Red 113

He was an ornery cuss; I could see it glinting in his eyes and bulging out all over him.  But he was sick and a good quarter mile from home.  I eased the four-wheeler up behind him and his brother, 112, and started moving them back towards the corrals and squeeze chute where I could get some drugs into him and on the path to recovery. 

They both put the moves on me and tried to outwit me, although they didn’t have much energy since it was a very warm afternoon.  I used all the calf-savvy I had and actually managed to get them both home and into the holding pen without either of them splitting off.  That’s when he really turned up the smoke.  He seemed intent on demolishing everything around.  I kept a ready foot up on one rail just in case and sure enough, he came straight for me, head down and moving at what seemed a slick 40 m.p.h. 

“Okay, buster, if that’s how you move, I’ll show you what’s coming down the pipes,” I said.

I medicated him and he tore out of the chute, ready for the next Dodge City days rodeo.  Me, not so much.  I penned him with a bunch of new calves that were still moving slow from being shipped in and figured he could stay there a few days and settle out.

A few days turned into a couple of months, and it was time to clean out the home corrals and send everything to the pasture.  We were running everything through the chute for branding when I heard the gate down the alley getting a real working over. 

Yep, Red 113 again. 

I didn’t quite enjoy branding him, but I might have if I had let myself.  We got ready to load, and I told Bryce, “Watch Red 113.  He’s a bad one.”  Bryce said, “Yeah I saw him already.  I’ll keep clear.”

Everything went jostling up into the trailer in his group, so I went back to get another bunch.  I turned around and things had slowed down a bit up by the trailer; I saw Bryce leaning against the fence a little crooked like and upon a closer inspection, I saw his face wasn’t its usual tan.  He hobbled over to the other side of the alley and lay down in some weeds. 

I finished penning the ones I was working with and went to where Bryce was now up and leaning against the rail. 

“What’s going on,” I asked. 

“It’s that 113,” he said.  “Smashed my leg against the rail.

“Sit back down and let’s look at it.”

“No.”

“Why not?  Come on, let’s take a quick look.”

“No.” It’s not that bad, and besides, I was laying in an ant pile.”

It was worse than he thought.  I took him in and got an Xray.  They said it was a bruised bone.  I hadn’t heard of such before but judging from his hobbling around for the next couple of weeks and the kaleidoscope of colors that shot across his leg, I’m thinking it must have been rather painful and their prognosis probably right.

Every bunch has one or two like red 113.  And you know what?  I suspicion that while they may seem a bit onery or a little hard to get along with, most likely they are the unnoticed geniuses among us.

25 Years

30 years ago, she couldn’t have known much about a sleepy little ag town called Montezuma. 

Perhaps if she had, she would have changed her mind about accepting a teaching position nearby. 

30 years ago, she wouldn’t have known that her life would become forever intertwined with that same community.

30 years ago, she didn’t know of a guy who would watch her walk up to church for the first time, think for a few seconds on her light-yellow dress, and then think of other things, like most young men his age were wont to do.

A little over 25 years ago, she couldn’t have known, that ice cream and chocolate sauce would be a staple ingredient to a happy life, or that brown sugar on cereal is better than white.

Neither could she have known that rattlesnakes would compel the worst sense of panic in her, or that children would be one of her greatest joys. 

And, 25 years ago, she was spared in knowing of pain and heartache.  Of surgeries and the West Nile Virus.

She didn’t know then, but she does much better now, that a garden and yard greenery does not grow as easily in Kansas as it does in Mississippi.

She didn’t know that the phrase in one of the songs on her wedding would be lived out in truth over and over again.

Again, she couldn’t have predicted how each of her strapping sons would have her join them, one in L.A., and one in India, to see what kind of humanitarian work they were doing. Because after all, she was the one who taught them by example, of service to others.

Or she wouldn’t have guessed her sweet daughter had a voice so much like hers, that others couldn’t tell who it was that was singing with the family.

Or that the same daughter can practically outcook her mom these days.

Thousands and thousands of green beans snapped and canned.

Hundreds and hundreds of peaches, skinned, canned, or frozen, and put up for all the rest to enjoy.

Strawberries disappearing, as if by magic by her boys before she could get them processed.

Twisted, inside-out clothes, in a never-ending stream coming from hampers and then from the washer and dryer.

Or the hundreds of young folks who came to her house, and loved it there, because of her.

Or the beautiful daughters who found happiness in her sons.

She couldn’t have known, that a little over 25 years later, she would climb into a small Uber ride in the heart of San Diego and ask that same guy from way back to buckle her seat belt for her.

Because all of that and more, is what love is.

A Shocking Experience

There are times when what you know to be true turns out to be less than true.  But before that split second of what really is truth dawns on you, you are forced to react to what you think is true.  And how you react can sometimes set off a chain of events that are completely unpredictable.    

