By Julie Carter
In my book, fall is about as perfect a season of the year as any of the four.
It is the time when all things that make cowboys, rednecks and assorted combinations thereof the very happiest.
At the ranch, it's payday time. Cattle buyers resurrect from out of nowhere and all eyes, ears and cell phones are on the markets.
Whether the crop is yearlings or fresh-weaned calves, every year is a new episode of "let's make a deal."
The blooms on everything green, nurtured by summer rains and sunshine, are at their peak of beauty.
Flowers abound both in the yards and thanks to the rains this year, also in the fields and on the hillsides.
While your cowboy might not be big on posies, I guarantee you he's happy with the tall grass and practically gleeful over the fat cattle lying in that grass, bellies full and hides licked slick.
The camouflage corps have their binoculars focused and their weapons of choice tuned while they dream dreams of the perfect hunting season(s).
Let a hint of crisp slip into the morning air and hunters everywhere trade in their hammocks and barbeque tools for game calls and camping gear.
Cattle trucks start rolling down the highways between the ranches and the wheat fields or feedlots.
Every small-town café has a parking lot periodically filled with flatbed pickups pulling stock trailers along with other pickups loaded with 4-wheelers, coolers and all the trappings of a Cabela's made-to-order hunting camp.
Here in the Southwest, throw in the smell of roasting green chiles to complete the fall ambiance and life is just about as perfect as you can get it.
If that isn't enough to paint a picture of the best of the year, add to the mix some pre-season football that seamlessly morphs into a regular season of high school, college and professional games.
Whether football is your "thing" or not, the onslaught of sports-mania permeates the air, unsurpassed by anything including politics.
Neighbors helping neighbors to get all the fall cattle work done is a jewel in the crown of ranching.
Calendars are full of marks on dates for the ranch up the road, the ranch down the road and another one an hour or so away.
Those days will be dedicated to the time-honored custom of "neighboring" -- where the work and the fun, and there is always some of that, is shared with folks that know you'll be there when they need an extra man, horse and help.
Now is the time for all good men ... and horses, dogs, kids and ranch wives ... to rise to the call of long hours, dusty corrals, sunrises that bless the "waiting on daylight" mornings, rattling trailers, ready ropes, the smell of sage and cedar, hot coffee poured from a campfire pot and the camaraderie of cowboys working a vocation they wouldn't trade for anything.
The life is not all that glamorous or romantic, but it does have an intangible something that anchors men's souls to the land.
Whether they own it or hire on to be part of it, it transforms an occupation into a belonging and an existence into a passion for living.
Julie, steeped in fall nostalgia, can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net
Sunday, September 12, 2010
HAVE YOU MET A LEATHERMAN?
by Julie Carter
Back in 1975, a man named Tim Leatherman was traveling through Europe on a shoestring budget in a cranky car with leaky pipes.
It was during this trying time he birthed the idea of pocket survival tool. That tool today is known simply as a "Leatherman."
By 1977 the tool had taken on a rough form and in 1980 "Mr. Crunch" was patented.
Through the '90s and with more than 200 employees, new and better designs were released setting the standard in the all-purpose pocket tool industry.
For those of you that are still in the dark ages, the Leatherman tool is a fold up tool that incorporates all the following tools in one handy frame: Needle-nose pliers, regular pliers, wire cutters, hard-wire cutters, clip-point knife, serrated knife, diamond-coated file, wood saw, scissors, extra small screwdriver, small screwdriver, medium screwdriver, large screwdriver, Phillips screwdriver, can / bottle opener, wire stripper and lanyard attachment.
In the West, the land of "real men carry pocket knives", the Leatherman phenomenon was at first slow to catch on. A Leatherman was deemed pretty pricey for a pair of pliers, and "I already have a good knife" made it easy to blow off the multipurpose handy for anything tool.
The tool would sometimes show up under the tree for a Christmas gift and promptly end up in the drawer next to the initial embroidered hankies and ugly boxers.
In the meantime, the world knew something we didn't. Other tool companies began manufacturing acceptable, affordable imitations of the revered original. Gerber, Seber, Sears and an assortment of companies not proud enough to even put their name on the tool, flooded the market in every shape size and color.
Someone even put a teensy version on a key chain, handy for nose picking and nail cleaning.
