grade adventure when I started this journey of documenting them for the "county news" section of the newspaper.
They were shorter, chubbier, tinier, ganglier with freckles and bad hair cuts or wild pony tails and braces. They giggled and snorted over nothing and traveled in pairs and trios of silliness.
The first couple of years they ducked my camera and were shy about it most of the time.
When that was over they followed me like ducklings wanting to know if I'd put them in the paper and they delighted in antics that might get them there.
Those kids in the outer county schools soon became part of my life. I watched them grow and mature.
I watched their personalities take shape and the foundations of their adulthood form one block at a time.
Teachers, coaches, family and friends all added another block, year by year ... building the child that would become the adult to be sent out the door this May.
I know great kids don't just happen. They are created, encouraged, admonished, nurtured, guided and directed.
They take a step forward and fall back two. They are caught, lifted, nudged and pushed toward a standard of excellence set before them.
Sometimes they rebel, argue, give up on themselves and think the world hates them. They are irritated by their parents who have got to be the stupidest people in the world, not to mention so archaic in all they know about anything.
They vow to never, ever be like them when they grow up.
They are sure that the system that held them captive for 13 years was pointless. They plan their escape with an attitude of "I'll show you I don't need you to tell me what to do every day."
Which is pretty much the point, but most of them haven't figured that out just yet.
I love those kids, all of them. I feel so very much part of the lives I have documented in word and picture. I've been there for their set backs and their victories. I've watched them work hard and gain great ground in so many places.
I hold such hope in the future when I see the great young men and women they have so quickly grown to be.
I am proud with and for you, the parents, who sacrificed, hoped, prayed and worked through each stage of their life to bring them to this portal of the future.
I thank you for allowing me into their lives and into yours.
Your children are a gift, not just to you, but to the world that is about to become their challenge. You've done your job and done it well.
As you take your hands off them and let them fly, together we will watch them take wing into the next phase of their lives. Summer will dry the tears that mark this traditional transition.
With great anticipation, I will turn and look behind me at those budding young adults that will follow these into next year.
Each one is stretching and striding to find their place in the mighty footsteps left behind by this class of 2010.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net.

MY PARENTS WERE LAWBREAKERS BEFORE THEIR TIME

2010-05-16T09:55:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter
For once, it is good I'm as old as I am, or my parents would have criminal records.
Last week I heard a word of caution about possible legal ramifications of paddling your child. What I need warned about is my frequent temptation to paddle other people's children, oh say, while standing in line at the grocery store.
Don't call or write me about child abuse statistics. That's not what I'm talking about here.
I grew up in the periphery of the pioneer years when most families still believed that to spare the rod was to spoil the child. With that as a measure, I assure you I wasn't spoiled nor were my siblings.
That wasn't the only thing about life that current regulatory agencies, planning commissions and zoning laws would never have allowed.
We had an outhouse! Yes, the hole-in-the-ground, wood shed-over-the-top, splinters-in-your-hiney outhouse. And furthermore, you had to walk across a little plank bridge over an irrigation ditch with rushing ice-cold water to get to it. It was truly down the garden path.
There were no EPA and Hazmat permits posted at the outhouse and there was no code enforcement or engineering on the bridge.
We ate hunks of smoked ham that came directly from hanging in the rafters of the smokehouse and washed it down with cold, raw milk. We ate eggs fresh from the chicken's effort and processed our own meats that included pork, beef, assorted fowl, trout and venison of various kinds.
We had open-air fires and slept in flood plains as we camped along the creek, again without permit and worse yet, without adult supervision. (Mother's x-ray, telephoto vision not withstanding as she kept an eye on us from the ranch house on the hill.)
We rode horses with reckless abandon. We shoveled out barns and weeded gardens fertilized with the byproduct. We assisted dad with veterinarian jobs that involved blood, bodily fluids and sharp objects.
Child labor laws were just that. If you were a child and big enough, you labored.
We climbed hills, rocks, trees, haystacks and barns. We used ropes, boards, canvas, blankets and anything we could find to create forts and cabins for our imaginary games.
Since the beginning of time, children had been made to work along side their parents. The government would eventfully regulate that and more, but in our neck of the woods, child protective services existed only in the form of my grandmother.
She established her credentials as such on many occasions. For example, my brother who was maybe 3, and I, the older, wiser sister at 5, decided to leave home and walk to grandma's house a couple miles away.
My parents watched us amble up the road and out of sight. My dad, before following discreetly behind, phoned my grandmother and told her we were on the way and to watch for us. He instructed that when we arrived, she was to "paddle our butts and send us back home."
Of course, that didn't happen. She gave us milk and homemade cookies and then drove us back home.
My parents' have a perfect criminal record. We four siblings survived childhood under those deplorable, dangerous conditions. I recall only the occasional need for stitches and no broken bones.
We were all reasonably civilized when integrated into polite society. My brother Lon even learned to keep his shoes on and not leave them lying in the field. Bruce and I finally gave up running off and trying to lose him in the hills. Like a pound puppy, he always found his way home.
I may have breached the mental cruelty laws when at the age of 8, I dressed my baby brother Jim like a girl to soothe my disappointment that he was not born a sister. Instead of seeking therapy for him, my parents sent him to Army boot camp when he was old enough, which to him was preferable to working for my Dad. So it turned out fine.
I'm thankful for a childhood without many rules except those enforced by my dad's leather strap.
The freedom of living with nature's laws next to those of God and my parents, created a generation of self-sufficient, dependable, hard-working adults who don't expect life to be delivered to them.
I'm thinking that is the process that should have been written into law.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net. See her two books on her website at www.julie-carter.com