It all started out predictably enough.  My phone rang and I recognized the number right off.  It was a customer we had worked for before.  I knew his name and I was fairly certain I knew what the conversation would entail. 

“Hello?”

“Hello.  I have some receptacles that don’t work in my kitchen.  Can you come see what the matter is?”

“Yes, we can take a look at that for you.  Right now, our schedule is a bit full, so I’m thinking it will be 4 or 5 days before we can be there.”

“Oh.  I thought you would come to my place right away.”

“We’ll be there just as soon as we can.  Like I said, we are booked up a bit so it will be 4 or 5 days before we can be there.  If we happen to finish the work we have lined up sooner, then we will definitely get to your place sooner.  I’ll give you a call the day before we plan to be there.”

“Oh.  Well, I guess if you are going to make me wait that long I will just have to wait somehow.  I thought you would be able to get here sooner than that.  Don’t you think you could get here a little sooner?”

“No, if I get to your place sooner, then I will make someone else who I have promised already wait longer.  I’ll give you a call the day before we are ready to come to your place.  In the meantime, you are welcome to call around to any other electricians to see if they can accommodate you sooner.”

“Well, there is no one else close enough to call, so I guess if you think it’s going to take that long, then I guess I’ll just have to wait that long.”

So much was true as I had expected it to be.  This customer was known to us for his impatient manner.

***

I few days later, my phone rang with his number again.  I groaned.  I wasn’t quite sure I was ready for another go around of “when can you come to my place?”

But this was a little different than I expected.

“Hello?”

“Hello.  Say, I just got to thinking about how I sounded the other day and wanted to apologize.”

“Oh.  Sure.  Not a problem.  Actually, I’m glad you called.  We are moving along a little faster on our work than I expected and so we plan to be to your place tomorrow morning.”

***

My son and I arrived about 9 the following morning to investigate what the problem was with the receptacles that didn’t work in their kitchen. 

To say that it was a bit awkward, so soon after his apology would be speaking the truth.  But we carried on.  He seemed to feel indebted to us and was continually praising our work, or else apologizing about things that didn’t need apologizing, and trying to help along in any little way he could, which, for me, made it even more awkward and difficult to think about the problem at hand.

We had worked our way around one side of the kitchen, checking for power in the outlets and tracing the flow of it so we could work out were the problem was.  I had made it to the sink and was thinking that there was a good chance this problem could be in the recep (our slang for receptacle) under the sink that powered the garbage disposer.  I hunkered down and partially wedged myself into the tiny cabinet space under the sink. 

I had my voltmeter situated beside me and the probes out in front as I squeezed my elbows together to try to get the probes close enough together to insert on either side of the recep.  I had just inserted them and was trying to get a voltage reading on my meter when it happened.

My helpful, constantly at my side praising/apologetic companion did a number on me.  Unbeknownst to me, he had found a flashlight once I started burrowing under the sink, assuming it would be dark in there.  He was right.  I had blocked all the light off just by squeezing into and filling the opening with my small to mid-sized body.  The flashlight he had chosen to illuminate my work area with was a LED version with a rather bluish white light. 

My friend, see above description of him, had stabbed the flashlight, again unbeknownst to me, into position just beside my right ear.  When he turned it on, there was a sharp click, and a flood of bluish-white light blasted the small interior space that I occupied.

The sound was exactly the right sound, and the color of the light exactly the right color.  My mind told me, from past experience, that I had crossed the phase wire and the neutral wire somehow and had gotten shocked or if I hadn’t, then I had some molten metal that was currently suspended and was fixing to land on my person. 

I reacted to what I thought was true.

I exited backward out of that small space on my knees and elbows, sort of in stinkbug posture, in a blur of backward motion, doing the tata on the hard wooden floor I was on.  Of course, since my helpful friend was standing so close to me at the time of my exposure to his light and sound, my powerful exit strategy hurled me into his knees, almost bringing him to a sitting position beside me on the floor.  Many, many apologies followed from my helpful friend. 

After collecting myself and my wits on two separate expeditions, I retraced my route to try to find the fault in the circuit we were working on.  Somewhere in this time frame, my peripheral vision began to pick up an older woman, whom I knew by name as a local townsperson, walking through the room and into other rooms close by.  I wondered what she might be doing there, as she wasn’t any relation that I knew of, and it seemed her course of travel was rather aimless.  (I later learned that she helped clean their house on occasion.)  I soon dispatched her to the unknown, however, and completely forgot about her.

It seemed this circuit we were tracing was heading towards the basement.  “Yes,” my friend said, “there is a mechanical room right below us.”  We made our way downstairs to the mechanical room.  There was a recep up high on the wall in a rather strange place and I suspicioned I was zeroing in on my problem.  I probed that recep and it checked out okay.  I asked if there was a room adjacent and was told there was. 