Then it happened. Some "real" man dared to show up in the branding corral with one of the versions of that "fad" on his belt, neatly snapped in a little case.
He used it to pull cactus out of a horse's leg and change the needles on a vaccine gun. He loaned it to a kid to use for a cooking utensil while they cooked calf fries on the branding iron burner. He twisted and tightened the wire on a gate that was doubling as a hinge. He tightened a screw in the emasculators and popped open the lids on an assortment of things.
That amazing day of demonstration opened the eyes and the dresser drawers of those "real men with pocket knives." No longer did they break the good blades on their high dollar pocket knives prying and digging with them.
No longer did they have to stick their heads under the seat of the pickup breathing unmentionable kinds of dust to find that pair of pliers or a wrench they knew was there somewhere.
Today it's standard equipment on more belts than not. The women wear them or carry them in their purse. You will see the daintiest and most delicate of well-coiffed, finely garbed ladies slip a Leatherman from their fine leather purse and go to work with the tool like she'd been doing it forever.
The list of uses is as varied as the number of tools all hooked up into that one handy dandy tool.
There are stories of lives being saved, babies being birthed and legendary feats all because of a Leatherman.
Tomorrow when you strap yours on your hip, know it just might go down in history next to Smith and Wesson.
Julie can be reached from comment at jcarter@tularosa.net
Back in 1975, a man named Tim Leatherman was traveling through Europe on a shoestring budget in a cranky car with leaky pipes.
It was during this trying time he birthed the idea of pocket survival tool. That tool today is known simply as a "Leatherman."
By 1977 the tool had taken on a rough form and in 1980 "Mr. Crunch" was patented.
Through the '90s and with more than 200 employees, new and better designs were released setting the standard in the all-purpose pocket tool industry.
For those of you that are still in the dark ages, the Leatherman tool is a fold up tool that incorporates all the following tools in one handy frame: Needle-nose pliers, regular pliers, wire cutters, hard-wire cutters, clip-point knife, serrated knife, diamond-coated file, wood saw, scissors, extra small screwdriver, small screwdriver, medium screwdriver, large screwdriver, Phillips screwdriver, can / bottle opener, wire stripper and lanyard attachment.
In the West, the land of "real men carry pocket knives", the Leatherman phenomenon was at first slow to catch on. A Leatherman was deemed pretty pricey for a pair of pliers, and "I already have a good knife" made it easy to blow off the multipurpose handy for anything tool.
The tool would sometimes show up under the tree for a Christmas gift and promptly end up in the drawer next to the initial embroidered hankies and ugly boxers.
In the meantime, the world knew something we didn't. Other tool companies began manufacturing acceptable, affordable imitations of the revered original. Gerber, Seber, Sears and an assortment of companies not proud enough to even put their name on the tool, flooded the market in every shape size and color.
Someone even put a teensy version on a key chain, handy for nose picking and nail cleaning.
Then it happened. Some "real" man dared to show up in the branding corral with one of the versions of that "fad" on his belt, neatly snapped in a little case.
He used it to pull cactus out of a horse's leg and change the needles on a vaccine gun. He loaned it to a kid to use for a cooking utensil while they cooked calf fries on the branding iron burner. He twisted and tightened the wire on a gate that was doubling as a hinge. He tightened a screw in the emasculators and popped open the lids on an assortment of things.
That amazing day of demonstration opened the eyes and the dresser drawers of those "real men with pocket knives." No longer did they break the good blades on their high dollar pocket knives prying and digging with them.
No longer did they have to stick their heads under the seat of the pickup breathing unmentionable kinds of dust to find that pair of pliers or a wrench they knew was there somewhere.
Today it's standard equipment on more belts than not. The women wear them or carry them in their purse. You will see the daintiest and most delicate of well-coiffed, finely garbed ladies slip a Leatherman from their fine leather purse and go to work with the tool like she'd been doing it forever.
The list of uses is as varied as the number of tools all hooked up into that one handy dandy tool.
There are stories of lives being saved, babies being birthed and legendary feats all because of a Leatherman.
Tomorrow when you strap yours on your hip, know it just might go down in history next to Smith and Wesson.
