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.

When They Break

I’ve thought of those words quite a bit lately.  And I’ll confess right here and now that I’m not sure how I’ll end this thing up. 

It may just trail off.

I first heard those words some 12 years ago when we were starting our first calves that we had shipped in. 

Remember, we were/are learning this cattle starting thing from scratch.  When I heard those words, I didn’t know what they meant. 

Now I do. 

Firsthand.

When they break refers to the first subtle signs you see or maybe sense rather than see as you go out to feed your newly arrived calves.

I’ve had it where I knew something was “off” and at the time I hoped I wasn’t right; but I was. 

There is a drug we give when we get calves in to boost their immune system.  This drug has live viruses in it for up to 9 known diseases.  When the drug is given, it wakes up the immune system and tells it to start fighting against the low-grade strain of the virus you have just injected. 

My friend Travis told me those twelve years ago, that “you really need to watch them on day 8 or 9; that’s when they break.”

Meaning, that it takes that long for the drug to really sink home and by then your calf is running a low temp, snotting around and generally feeling like crud. 

I could completely identify with them after getting this covid shot thing.

Depending on outside temperature swings, stress from the truck ride in, and stress from the guy trying to learn how to start calves is how badly this group of calves will “break.”

I’ve had some groups blow right through day 8 and 9 without anything wrong.  And, I’ve had some that completely turned into a train wreck, and we ended up working for free, even paying the bank to keep those groups around. 

When we got Pennsylvania calves in, they broke consistently on day 21.  I asked my friend Sid why the delay, and he thought maybe they were breaking form a virus they had picked up at the sale barn that took 2 weeks to incubate instead of the drug we had given them.  At any rate, it’s enough to kick a guy in the gut when he sees his little pretties all going to pot on the same day, and the dead animal pile gets more and more business.

One of the most heartbreaking scenes is firmly etched in my mind.  We had had an exceptionally cold, wet spring.  As the saying goes, “You can get a calf cold, and you can get a calf wet, but you can’t get a calf cold and wet.”  There were definitely some that got cold and wet that spring.

And the water stayed on in the terrace bottoms of the fields these calves were turned out to graze in.  One by one, those lonely, almost totally gone calves would drag themselves out to that water, lay down in it, and die. 

It was gut wrenching. 

I can’t imagine what kind of a fever they must have been running to go lay down in water.  You never see a calf or cow lay down in water. 

And they had been vaccinated until each of them was a walking medicine dispensary.

It had long ago ceased to be an issue with me about the money involved with those poor folks. 

My one and only concern was to try to keep them comfortable but even at that I was failing miserably.

In the end, as the saying goes, ‘Only the strongest survived.’

Did I learn anything from it? 

Maybe.

I’ve changed some of the drugs we use, but that is no guarantee; probably more than anything, it changed me.

And perhaps that is the most important thing to have happen when they break, no matter if it is calves or a day generally gone south, or some huge thing you know you have to wade through, as long as the changes are for the good. 

Shoulder Trouble

I took a nasty fall the other day.

But to be a little more exact, the other day of which I speak occurred a bit over nine years ago now.

I remember it just like it was the other day, though.

The boys and I were a couple months into building our house, and it was a cold, drizzly November day.  I was no more than three feet off the ground, nailing on the facia board to the eave of the garage.  The board was warped just a bit, and I was pushing, off to the left of myself and up, as much as I dared. 

This put a slantwise strain on the ladder I was standing on, and due to the fact that one of its legs was perched on a partially frozen clod of dirt, did the deed that I wasn’t quite prepared for.

That leg of the ladder skittered off the clod, and the whole ladder bounded out to my right.  Since I had both hands on the board, up over my head, and since I was only three feet off the ground, I didn’t have a lot of time to prepare for a soft landing and slow taxi afterwards. 

I caught a vivid glance of myself lying on my left side in the air above ground, and the ladder lying on its right side as I came in for landing.