I’ll just quick run over there to see if this circuit travels in that direction and be right back, I told them.  The door to the room next was about fifteen feet from the door to the mechanical room and as I approached, I could see it was slightly ajar and the light was switched on inside. 

Voltmeter in one hand, my other swung the door farther open and in a quick motion I was inside and striding towards the wall that had the suspect recep on, which was back the way I had come. 

My ears registered something amiss, but since I was so focused on that recep, I didn’t heed what they were telling me.  And since I figured this recep would be rather high up on the wall to match the placement of the other one, my eyes where elevated to that same level in this room.

I was now in a prime position to experience my second shocking experience of the morning.  My ears seemed to get through a bit to my addled brain and slowed my gait a bit.  They also caused me to lower my eyes from the recep to scan the room in particular.

It was too little and too late. 

My eyes told me that the room was a bathroom. 

They also told me there was an older lady, the local townsperson mentioned earlier, sitting on the commode. 

The next thing they told me was a blur of room and walls and finally, after what seemed a very long spin cycle, a door.  The door whence I had entered and which I was now making for in a most fastidious manner. 

My ears now registered with clarity the sound I had heard milliseconds before.  “Excuse me, excuse me,” from somewhere in the vicinity of the stool, although I didn’t try to verify this with my eyes at all. 

Why the dear lady left the door ajar remains a mystery.  But I know her quandary had to be real to her, as the commode was at least thirteen feet from the door, I was at least half that distance into the room and towards her in a most unseeing and yet seeing all manner, and she had no way whatsoever to hurriedly rise and slam the door shut like she might have been able to, had the room been smaller. 

And I’m thankful unto this day that she didn’t try to rise, in the state of dress that she was in, to try to hasten to the door and shut it, as my path and hers most assuredly would have crossed and there would have been a muffled, tangled collision.  Her only recourse, then, were the desperate excuse me’s I had heard, and those heard only faintly, and in retrospect, as it were.

I went on in faith that the recep in the bathroom checked out okay and told my son and my friend waiting for me back in the mechanical room that we would move back upstairs. 

And indeed, the bathroom recep downstairs must have been in good condition all along, having been there only to play its own little seemingly insignificant part in a string of events that left me, as my son told me later, sort of dazed and in a fog as to what the truth really was. 

But at least my apologetic friend never knew of the calamitous, tumultuous scene played out in the bathroom next door over.

Saturday

I did something Saturday that I have firmly promised myself not ever to do again.

I’m certain enough of it that I’m bringing my deed to the light, and public testimony, so you can help me if you ever see me falling into that trap once more.

One of the sweet daughters was suffering a severe toothache.  Her new hubby needed to get a few more hours in to pay the bills, so the good wife and I offered to find a dentist open on Saturday and take her there.

It so happened that the dentist office she was to visit was very near a disc golf course I hadn’t yet played.

And there was a reason I hadn’t played it.  It was situated squarely on a college campus, and even more squarely amidst the dormitories. 

I got myself over there with courage in my heart.

I chose, for starters, a very windy day to make this first attempt on the course.  That way, if I bombed out, I’d have the wind to blame for all my problems.

My scorecard says the wind was 16 m.p.h.  That might have been what it was blowing when it was the calmest.  I’d say it was closer to 25 m.p.h.

I walked into the first tee with great expectations.  I had this, I told myself.  Forget all the peeping toms.  Hey, even then I saw some window blinds being raised and, I’m sure, looks of incredulity slowly spreading across drool-stained faces that were just then getting out of bed at that late hour.

I grabbed “My Man,” gave him a few words of encouragement, and hucked him on his way straight into the wind.  He must have seen some pretty damsel looking out at him, up there so high in the sky, and decided to put on his best show.  He arced up and away, hit some major turbulence and floated up higher yet, threatening to come back at me.  But he found a hole in all that wind, dived through it and continued on for what seemed an amazing amount of distance against all odds.  I was two over on that hole, but seeing it was the first hole and I was dealing with jitters, not bad.

Hole 2 was across the corner of some horse pens.  I would be throwing sideways to the wind so I aimed generally into the wind with the intention that it would float back again. 

It landed in the horse pen.  I think I heard some titters from the damsel as my man dinged himself up on the railing when he landed.  But I effortlessly tossed from the husks and even more effortlessly sank a 15 foot putt in all of that wind. 

I had this.

Number 3 had me throwing directly into the wind, straight towards a fair-sized pond.  My Man and I counseled on it and decided to throw for all we had, figuring the wind would knock us back from any water related despair.  My heart began to throw a rod when I saw that a large tree was blocking most of the wind, and My Man had no choice but to continue with the plan set in motion.  Until he crested the top of the tree, and the snow plume of Mt Everest caught him and knocked him back and down with a vengeance. 