Julie can be reached from comment at jcarter@tularosa.net
KIDS DON'T GET TO PICK THEIR PARENTS
By: Julie Carter
Name your event - football, basketball, baseball, track, rodeo, livestock shows and the occasional beauty pageant or bake-off - and if it involves kids, you will find their parents embarrassing them.
I'm not talking without knowledge. I am a parent and I had parents. We have all been embarrassed about or by each other at one time or another.
Fortunately, it wasn't ever because of our behavior at a competition event.
My folks were not shouters, screamers or blame assigners. To this day, I'm grateful for their dignified rooting for the home team at ball games and other public possibilities for a display parental pride.
There were then, and still are now, plenty of others willing to take up the slack in the "make a fool of yourself" department.
As school administrations buckle down for another year of pushing academic excellence along with their individual attempts at molding our children into productive citizens, I fortify myself for the "bleacher coaches" that haunt every sporting event.
Even from the sidelines, where I move up and down the periphery of the event to photograph it, I cringe at the level of crude audacity some parents find necessary to use to promote a team.
There doesn't seem to be a magic formula to make adults act like adults, let alone expect them to rein themselves in enough to not mortify their child while he or she is competing. You know who you are.
Call me an advocate for your children because they are stuck with you, I am not. For those that insist on assigning themselves the task of re-educating coaches and referees, I will suggest that a healthy dose of chill pills be your prescription of choice along with frequent deep breaths of restraint.
The sigh of relief you hear will be from your child (and the guy sitting next to you).
The sparkling smile you are flashed from the floor or field will be signatory of the gratitude from a very relieved child.
As a side note, if the guy next to you smiles like that, he probably hopes you aren't going to eat that hot dog you set down so you could jump and holler. He'd actually, really like to eat it.
We are the examples for tomorrow's leaders. Think about that when you shuffle to the top of the bleachers this weekend to take in some sun, canned nachos and a hometown, home team ball game, high school rodeo or volley ball game.
It matters not if your athlete wears a cowboy hat and swings a rope, or is suited up in layers of red, blue, black or orange synthetics snugged over plastic armor with a football under his arm; they will do the best that they can possibly do at any given moment.
Ask no more of them, because your incessant rants at the referees, judges, and coaches etc., will not make the difference.
No one will be harder on your athlete than they will be on themselves, so please, don't pour your toxic terseness on the scene and expect it to manifest victory just because you called it so.
Your relationship with your child is a team sport. Save yourself from yourself and let your teenager find the joy of the competition without fear eating out the pit of his stomach knowing he may have to watch his parent be escorted from the game by security personnel.
If this admonition made you angry, then it was for you.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net, or at the next high school football game.
Name your event - football, basketball, baseball, track, rodeo, livestock shows and the occasional beauty pageant or bake-off - and if it involves kids, you will find their parents embarrassing them.
I'm not talking without knowledge. I am a parent and I had parents. We have all been embarrassed about or by each other at one time or another.
Fortunately, it wasn't ever because of our behavior at a competition event.
My folks were not shouters, screamers or blame assigners. To this day, I'm grateful for their dignified rooting for the home team at ball games and other public possibilities for a display parental pride.
There were then, and still are now, plenty of others willing to take up the slack in the "make a fool of yourself" department.
As school administrations buckle down for another year of pushing academic excellence along with their individual attempts at molding our children into productive citizens, I fortify myself for the "bleacher coaches" that haunt every sporting event.
Even from the sidelines, where I move up and down the periphery of the event to photograph it, I cringe at the level of crude audacity some parents find necessary to use to promote a team.
There doesn't seem to be a magic formula to make adults act like adults, let alone expect them to rein themselves in enough to not mortify their child while he or she is competing. You know who you are.
Call me an advocate for your children because they are stuck with you, I am not. For those that insist on assigning themselves the task of re-educating coaches and referees, I will suggest that a healthy dose of chill pills be your prescription of choice along with frequent deep breaths of restraint.
The sigh of relief you hear will be from your child (and the guy sitting next to you).
The sparkling smile you are flashed from the floor or field will be signatory of the gratitude from a very relieved child.
As a side note, if the guy next to you smiles like that, he probably hopes you aren't going to eat that hot dog you set down so you could jump and holler. He'd actually, really like to eat it.