ONE MORE DAY IN THE SADDLE

2010-04-13T01:15:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter

His thickened, aged hands held a pencil poised over a small notebook as his thoughts took him back where his heart still was. As his mind traveled back, he could clearly see the moment.
It was a crisp fall morning and the smoky smell of a cedar fire from the bunkhouse stove was held low to the ground by the cold air. He pulled the cinch on the bronc he'd just roped from the remuda, knowing that he was tightening his saddle down on a thousand pounds of buck that was about to commence.
At 20, he was not only ready to do battle with the bronc, but knew he'd win.
And by the end of a long day and many miles, the colt would be a better horse and the makings of a good friend.
True to his knowledge, when he snubbed the colt up close and stepped up in the stirrup, quickly throwing his leg over the saddle to take a deep seat before the explosion, as predicted, the bronc came apart with a grunt and a snort.
The other cowboys stood around the corral watching, laughing and taking bets. After a few short minutes of squeals and explosive effort from the horse as he did his best to unseat the cowboy, the bronc pulled up into a short gaited lope around the pen. The cowboys on the ground threw open the gate, waved their hats in the air and the show was over as the cowboy and the bronc followed the breaking daylight to the horizon.
The old cowboy's mind returned to the task at hand, energized with the recall of the happiness he had felt in those days when he could top any bronc in the pen, spend from dusk to dawn in the saddle, and be anxious to do it again the next day.
A humble cowboy, he knew he was just one of many that lived in an era that was now relegated to stories and memories.
His memories were unique only to him and the need to share them with someone was pressing on his heart with each passing year.
Inside his gnarled, knotted body, crippled by too many occupational wrecks, lived a soul that longed for the freedom of his youth. Reality allowed that it would soon soar, but only to that great roundup in the sky where he hoped most of his compadres waited for him.
A tear slowly formed at the corner of his eye as he wrestled with the burden to write down his lifetime of cowboying from California to Texas. Through the years, he'd drifted from one state to another and the names of ranches, men and horses, each with their own detailed story, ran through his mind as his shaky hand formed the words.
He didn't recognize the legendary life for what it was while he was living it. He wasn't even quite sure now why it seemed better looking back at it than it did living it.
He did know that the words he put to paper would be all that was left of who he was when he was gone.
But his intent was not for himself, but to tell those that knew him that he remembered, that it mattered.
What he knew was that he'd give all that he had, which wasn't much, to turn back the clock far enough to do it all again, just one more time, one more day in the saddle.
It's all that ever mattered in his life. One more day in the saddle.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net. Visit her website at www.julie-carter.com