Things took a while in my ticker to settle down and I ended up scoring badly on that hole.  And I think the damsel gave up on watching.

The next hole was quite sheltered, and I made par on it.

Five was exactly sideways to the wind, and just a across a small corner of the pond.  As sheltered as it was, I was good to go.  My Man took to the skies again for me—and saw another damsel.  That’s all I can figure out.  He broke confidence and spun wildly in the direction of the dormitory. 

Alas for him, and me, his endurance ran out before he could complete whatever mission he on and he splashed very ingloriously into the pond.  The fisherman he landed by seemed a little nonplussed about it all; I wasn’t too worried.  He had landed within a foot of the edge of the pond.  It was only as I made my way around to get him that I became alarmed at what the wind was doing to him.  By the time I got to him, he was 6 feet out and in 2 feet of water. 

The fisherman didn’t know what to think of me jogging right on out, nor of my gasp at the icy cold water, nor of my hasty fling in a most unorthodox manner towards no point in particular. 

Let’s just say things sort of went downhill from there, even though it was uphill to the next basket. 

Because, it was about then I started noticing all the security cameras.  I can’t guarantee they swiveled and tracked my movements, but they sure seemed to be aimed directly at me when I looked at them.

And about then a huge party of college kids, in party mode, were migrating from one dormitory to the other.  I don’t think I could have blended into the scenery if I had tried. Something about my white beard and pudgy belly seems to flaunt themselves in such situations.

Regardless, I told myself I still had a chance at this.  I was in a sheltered area and got ready to set up for my next throw.  Then I saw the party goers peering out at me from the dormitory they had just entered, and my confidence waned decidedly. 

By then, I had switched over to My Sweetie.  She hadn’t done too badly, but after the confidence buster she plowed the dirt directly in front of me. 

As I approached hole 18, I couldn’t help but be honest with myself.  I could tell my throws weren’t reaching very far anymore, and I was pretty sure it was because my morale had slipped.

So, looking over the prospects of 18, it appeared to be a simple save face operation.  A straight shot, with wind, and no obstacles. 

I got started with my x step and as I arced back around, saw the camera peering, or leering, directly at me.  And it was a HUGE camera.

My Sweetie torqued off at a right angle to the wind and direction of 18.  I consoled myself that the wind, which was now gusting ferociously, would bring her back. 

But now it was her time to turn traitor on me, having crushed out desperately on a black Mustang far away in the parking lot.  She landed, and flirtatiously sashayed towards him.  He was having nothing of it and bumped her off the instant she got close. 

She did the typical woman thing and pirouetted to the black Optima just beside to try the jealousy trick.  Her trick wasn’t so well thought out with all the momentum she carried, and I lost sight of her entirely for a while as she rolled under, and out the other side. 

My self-worth hit zero when I saw how far she had rolled out.  I picked her up and turned around to the daunting task of getting her back up and over not only two rows of cars, but the several hundred feet over to the basket.

I slouched off the course, away from all the cameras and hunkered down into my car with a sigh of never again. 

Like I said at the start of this, “Never again.”  I’ve had scores before, the shades of which I dared not share.  This one topped them all.

Written for the other sweet daughter, at whom we drowned ourselves laughing over, when she plastered the tree right in front of her. She can laugh at me now.

Improbable Probability

Whether the title is actually right for this piece, I don’t know.  But it seems like it might attach in some way or another.  And I like it for its distinctiveness, if nothing else.  It’s might be one of those deals where the title is about as good as it gets, and it could all be downhill from here.

I purchased a little electric powered, push propelled RC airplane back in the day.  My thought was that many happy hours could be spent together with the boys, fine tuning our skills, exclaiming over the latest trick learned, etc., etc.  And I will say that we did spend many hours together, and if they weren’t all happy, then some where decidedly exciting, and some particularly somber.

We began tentatively, one cold fall evening.  Luck was with us, and we managed a fairly decent flight for never having flown before.  But we learned very quickly that the dog was also interested in the experiment, keeping his eyes cocked to the sky and the new bird that flew most ungainly, tempting him with near misses (not on purpose of course) and wobbly, unimaginable turns (also not on purpose) towards and away from him. 

We crashed bad on one of the next flights and had to wait long weeks for the expensive parts to arrive.  Once repaired though, we took to the skies again.  On one of these later flights, we learned something that could have been derived from common sense if we had so desired.  Common sense would have told us if the windmills that generate electricity just a couple of miles east of us were whipping around at almost top speed, even if it was dead quiet on the ground, one should keep their prized possession from that altitude.  But common sense didn’t favor us with her flighty presence, and we were left to defend our decisions on our own. 