We are the examples for tomorrow's leaders. Think about that when you shuffle to the top of the bleachers this weekend to take in some sun, canned nachos and a hometown, home team ball game, high school rodeo or volley ball game.
It matters not if your athlete wears a cowboy hat and swings a rope, or is suited up in layers of red, blue, black or orange synthetics snugged over plastic armor with a football under his arm; they will do the best that they can possibly do at any given moment.
Ask no more of them, because your incessant rants at the referees, judges, and coaches etc., will not make the difference.
No one will be harder on your athlete than they will be on themselves, so please, don't pour your toxic terseness on the scene and expect it to manifest victory just because you called it so.
Your relationship with your child is a team sport. Save yourself from yourself and let your teenager find the joy of the competition without fear eating out the pit of his stomach knowing he may have to watch his parent be escorted from the game by security personnel.
If this admonition made you angry, then it was for you.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net, or at the next high school football game.
TRAPPED IN THE QUAKIES
Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter
I let my cowpony pick his own path through the deadfall as we worked our way down a steep slope toward the cattle at the bottom of the canyon.
It was late summer at the ranch, but in this high mountain pasture signs of fall were already creeping through the aspens. Their heart-shaped leaves were wearing tones of gold as they shimmered and fluttered in the afternoon breeze, true to their "quaking" name.
The incline became arduous, and if I'd been older or wiser, I might have thought I should be fearful. The loose leaves that had fallen on the ground and the slick black soil still wet from a rain the night before complicated the already precarious descent.
The downed timber lay every which way like a game of Pick-up Sticks gone bad. In my youthful oblivion, I whistled a tune while the big bay methodically navigated his way through the quakies.
When the angle of the terrain forced him to slide, he worked athletically to keep his butt up under him in an equine sort of squat. He never wavered in his determination to get where we needed to go.
He knew there were cattle at the bottom, the same as I did. Sometimes the "cow" in cowhorse is an instinct more powerful than self-preservation.
Gathering yearlings for fall shipping was an adventure with my Dad. Especially so in this pasture, as it involved some overnight camping in an old log cabin complete with lanterns, wood-stove cooking and fresh trout from the creek.
Waking early to saddle when the dew was still heavy and the sun was just making it's first shadows in the long canyon was the stuff of Zane Grey and old Western movies.
On this day, I was to learn a lesson that would serve me all my life. Before I realized what had happened, Bay and I were at the bottom of small crater-like hole near the base of the ridge.
We had literally traversed our way right into a trap. The sharply inclined sides of the crater were littered with fallen trees, an undergrowth of shrubbery and turf that was slick and nothing short of treacherous. Coming down that maze of obstacles was one thing, going back up looked impossible.
Immediately, I realized two things. No one knew exactly where I was, so help may not come anytime soon. And, I could walk out of there, but that meant leaving my horse, an option I wasn't ready to consider.
For a while, I hollered for help, feeling more than just a little foolish. I sat quietly for another long while, hoping to hear any noise that would indicate that maybe Dad had found me, if he was looking. I wasn't even sure about that.
It was several hours later before my horse's head snapped to attention, his ears forward and he rumbled out a low nicker of a greeting.
I could hear timber cracking and brush popping as someone hollered at the cattle I could hear running through the trees. So I hollered a little myself, and in response, my brother and my dad were soon peering at me over the edge of the hole.
My Dad quickly assessed my dilemma while my brother started to offer some smart-alecky comment before my Dad could send him on after the cattle. It was obvious my Dad was trying not to laugh at me and obviously refraining, perhaps knowing I was already feeling pretty stupid.
Looking back, I know there were days we were more trouble to him than we were help, and this was quite possibly one of them.
Not one for explaining much, he told me to get off my horse and tie his reins around his neck. I did, and then he told me to climb on out of the hole. I didn't want to, but obeyed, thinking I was leaving Bay there to die and it was my fault.
When I got to the top, my dad turned his horse and began to ride away. He told me to follow him afoot. I was mortified that he'd just ride off like that, but knew better than to argue.
My bay gelding decided there was no way he was going to get left behind. He began an Olympian effort to pull himself up the slope, over the logs, and in spite of the mud. There were dreadful noises of grunts, groans and crashes. I turned to see what was happening just as he appeared at the rim of the hole. Apparently, just like my Dad knew he would.