DON'T FORGET TO CHECK YOUR CINCH

2010-04-13T01:13:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter

Cowboying in the sand hills on a big cow-calf operation, Blayke's days were routine to his job title.
With 4,000 head of momma cows and their babies by their side, a typical day was long and mostly seen from the back of horse. It also required the steady use of rope.
He doctored pink eye, scours, foot rot and any other bovine malady that showed up. During calving, it was usual to rope 50 calves a day to tag or stuff a scours pill down their throat.
Not far away from where Blayke was working was Deer Creek, a feedlot with backgrounding pasture and corn stalks.
Lloyd had worked so long at Deer Creek not many even knew his last name. He was just Lloyd.
He talked real slow, and for the most part, seemed in all ways, "slow." But he ran the feedlot and did his job well.
The cow boss of the outfit Blayke worked for sent him and another puncher to go help Lloyd doctor shipping fever in a load of yearlings.
They loaded their horses and headed to Deer Creek, arriving just as Lloyd was catching his big grey horse that he called Frog.
Blayke and his partner unloaded their horses and walked over to where Lloyd was saddling Frog. Blayke couldn't help but notice that Lloyd's rig was an old center-fire bear trap that had no breast collar.
On the horn, there was an old rope tied off that had been broken and then tied into a square knot.
More noticeable was that the cinch holding the saddle on had maybe a dozen strands still intact and the rest were broken in two and hanging frayed.
Blayke always carried a rope bag in the trailer with a couple of extra ropes, leather punch, Wang leather, leather awl and an extra cinch just in case tack repairs were needed at any time or place during a day of cowboying.
He told Lloyd that he had a better cinch if he wanted it and was sure welcome to it.
Lloyd replied in his signature slow speech, "Nope, I reckon this one will do."
Blayke nodded his acceptance of Lloyd's decision and the trio rode to the pasture to get started on the doctoring.
The very first steer they saw needed medicinal attention. He was a big, soggy Simmental.
Lloyd put the spurs to Frog and built to the steer. His loop caught him deep, far down on the brisket and included a front a leg.
Lloyd jerked his slack and old Frog put on the brakes hard, laying some classic 11s on the ground.
When things came tight between the steer and the horse, the cinch on Lloyd's saddle snapped. There went Lloyd, saddle and all, right over Frog's head.
Since Lloyd had a head and a front leg in his loop, that steer might as well have been a Siberian husky in the Iditarod and Lloyd's saddle was the sled.
Lloyd was the musher, except he was sitting down instead of standing and he was holding on to the swells of the saddle with both hands with his legs stuck out in front.
The steer was running full out and not showing any signs of slowing down. Blayke and his partner were laughing so hard, they both missed the steer with their first loop.
Blayke managed to catch him on second try. When Blayke got the steer halted, he took Lloyd's rope off of him.
They had to pull Lloyd's spurs and stirrups down from around his knees to free him from his saddle.
Old Frog was standing calmly right where the cinch broke, munching on some grass.
Undaunted by the event, Lloyd said with his very slow drawl, "Blayke, you reckon I can borrow that cinch?"
Blayke laughed and said, "After that spectacular wreck, you can just keep the cinch."
No one seems to know what became of Lloyd over the years, but Blayke was certain it was a safe bet that Lloyd forever more used good cinches.
Happy trails! And check your cinch.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net. Visit her website at www.julie-carter.com. Her books, Cowgirls Sass & Savvy and Cowboy's You Gotta Love 'em can be viewed there.