Once our bird reached that altitude, as of course we had directed her to, she turned tail of her own violation and set course towards O’Hare International with great speed and urgency.  We immediately recognized our dilemma and gave just as urgent inputs and commands to turn her course back towards us.  Which she did, and quite obediently.  Her fine features now facing us calmed us somewhat; it was just a matter of waiting whilst she clawed her way back and down to us.  But a few seconds later, we came upon another realization.  Her fine features were getting distinctly harder to make out, and our ever-faithful sky watching dog, on the ground and below her, was growing more and more remote also.  No amount of pleading and throttle input came to our aid.   

She was getting far enough away, and the light was fading fast, so a decision was made to crash land her.  We could tell our communication was getting a bit fuzzy with her, and that became even more apparent when we tried to dive her down.  She stubbornly refused, knowing injury was sure to happen.  Or maybe it was the air currents she couldn’t overcome.  I’ll give her that much.  Eventually, she found a hole in the atmosphere, and came burning a streak straight for the ground, into the midst of a mostly mature milo field. 

By the time we got to where we thought she had landed, it was dark enough that we had no way of finding her.  One of the boys grabbed the hem of common sense as she pirouetted past us and said, “Hey, give a little throttle.  Maybe we can hear her.”  So, someone did.  But we didn’t hear a thing.  The dog did though.  We could see him cocking his head this way and that, and then suddenly, he went on point in the most beautiful pose one could ever wish for.  He led us right to her and proudly snatched her from the milo’s claws ere she was vanquished by it.  That snatch by the dog about did it for our faithful bird, and she sat for days and months high on a shelf in the garage.

Until one summer day when the boys were out exploring the grounds of their great Grandpa’s farmstead.  They didn’t find much worth bringing home, except one thing.  They found a hand carved boat, carved out of a 2-foot piece of 2 x 6 board some 50 years before their time by their great uncles. 

There were a couple nicks where the chisel had gone through that were easily filled in with water resistant glue. Next, our faithful bird was retrieved from the top shelf in the garage and carefully disassembled.  The power unit, propeller, and rudder were shortened up and coupled together to make one clean power and steer package.  Next it was gently lowered into its newly apportioned housing midship on the boat.  Time was given for the glue to dry and long unused batteries to charge.  A test of all functions afterwards proved all systems were go, and we raced out to a body of water behind our place that was approximately 200’ x 200’. 

With utmost concern for her wellbeing, we lowered her into the water.  Several slow runs were made, and great rejoicing and laughter followed.  Faster and faster became the runs.  Our little clipper fairly danced before our eyes.  Until, that is, the one manning the throttle pulled back too abruptly, and our newly minted clipper become a submarine in the twinkling of an eye.  Evidently, the uncles who carved her, carved in too many dive planes, as we had a hard time blowing enough ballast to get her to resurface.  In fact, she didn’t resurface at all, until someone waded out to her and collected her in their capable hands. 

She was dried out, and with some trepidation we tried her controls again.  All systems were a go!  We sailed her several more times after that, and mostly with great success.

I imagine if that old girl could talk about her life story, she would have quite some exclamations when it came to the telling of how she was created back in the late 60’s, more than likely sailed by hand on some farm pond back then, found in the early 2000’s, refurbished and had a power unit installed, and put to use for the great joy of others.  And I suppose life is a lot like her; in the end we are here for the joy of others, even though it may seem that years go by with nary a glance in our direction. 

I looked for the Fair Lady the other day.  I thought she still sat on a shelf in the garage.  But I couldn’t find her.  I suppose I threw her away one time when I thought it was time to clean up junk.  I wish like everything I hadn’t.  I know if she were still here, I’d make a visit to her now and again for old times sake and the memories evoked.  I guess I’ll idle over to this writing instead from time to time, just as I have today.  Here’s for memories sake . . . Rest easy, old girl.

Touch

I’m not your typical touchy/feely type of guy.

If you get little too close to me, I’ll probably end up backing away a little bit just because of who I am.

That’s not to say the folks whose personal space is decidedly smaller than mine are weird.  Far from it.  I’m quite sure I can learn from them.

There are therapeutic benefits from touch.  I know, because there are those who have touched me at the right moment, and it has made a difference in my outlook pertaining to what I am facing at the time.

But, take a couple weeks ago.  We were at the funeral of my wife’s Uncle. 

Lots of touch going on.

I approached one of my friends there with the intent of offering a few words of sympathy.  Somewhere in our conversation, I rested my hand on his shoulder.  It didn’t feel right to me.  I can only hope he took my intention as good, in spite of it all.

I wonder if there is a standard way of touching someone in situations like that?  Something less awkward, more caring, say.

I’m timid when it comes to touching someone to show I care.

Sometimes it comes out as a bit of a thump on the shoulder, or if it’s my sweet daughter or one of my nieces, maybe a little pinch on their arm.  Such a small thing, I doubt they even know I did anything.  But, it almost always makes tears come to my eyes when I give them a little touch.  Good tears.

And that gets me to the point.  Touch, in the right way is good for a person.