Something felt like it snapped in my left shoulder, but I sat up and flexed my arm and shoulder and didn’t feel anything really, so I got back to work.

Until an hour later.  Then it became obvious that I couldn’t lift my hand or arm above shoulder height without hearing myself gasp a little. 

But the show had to go on.  We had some guys coming over the next day to help sheet the roof and we needed to be ready for them.

The next day didn’t go so great.  Every time I handed up a 4×8 sheet of roof sheeting to the guys on the roof I kept hearing myself gasp.  And I noticed I was somehow getting those sheets up there mostly with my right arm and a bit of a jump to launch it the rest of the way to the waiting hands above.

Nights were crazy.  I couldn’t roll over without reaching over with my right arm and lifting my left arm over to where I wanted it. 

Getting the mail was the worst.  I’d reach my left arm out the pickup window like always and about halfway out, my shoulder would visit with me in no uncertain terms.  And after said visit, I would always reach my right hand over to hold up and push my left arm the rest of the way out to the mailbox.

A couple of weeks later we were visiting a neighboring school to listen to their Christmas program.  My shoulder was fairly uncomfortable, sitting and listening to that program.

A thought ran across my mind and left its footprints very clearly imprinted.

“You should pray that your shoulder will be healed.”

I thought, okay, I’ll do that when I get home.  The brother of the first thought made himself just as clear when he said, “No, right here.”

I argued back that I was listening to a program.

“That’s okay, you can slip a prayer in anywhere you want, and God will hear it.”

So, I prayed there.  Nothing fancy or special, just a quiet little thought that God would heal my shoulder in his time and way.  I also included that I wasn’t sure why I was praying here but surely, He would understand.

And then nothing happened, except the program came to an end and we went home.

After a couple more weeks of this, we made a doctor appointment to see what was going on.  He had me do some exercises for him.  He said I still had a nice amount of strength in that arm, but he suspicioned a torn rotator cuff.  He wanted to give me a steroid shot which he said would narrow it down to that or a case of inflamed ligaments. 

I said sure, go ahead.

Until I saw the length of needle he had on his syringe.  Shots or blood hasn’t been a huge thing to me; this one looked like it might be a thing.  I consoled myself that he had an extra length of needle on there that he didn’t plan to use. 

He told me he had to find the right place for this shot and would need to get it into the middle of the joint. 

Mmmhmmm. 

I watched as all two inches of that needle disappeared.  I didn’t care at all for the sensation it gave me when he depressed the plunger.  It felt like my whole shoulder was going to explode.

But that didn’t give the instant relief he said I would get if I had the inflammation problem.  So, it was over to the hospital for an MRI.

I had never had one of these done on me before and was interested in the process.  But I started noticing things; like that the door to the room had three hook and eye latches all connected to the main bar.  And that the door itself was a good 4 inches thick.  And that the guy had the heat turned way up in there for some reason. 

I took a look into the tunnel where he planned to cram my sweet body down, and asked, “Do you ever have folks up and leave right in the middle of the process?” 

“Yeah,” he said.

I calmed myself with memories of all the times I had to slither into the bowels of the combines I worked on, in far less comfortable circumstances and far less clearance than this as I was motorized into that tunnel on a hard, very flat table.

I was told not to move in the least and that this would take 30-45 minutes.  I was also told he could see and hear me if I had trouble, but that he would have to shut the whole process down and unlock the door if I hollered.

I’m convinced that machine messed with my guts.  I could feel them moving in all different kinds of ways when I heard the sound of the testing equipment move down my body.

And it kept getting hotter and hotter in there and my shoulder was really talking to me by the end.

Finally, it was done, and we went to Wichita for a surgeon to look at the MRI and to tell us of what procedure he wanted to use.  He told us it was definitely a torn rotator cuff and we scheduled surgery for a couple of weeks out.