ROMEO, ROMEO

2010-04-13T01:10:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter

Romeo was destined for greatness the day he hit the ground as a newborn colt. Perfectly made, his owner knew he had the makings of a premier stallion.
Rick carefully raised him to be an honest cowboy working horse as well as a show horse.
He taught him manners and obedience. Romeo was hand-fed and groomed lovingly by Rick's wife, who assured the young stallion that he was indeed very special.
In the meantime, Rick's friends had all been advised of Romeo's wonderful conformation, attitude and abilities.
As expected, Rick suddenly acquired an increased number of friends, certainly more than he had prior to this exceptional stallion coming of age.
Cowboys from miles around thought to help "ol' Rick" out some by bringing their mares to the stallion. Their strategy was that they would help Rick get a few colts on the ground and get the stallion's name out there. After all, what are friends for?
Of course, there would be no breeding fee involved with these friends' mares, since they were in fact, doing Rick a big favor.
This was not Rick's first load of pumpkins nor was he blind to the "helpfulness" of his buddies. He put a quick stop to their marketing plan.
Instead, he advertised the beautiful Romeo, spent some time showing him at a few premier horse shows and soon paying customers were requiring Romeo's services.
Romeo took this all in stride. But even with his impeccable manners, he had the inclinations of an alley cat.
He loved the ladies of the equine variety and when none were brought around to his corral, he exercised his talent for jumping fences.
Romeo had acquired this special skill while Rick was doing some pasture roping on him.
Rick had the habit of cold trailing a sick calf far beyond the norm, just to make absolutely sure his rope would catch on the first throw.
On one occasion, Romeo had sped up to the calf and thought it was just some obstacle to be jumped, and so he did.
He never did catch on to tracking cattle, just as Rick never caught on to throwing his loop when he had that first good shot. Horse and rider had somewhat of a hardheaded standoff going. But in the interim, Romeo fine-tuned his jumping skills.
Romeo would jump fences, cattle guards, gates and anything else between him and any mares pastured anywhere for miles around.
The owners always called Rick to come get him after their mares were bred.
If the pasture was a little short on grass, Romeo would simply jump his way back home. His adventures did improve the general quality of the colts in the neighborhood.
At some point, Rick worried that Romeo could get hurt, and he had tired of his neighbors getting high-dollar colts for free.
Romeo was too valuable to geld, so he decided to use the stallion's special jumping skills to an advantage.
Rick called a friend in Houston, where those little postage-stamp sized saddles were known to be popular along with the people who professionally jumped obstacles.
The friend said he knew of a hunter-jumper competitor who was looking to buy a horse for his wife. In discussion with the jumping enthusiast, the single most important requirement in the transaction was that Romeo be friendly to females.
Rick assured him in all sincerity and with perfect honesty, that Romeo absolutely loved the ladies.
Romeo now resides in one of the swankier sections of Houston and is enjoying himself greatly.
He has discovered that not working for a cowboy for a living has its advantages, one being he has no more sick calves to hurdle.
Jumping those little fences for the lady in the saddle was indeed a promotion.
So far, no tales of Romeo's wanderings have filtered back to the Panhandle, but some days in the wind you can still hear, "Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo."
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net or visit her Web site at www.julie-carter.com

MAYBE IT'S THE BOOTS AND HAT

2010-04-13T01:07:00.000-07:00

by Julie Carter

Like a lot of cowboys, Blayke sometimes found himself supporting his cowboy habit with a real job.
This time it was working construction by day and riding colts at night. He had leased a place with a lighted arena near Colorado Springs, Colo. It allowed him to make some extra money riding the horses and it gave him a place to get away from the city chaos he endured all day in his job.
In the course of his work, he met a guy who invited him dinner with some "high class doctors" at the famous five-star Broadmoor Resort. Blayke knew this was where "all the rich people hung out." He was advised to dress up for the evening.
True to his cowboy nature, he broke out the old Resistol Black Gold hat, starched up a white shirt, a new pair of Wranglers and even wore his best boots.
Even with the effort, he recognized at dinner that he was underdressed for the occasion.
The doctors, surgeons and more, were wearing "fancy suits and all had gals with them that were 15 years younger wearing furs and dinner dresses."
Blayke survived dinner, although it threatened to confound him with five forks, cloth napkins and fine china. After dinner, the men retired to a "smoking room" for cigars and brandy. Conversations centered on money and investments.
With a financial portfolio that totaled a modest checking account and some cash in his pocket, it didn't take Blayke long to head to a place he could feel at home. Sidling up to the bar, he ordered a shot of Crown. When he found out it was free, he had another.
Noting that the doctors had deserted "all those dressed-up gals," Blayke soon had plenty of lovely company sitting next to him drinking shots. Within the hour, they had kicked off their high heels, let their hair down, and had come "unstarched."
It was then Blayke's cowboy brain kicked in and he suggested they all go down to the Broadmoor Lake and go skinny dipping. The bartender, quite entertained by the cowboy and ladies, handed them a bottle as they headed to the water.
The party was going swimmingly, so to speak, until the security guard spotted them. When he headed their direction, they grabbed their clothes and outran him to the parking lot. They jumped in Blayke's pickup and raced away, finding a place down the street to pull over and get dressed.
Not ready to give up the party, they located a honky tonk and Blayke proudly escorted the gals inside, now dressed to the hilt in furs and wet hair.
One of them was even barefooted as she had forgotten to grab her shoes.
Blayke felt certain that would be last time the docs would desert their women to drink brandy and smoke cigars. Either way, it had worked well for him.
City gals
Jerry was the kind of cowboy that women and men alike would notice and recognize as the genuine article.
He always wore good boots, good hats and George Strait starched jeans. There was no mistaking him for anything but the real deal.
Women of all types were attracted to him. One time, responding to some friendly overtures from a citified lady lawyer, he told her up front that he was happy as a loner, but if she wanted to go along for the ride, she would go in his world.
No secrets from the onset, but after a while the lady began to miss the bright-light activities of her world. She suggested they go to some clubs, fancy restaurants or some shows.
All of this met with no action from Jerry.
Riding along in his truck one evening, sharing the current dating dilemma with his buddy, he made the comment that sometimes things just didn't work out between cowboys and city girls.
"You just can't please some women," he said. "I already took this gal to two bull-nut fries and a steer roping. What more could she want?"
And that is why women never fantasize about being swept off their feet by a CPA.
Julie, unstarched, can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net