I can vouch for sure to that after this past week.

I was in for my second eye surgery.  This time we knew something was in there because of an Xray we had done, and it was time to get it out.

I was dreading it.  The last surgery had left me sorer in my arms and knees from clenching up so tight than the actual pain in my eye. 

I had a different Doc this time, and so far, I had been fairly impressed with him. 

It was when I was in pre-op (they didn’t make me put on one of those dreadful gowns) that I saw him come into the room.

He came near, visited with me just a bit, and then placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “We are going to take care of you.”

A few minutes later I saw him in the operating room.  We chatted just a bit more, and then, that touch again on my shoulder and a few reassuring words. 

I’m pretty sure that Doc is younger than me.  He wouldn’t have needed to touch me.  In fact, I had sort of accidentally breached protocol, I suppose, when I saw him in the other room by calling him by his first name. 

But in my vulnerable moment, he did.  It made all the difference.

And I hope I can emulate his touch to others in my life.  (Don’t worry, I’m not going into it, wholesale.)

Thank you Dr. Kimple, both for your touch, and for your skill in operating on me.

Worth a Thousand Words

Can’t guarantee it will play for you. If it doesn’t, don’t ask me how to make it work. May cause sensitivity to the eyes and/or stomach.

https://www.dropbox.com/l/scl/AAALHcMiX_QsremzGf6lkGuyoUWh28jx104

Clear Eyed Man

I once thought I’d like to write a post in every coffee shop around the home area, and, branching out, in areas I didn’t normally visit.  It would be a sort of quest for me, like the guy who wants to climb all the fourteeners in Colorado, say. 

But I haven’t made it, even in the first one.  Maybe once I’m retired and have time to sit there and relax a while, so the writing juices can start flowing, it will happen. 

I am branching out a bit, though, this morning, and am going to attempt getting something down while sitting in our room here in Old Town Hotel-Wichita.

So, if it comes out rather disjointed, as some of mine do, perhaps we can chalk it up to immediate surroundings, or the fact that what I’ve been thinking on has been hard for me to wrap my mind around entirely.

Clear Eyed Man.

I’ve known a few of them, and I always find myself gravitating towards such when I sense one nearby. 

And maybe the clear eyed part is a little misleading.  Because it really isn’t so much about their eyes, in a way.  And yet you can see it in their eyes.

What I’m describing to you is a fellow who is uncluttered.  He probably has had every chance for his life to get cluttered, but he hasn’t let it happen. 

He’s the type of guy who doesn’t let the loud opinions one-up him, but he’s just as willing to entertain said opinions in light of the fact that what he holds could possibly use some adjustments.

He looks right on to the thing in front of him, even if that thing is a stinking, dirty assignment that’s just been given him.  And he ties into it and gets it done.

He’s just as soon to offer a rough, work hardened hand to some small hurting animal as he is to give it to his youngest child that’s in distress.

And, he’s just as soon to offer that same hand in gentle, yet firm direction adjustments to those around him, even if it means his standing in the eyes of those around him flinches a bit.

In a word, he’s his own man.  Not dependent or easily flung about. 

What makes him that way? 

It hasn’t been the big things he’s faced, although they play a part, to be sure.  It’s been made up of the little things that grind away at the fiber of his inner being on a day-to-day basis. 

Like when his wife forgets something, and it was admittedly her fault that she forgot, but he takes it as his own, and runs out to get what she forgot. 

Or, when his boy says he told him, and he claims he heard it word for word, how to get to someplace and now he’s way out in the boonies and claims it’s not his fault.  It grinds a little bit deeper, then, because he knows exactly what he told his boy, and he knows he saw his boy deep in thought about something else at the time.  But he takes it in stride, acts like it was his fault, and good naturedly sends out new directions, oblivious to how much time has been lost.

He doesn’t get up in the air about things.  If ever I’m in a storm with a crazy one in the corral, I want one of these men at my back.  It happened once, not long ago, that I was walking back to the box to bring a few more up into the squeeze chute to work when I heard some calm quiet words, loaded with portent- “Watch your back, Dad.” 

Because of my total certainty in the one who said them, I never looked back but rather leaped up the fence that was nearest, just as the ears of the calf behind me grazed the part of the fence where I had been standing.

You’ll know a Clear Eyed Man more by the feeling you get when you are around him than something you actually see. 

And I was lucky enough to stand in the presence of 3 of them this last week as they laid their father to rest.

You know who you are; stay steady, my men.

Stocktanks

Take a look at your typical stocktank and tell me what you see. 

Chances are, if you are looking at one similar to what I am looking at, you’ll see a squat round tank with sides about 2 feet tall.  Likely it will be in the 10-12 foot diameter range. 

Looks rather benign doesn’t it.

But let me tell you, these things can turn diabolical in a split second. 

You would never think it, though, just looking on.