I had wondered, off and on, about that prayer I had prayed some 6 weeks earlier.  I guess I figured that it had been answered one way or another and I was mostly fine with that.  Now, though, as I was facing surgery for the first time in my life, and a little bit scared of it at that, I did begin to wonder why it hadn’t been answered in a way that prevented what I was about to go through.

I was a week away from surgery and really dreading it.  Not only the surgery, but also the recovery time, which looked to be around six months.  I wasn’t sure how the cash flow was supposed to keep flowing during that time.

One evening especially, I was thinking a lot about it all.  As I got ready to take my shower, a thought just as clear as the one instructing me to pray said, “Lift your left arm up.”  I was walking into our bathroom when I had that thought, and on impulse I lifted my left arm up, expecting it to complain like it had all along about the time it got level with my shoulder. 

But it didn’t complain at all.  And it kept on going up, all the way to the top of the door jam I was standing under.

I was so amazed, I walked out to the family and said, “Look at my arm!” I shot it up to the ceiling and my good wife’s jaw dropped quite a ways, almost to the floor.

We didn’t know what to do, with surgery only a week away.  Was this for real?  We scheduled a quick appointment with the doctor and the next day I went into his office and met his questioning look.

I told him I thought something had changed with my shoulder.  He said, “Yeah, I knew it had before you told me, by the way you took your jacket off.  What happened?”

I asked, “Do you believe in prayer?” 

“Yes,” he said, “That answers everything right there.” 

I asked him if he thought it might be a short-term thing of sorts.  “No, you are healed,” he said.  “I’ll text the surgeon up right here and cancel your appointment.”

To be honest, his faith was greater than mine at that point.  But, nine years later, my faith doesn’t shake anymore. 

Every once in a while, there is a click in that shoulder when I lift my arm.  I smile at the little reminder from the One who likes to let me know He is the one who heals all things and I say a little prayer of thanks right then and there regardless of where I’m at or what I’m doing.

Happy Place

(I didn’t write this, but since the one who did is some close kin of mine and I am rather fond of them, I thought I’d let it run in place of my post today. She seemed a bit bashful about including her name.)

Sitting at the front desk at the cancer lodge was a favorite job of ours. Seeing friends come and go during their weeks and months of treatment made it that way. Seeing their bravery and endurance left an indelible impression.

“Happy” walked into our lives one morning. He was a cowboy of sorts. It doesn’t really matter whether he wore a cowboy hat, or if it’s a figment of my imagination. He wears one in my mind, a slightly worn black one, set atop his grey hair. His throat and neck were burned a deep, purplish red, the skin, tissue paper thin and wrinkly. We knew nothing about him, except that he was taking radiation treatments, was a bit gruff and rough, and was always alone.

Sauntering by the desk on his way in or out, we’d often see him gulping something from a small medicine like bottle with an RX. “Codeine,” he’d rasp. His voice always rasped or whispered, thanks to the radiation on his neck and throat.

One day, while signing out of the building, he casually drawled that he was going out to play the lottery. We teased him by hinting that he could share his winnings. His cowboy boots clomped away in the distance, on the way to his hoped for good luck. During his stay, we heard of his “going to win the lottery” a lot.

We also loved him a lot.

Eventually, the day came when his treatments were finished and he could go home. He announced he was going uptown to collect his winnings of $40. We found him later, sitting in the library, writing on something spread out on the table in front of him. Noticing us in the room, he gave a jolt of surprise, quickly turned over whatever he was writing, and gruffly ordered, “Get out of here!”

We got out of there, a bit surprised.

Later he came and found us having our lunch. Huskily, he said a few words of farewell and handed us an envelope. As the clomp of his boots faded down the hall he turned around, flashed an ‘I Love You’ sign with his rough, weathered hand, and walked out into the autumn day.

We looked at each other, realizing the envelope was probably the same one he’d been writing on in the library. Inside was a card in which was scrawled-

“Thanks for being a friend. Happy”

Tucked inside the card‐ his win of $40.