MEANWHILE BACK AT THE ARENA

2010-04-13T01:05:00.000-07:00

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter Roping and rodeo season is gearing up to the usual spring frenzy and those ropers that find themselves afoot are horse shopping.
The used-horse business flourishes but unless you get a far piece beyond your territory, everybody knows you, your business and the horse you might be looking at.
Heard at the arena, "He don't know it, but that horse will make your eyes pop," said one cowboy.
"No way. I know that horse and he's one of the uglier ones to be found," said the other cowboy.
"I'm not talking about his looks," retorted the first cowboy. "I'm talking about he stops so hard on his front feet that when your crotch hits the saddle horn, your eyes will pop."
This is important criteria to know.
Then there is Joe and Pete, whose names have been changed since it was established one of them can read, and didn't so much enjoy his newfound notoriety when their antics previously hit print.
As a precaution, their undercover names will be kept to a simple, one syllable.
Joe and Pete, when we last spoke of them, were going to win the world without bothering with any roping practice. Not needed, they were sure of that. That spree lasted about six weeks and came to an unremarkable close.
Spring fever has again beset the pair and the difference this year is that they both decided they needed new horses.
Joe's horse, Hack Rein, is 20-plus years old and Pete's trusty steed, Stix, has seen 21 years and counting.
Besides being naturally tightfisted, neither of them are flush with funds. Rick is the friend designated to alleviate the current cash flow issue with a little horse trading in the mix.
Joe is going to sell Hack Rein to Rick. That gets Rick mounted. Joe has neglected to tell him that Hack Rein has a slight bob to his head and at times, a serious limp.
Hack Rein is a heading horse, so Rick will be a header.
Joe is then going to buy Pete's horse, Stix, who also has a slight bob to his head and on bad days, will limp slightly.
That gets Joe mounted. Stix is also a heading horse, so Joe will be a header.
Pete is the only one left afoot. He is looking at a black horse said to be priced extremely reasonable.
That's a serious consideration with this bunch.
The black horse has been known to occasionally limp and to stop on his front feet pretty hard. Recall the earlier "eye popper" conversation.
He, too, is a heading horse, but an extremely good bargain.
All three ropers are now mounted and will shortly begin practice to win the world when the weather warms up and arenas dry up.
It has not yet occurred to them that that all three of them will have to be headers. The excitement over their "new" horses has, at least temporarily, clouded that detail of reality.
The upside of this is, counting on heelers to show up is just as iffy. The most recent best excuse by a heeler to not to show up to a roping was he'd decided to enter a coyote calling contest instead. Hey, it happens.
For those watching this scenario unfold, there is a suggestion of confidence that the trio may not figure out that all of them are headers until they go to enter a roping.
Like last year's unnecessary practice, planning ahead is rarely the selected option.
The mental image of them riding their head-bobbing, gimping horses around the arena while they try to figure out how to make a team out of three headers, lends itself to a "three stooges in cowboy hats" moment.
One can almost already hear the "N'yuk, n'yuk, n'yuk."
The first roping they go to may take more than the usual supply of aiming fluid.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net. Here website is www.julie-carter.com .