I’ve seen these tanks reduce a grown man to tears when he tries to step across the slippery, snot covered rim to the pen just across, and the foot on the rim flies east, into the water, scrapping his shin all the way down as his body and other leg go tumbling off towards the west in a very unmanly way. 

I’ve seen ‘em take the same grown men and hew them down to a huddled mess with raw, chaffed, and freezing hands gripped between their legs, trying to get a little feeling back in some sort of fashion or another, after chunking heavy pieces of ice out. 

I’ve seen men angrily wipe themselves down after some of the black sludge that is so common to the bottom of these things got splattered all up and down their clean corral clothes.

I’ve had one of these tanks giving me the run around for the past two weeks now.  Seems it knew it was farthest from the place, out where the cold wind blows free, and took advantage of that fact.  It froze itself up, which is common enough, but it went one more and froze the waterline feeding it.  I was stuck with only one option: string out several hundred feet of garden hose to fill it in the meantime.  But it must have had a confederacy going with the garden hose, because even though I had carefully drained it in early fall, now it was frozen solid, forcing me to carry said hose into the house, through the house, and to my wife’s bathtub where I could submerge it in hot water.  It came out clean and thawed, the bathtub, not so much.

These tanks have good points, though.  I’ve ran, halfway gagging towards one to wash off some yellowish/green muck that was as foul smelling as anything I had smelled from lancing an infected area on a calf. 

Or, they serve as impromptu swimming pools for little kids and dogs alike. 

I’ve dipped my hat in them on a hot summer day and scooped a bit of that cool water up on my overheated head, bringing instant relief.

I’ll have to take you down to south Texas, though, when it comes to one of my all-time favorite stock tank stories.

My friend Stanlee has lots of these stock tanks on his yard.  He has to, for as many head as he generally runs.

The part of south Texas he lives in doesn’t get cold like some of the rest of the country does, so getting a waterline to your stock tank is sort of an afterthought.  They don’t worry about getting it down below frost line at all.  Their lines are so shallow, they practically lay on top of the ground in some places.

You don’t see huddled messes of men trying to warm their hands up down there very often.

But, that cold spell we had in the spring of ’21 eventually made its way on down south, although it had moderated a lot by the time it got to Stanlee’s ranch.

It had enough cold left to it, though, that it did a bit of sleuthing around and found a few water lines close enough to the surface to wreck its havoc on.  By the time it was all said and done, a number of those lines had fallen prey to its clutches.

Initially it stopped water flow to critical areas where hundreds, if not thousands, of thirsty cattle were accustomed to drink. 

So, all the hands got busy at keeping those calves watered up.

In a couple days, though, once it started warming back up, a new problem presented itself.  Water started flowing again, just not at all where it used to flow, such as down a pipe.  Now it flowed out at random places all throughout the acreage and the hands had a new challenge: Chase down and ferret out these leaks which were causing such a low-pressure situation back at the main tank.

After several days of fighting this war, it looked like the enemy had been pushed back and they were almost to call it a win.

Except for one last tank that still wasn’t getting water to it.

As Stanlee and his hired hand, Tyler, approached it, they noticed it was drunk down to 2, maybe 3 inches of that yucky black scum that is so common to the bottom of these tanks.

Tyler suggested to Stanlee that now would be a good time to tip that tank up and flop it over to get that junk out, and Stanlee agreed.

Now I know exactly what those men were up against, having been there myself.  You get a heave up going, and you think you’ve about got it ready to flop over when the water that drained away from you smacks the other side and come rushing back at you just like the tide going out and coming back in.

I’ve seen men stand there, bug-eyed and puffed-cheeked, doing their level best just to stay steady until the storm dies down and they can finish what they had in mind to begin with.

Bear in mind that it had been cold down there in Texas, and it just might have been that Stanlee happened to have one foot on a frozen, slippery clod.

Clods, in my mind, have the personality of, say, clods.  But they have the patience of Job and the humor of your worst enemy.  This was your ordinary clod that Stanlee was standing on, and it knew it’s day had come. 

As that water smacked the other side and came back with a vengeance, both men set their feet and got ready to ride it out. 

But the clod just laughed, and at the exact moment, let a bit of itself go, just as Stanlee was giving maximum lift.

Both men had the tank at belt level when the clod did its thing.

What happened next was a simple routine of physics set in motion by the clod. 

Stanlee’s feet slid out from under and ran out behind him since he was straining mightily up and forward against the tank. 

That rim of the tank that has made fools out of way too many of us pulled out it’s ace of spades and played it at the exact moment.

Gouging itself into Stanlee’s midsection, it made itself into a pivot point for what was left of the inertia started earlier when both men had begun their lift.

Since Stanlee’s feet and legs were now quite relieved of their previous weight, they took a quick vacation and looked on while stomach, chest, arms, and all upper body went into an Olympic quality spin/dive, head-first into the tank.