HOW HIGH'S THE WATER, MOMMA?

2010-03-04T23:32:00.000-08:00

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

Dan and Donnie were working on the Tierra Verde Ranch one exceptionally wet spring. It had rained repeatedly. Deep mud prevailed and the ground was saturated to the hilt.
The duo had an old pickup they used to get around the ranch for feeding or whatever else needed doing. This relic had four-wheel drive, big tires, a good strong engine and a back window that was broken out.
Because of the rain and the fact that it could go most anywhere, the truck was christened Noah.
Cold, wet spring weather motivated them to acquire a new back window for Noah, which required an entire day of their time to install. The new window had a sliding glass opening which was just perfect for the special needs of cowboys, including but not limited to spitting and reaching the cooler strategically placed within reach.
The boss was gone one Saturday so Dan and Donnie decided to go to the Stephenville Horse Sale.
They didn't have any business going since individually or combined, they could not come up with $10. Nevertheless, they loaded Noah with their cooler and headed out.
When they arrived, they visited with friends, watched the sale and got caught up on the news.
On the way home, they had to pass the Ranch House Restaurant, where they noted that the parking lot was crowded with pickups. They figured it was just some of the sale barn crowd and so they decided to stop and continue the day's good time. But when they got inside, they discovered the crowd belonged to a wedding reception.
Nobody threw them out and there was food, beverage and pretty girls all dolled up in the wedding attire. Being the suave and debonair type of cowboys, they got one gal sorted out and soon had her agreeing to go with them for a ride in Noah.
The girl was a bridesmaid - fancied up in a full length formal gown that is required for such an affair. They took off in Noah with the girl in the middle, a cowboy on each side and the cooler just through the sliding window.
They were all getting along just fine. The roads were slick and the rain still falling when they came to a creek where water was rushing over the top of the road crossing.
Dan stopped the truck and a consultation was held. Donnie told Dan he had complete faith in Noah and to just take off.
Dan launched Noah into the creek and the rushing water promptly took them off the crossing and floating down the creek. Dan could feel the wheels touching bottom occasionally. It felt like the water wasn't too deep, so he didn't worry.
Eventually the girl became concerned that they might go too far down the creek. Dan climbed out Noah's sliding window, dropped a catch rope over the trailer ball and snared a big oak on the bank.
That stopped the truck from going any further. Dan sat down on the bank and watched the truck. At some point, Donnie thought Dan needed help, so he climbed out the window and joined in the sitting and watching.
Some later, the bridesmaid yelled at them from the truck. "Hey, did you guys forget something?"
Dan grabbed the rope and hand-over-hand, worked his way to the truck bed. There he rescued the cooler and brought it to the creek bank. He and Donnie had a few cool ones pondering the situation.
At some point, possibly near the end of the beer supply, it became apparent they were going to need some equipment to rescue Noah. They told the girl to stay with the truck while they went to get a tractor.
The general philosophy of "all's well that ends well" applied here. The truck was rescued, the occupant was safe and no harm was done.
However, Dan reports that that was one of the maddest women he has ever seen.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net.