There was such a nice amount of momentum going, that nary a whisker of Stanlee touched the tank as he did his routine, ending with a perfect land, flat on his back, slam down in the middle of the tank and black scum. 

His eyes, bulging with surprise now, rather than strain, stared up directly into the eyes of a very amazed Tyler whose face was not more than 18 inches away, and perfectly aligned with Stanlee’s down below since his hands still gripped the bottom of the tank and it now rested on the ground.

For a few pregnant moments, the thing was too far out to comprehend.  But then, as the irony hit home, it seemed the best recourse was to laugh themselves silly, which they did immediately.

You gotta watch out for those tanks, boys. 

Tuesday

Tuesday of last week was your typical Western Kansas spring day.  Looking ahead at the forecast I noticed we had a cold snap coming in on Wednesday, together with wind.  Lows of single digits and snow they said.  But Tuesday was in the low 70’s and no wind.   

I got started with the day feeding the two pens of calves, and then went to work in the office until lunchtime.  After lunch, I asked Bryce to help me get the group up from pen 4 into the alley so we could sort off a trailer load to haul to the sale later afternoon.

We took our time; it was getting plenty warm to be sorting as big of calves as they were.  We had around 25-28 sorted off and then did a final sort and got a final count of 15 that looked even with each other.  I guessed them in the low 7 weight range, but they turned out to be in the upper 7 weight range.

Because of the weight difference, when we went to load them, they wouldn’t all fit in the trailer.  So, I sent Bryce off with the first load.  Right then Austin called me and asked if I could bring a few parts out to where they were working.  I said, sure, and got on my way. 

Once on the way, though, I realized they were a lot farther out than I expected, and my hopes of getting a round of disc golf in during the golden hours of late afternoon slipped a bit. 

But I poured the coal on down an empty stretch of blacktop and was back about the same time Bryce was from his first load. 

Then I found out he had plans for the evening, so instead of playing the round here in town with the sweet daughter, I switched him and took the last load in myself. 

I kicked those heifers out at the sale barn, grabbed parts from several places in town, dragging the stock-trailer through each narrow parking lot and then slipped over to the high school course for as much of a round as the remaining daylight would give me.

I made it to hole 13 before it got too dark.  As I made my way back to the truck and trailer, I felt my back pocket to make sure my wallet was still there.  I rarely carry a wallet; it felt odd in my back pocket, but it was still there.

I pulled it out of my pocket, threw it in the truck and hopped in.  I made it home in decent time for supper. 

It was a day or so later that I needed my wallet for something and went to get it out of the truck I had used Tuesday.

But it wasn’t there.

I wasn’t so terribly worried as I have lost that thing a few times before, mainly by misplacing it somewhere here in the house.

But finally, by Saturday, I was beginning to wonder were it was.  I had looked in all the vehicles, Jan had looked throughout the house, and nothing showed.

I determined to have one last thorough look in all the vehicles and in the house Saturday morning and if I couldn’t find it, then that was that and come Monday I would need to start replacing what was in it.

As near as I could remember, there was about $6 of cash, three different credit cards, my driver’s license, and a health insurance card in it.  I had checked online Saturday morning to see if there had been any unrecognized activity on the credit cards and there hadn’t been any, leading me to believe that I had brought it in, placed it where I shouldn’t have, and likely it had been hauled out with a load of trash.

Enter Saturday afternoon.

My sweet daughter had called up a bunch of her friends to play disc golf in Dodge, and my good wife said she needed about 2 hours, and, as I later learned, $430.53 at Walmart. 

The weather had warmed back up and it was a beautiful afternoon with very little wind and temperature in the low 50’s.  I could either sit in the car in Walmart parking lot, or I could do something else. 

Since I happened to have a couple of discs with me, one named “My Sweetie,” and the other named “My Man,” it seemed that opportunity was knocking on the car window.  With those two comrades, how could one go wrong? 

I got myself over to the high school course, figuring my daughter and her youthful friends wouldn’t want an old man like me tagging along and hindering progress on the course they were on. 

As I was driving up to the normal parking lot, I thought, “Why not run over to the parking lot you parked on Tuesday and see if your wallet happens to be there.” 

A couple hundred feet away, I saw it, flipped open, there in the rocks.  It had been snowed on, ran over a couple of times, but was still there, waiting for me. 

There was only $1 in it instead of the six I thought I had, but who knows?  Maybe I remembered incorrectly.  If somebody did feel like they needed that $5, I’m sure I don’t mind, since they left the credit cards and my driver’s license.

It could be they got as far as pulling those credit cards out when they saw my grimacing stare from the driver’s license and called it quits right then and there.

Oh.  And my score? It was absolutely horrible.  The shades of its secret are so dark I dare not share it for fear of defilement to young minds.