CABIN FEVER AND TATER TOTS

2010-03-04T23:22:00.000-08:00

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter
Like the roads across the West, winter has gone on forever. For those of us living here in the usually balmy Southwest, we are like spoiled children whining and sighing over the extended length of an extraordinary snow season that ushered out October and has every intention of using up February.
The roads are rutted in mud created in those few warmer days between storms. Everything that could conceivably break has done so, be it a pipeline, a vehicle, a storm door or the drain on the washing machine. Cold inevitably brings on streaks of "breaking" luck.
In spite of the discomfort and inconvenience, a rancher won't ever turn down moisture or a live baby calf.
The horses are haired up like bears and the cattle are eyeballing the portable hand warmers that a few well-outfitted cowboys got for Christmas and thought they'd never use.
Electric and gas bills, feed bills, firewood bills ... the meters spin and the check book balance plunges.
The little woman looks for every opportunity to not have to gear up for ice breaking and outdoor chores. Cabin fever, while only a temporary inconvenience, is sometimes preferable to freezing one's back pockets off.
In her solitude she is bombarded with thoughts that she jots on paper in some hope of making sense of her fleeting flashes of philosophy.
Deep thoughts along the lines of: Is there a resemblance between our lives and the creation of tater tots?
Most everyone generally loves tater tots. They are dependable, easy to cook and a familiar source of sustenance. Like our friends, they are crusty on the outside, tender on the inside and seasoned to preference.
And while I'm always happy to find them in cafes, stored in my freezer and in dishes cooked up for the cattle working crews, I've never devoted much deep thought to wondering how they became that perfect little cylindrical shape that makes them uniquely identifiable.
Hang with me here.
Potatoes are pulled from their earthen womb looking dirty and misshapen. They are handled down an assembly line where they are pressure washed, sorted for size and then peeled, sliced and diced according to the plans for their end use.
The scraps from this process - the bits and shreds that are left from the slices and cuts - are made into tater tots. They are cleaned, seasoned and pressure-shaped along yet another assembly line. We accept them in that form without question. They are what they are.
The tater tots depend on me to bring them from the freezer to the table in a cooking plan of some sort. However, I appreciate them more now that I know how they came to be.
The same philosophy is surely applicable with people.
As with tater tots, I have accepted the people in my life at face value. I have found those that endured to be dependable, encouraging, nurturing and great a comfort to me because their substance never changes.
In taking the time to look beneath the shredded crust - perhaps a bit freezer burned and toasted by life's heat - I believe that inside, their substance will be as presented and their imperfections will mirror mine. After all, we all started in the same place.
Maybe they too will have buried deep the bruises of being cast off from the prime of the crop only to be pressure-washed by society and recreated into a unique version of the same thing.
And maybe, just maybe, if they should happen to recognize the same in me, our friendships will be enriched with a new level of appreciation.
After all, a lot happened along life's assembly line to bring us to where we are today.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net .

PRICKLY SITUATION

2010-03-04T22:52:00.000-08:00

By Julie Carter/ Cowgirl Sass & Savvy

There he was, standing in all his glory, and his underwear, with his glow-in-the-dark white skin glaring in the late afternoon sun.
His spindly cowboy legs were still in his boots and his hat and sunglasses were in their places.
He was holding his clothes in his right hand and a set of broken bridle reins in the other.
His wife had been doing chores at home. That was the deal.
With 23 head of horses on the place, give or take a few depending if anyone had hauled any off to the sale, or drug a few home, there was never any shortage of work to be done - feeding or riding.
Each afternoon she takes on the feeding duty while he saddles up a young, green horse to put some miles on before sunset.
It is a good life for them, but it also keeps any dull moments from finding their way to the ranch.
The wife looked up from her work when a pretty bay Hancock filly came in a high lope up the road, still wearing a saddle but without the reins on the headstall and worse yet, without her rider.
Trying not to let fear overcome her, the wife ignored the alarms going off in her heart and in her head. She and the ever-present dog jumped on the Polaris Ranger and zoomed off to find the missing cowboy on the mountain.
Calling his name as she searched the hillsides, she soon heard him holler back at her. As she drove up on the scene, her first words were, "What in the hell are you doing?"
This, by the way, is a phrase of standard dialogue if you are married to a cowboy and one that both parties will use with wild abandon.
There is no good answer to that question in a situation like this, but the cowboy gave it his best effort.
"The filly spooked and when she jumped, I hung a spur in her accidentally," he said "She really went to bucking, and was really getting with it. Then all of a sudden, a rein snapped."
"I tried to pull her around with the other rein to get her stopped," he said. "But it broke, too. Then she was really getting with it and well, she just flat bucked me off."
His wife was obviously concerned for him, as he wasn't a kid anymore and those hard landings take their toll. However, she was somewhat more concerned about why he was standing there on the hillside half naked.
Asking about the obvious seemed called for. "So why are you walking home naked?"
"She bucked me off in a prickly pear cactus," he said as he turned to reveal millions of cactus spears sticking in the backside of his body.
It took his wife and daughter the better part of six hours to tweeze the cactus spines out of his back, arm, leg, head and other assorted assaulted spots.
The pain finally did subside.
However, the humiliation of his plight over those broken bridle reins will last for as long as anyone remembers the story. I'm just doing my part.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net