The lesson? What seems hopeless isn't remedied by trying to holler up a solution. Some well-placed wisdom flavored with a touch of obedience could possibly offer a successful resolution.
Dad's are pretty smart that way.
I let my cowpony pick his own path through the deadfall as we worked our way down a steep slope toward the cattle at the bottom of the canyon.
It was late summer at the ranch, but in this high mountain pasture signs of fall were already creeping through the aspens. Their heart-shaped leaves were wearing tones of gold as they shimmered and fluttered in the afternoon breeze, true to their "quaking" name.
The incline became arduous, and if I'd been older or wiser, I might have thought I should be fearful. The loose leaves that had fallen on the ground and the slick black soil still wet from a rain the night before complicated the already precarious descent.
The downed timber lay every which way like a game of Pick-up Sticks gone bad. In my youthful oblivion, I whistled a tune while the big bay methodically navigated his way through the quakies.
When the angle of the terrain forced him to slide, he worked athletically to keep his butt up under him in an equine sort of squat. He never wavered in his determination to get where we needed to go.
He knew there were cattle at the bottom, the same as I did. Sometimes the "cow" in cowhorse is an instinct more powerful than self-preservation.
Gathering yearlings for fall shipping was an adventure with my Dad. Especially so in this pasture, as it involved some overnight camping in an old log cabin complete with lanterns, wood-stove cooking and fresh trout from the creek.
Waking early to saddle when the dew was still heavy and the sun was just making it's first shadows in the long canyon was the stuff of Zane Grey and old Western movies.
On this day, I was to learn a lesson that would serve me all my life. Before I realized what had happened, Bay and I were at the bottom of small crater-like hole near the base of the ridge.
We had literally traversed our way right into a trap. The sharply inclined sides of the crater were littered with fallen trees, an undergrowth of shrubbery and turf that was slick and nothing short of treacherous. Coming down that maze of obstacles was one thing, going back up looked impossible.
Immediately, I realized two things. No one knew exactly where I was, so help may not come anytime soon. And, I could walk out of there, but that meant leaving my horse, an option I wasn't ready to consider.
For a while, I hollered for help, feeling more than just a little foolish. I sat quietly for another long while, hoping to hear any noise that would indicate that maybe Dad had found me, if he was looking. I wasn't even sure about that.
It was several hours later before my horse's head snapped to attention, his ears forward and he rumbled out a low nicker of a greeting.
I could hear timber cracking and brush popping as someone hollered at the cattle I could hear running through the trees. So I hollered a little myself, and in response, my brother and my dad were soon peering at me over the edge of the hole.
My Dad quickly assessed my dilemma while my brother started to offer some smart-alecky comment before my Dad could send him on after the cattle. It was obvious my Dad was trying not to laugh at me and obviously refraining, perhaps knowing I was already feeling pretty stupid.
Looking back, I know there were days we were more trouble to him than we were help, and this was quite possibly one of them.
Not one for explaining much, he told me to get off my horse and tie his reins around his neck. I did, and then he told me to climb on out of the hole. I didn't want to, but obeyed, thinking I was leaving Bay there to die and it was my fault.
When I got to the top, my dad turned his horse and began to ride away. He told me to follow him afoot. I was mortified that he'd just ride off like that, but knew better than to argue.
My bay gelding decided there was no way he was going to get left behind. He began an Olympian effort to pull himself up the slope, over the logs, and in spite of the mud. There were dreadful noises of grunts, groans and crashes. I turned to see what was happening just as he appeared at the rim of the hole. Apparently, just like my Dad knew he would.
The lesson? What seems hopeless isn't remedied by trying to holler up a solution. Some well-placed wisdom flavored with a touch of obedience could possibly offer a successful resolution.
Dad's are pretty smart that way.
Friday, August 6, 2010
THE YOUNG GUNS HAVE ARRIVED
by Julie Carter 
He was only about 3 feet tall - boots, hat and all. He stood looking through the rails of the arena fence as his daddy and three other cowboys rode into the arena, pulling their hats down tight and shaking out their ropes.
His little brother played in the dirt on the ground behind him, driving a toy truck and trailer through freshly built "roads" headed toward a tiny stick corral. His interest in the arena was intense, but only for short periods of time. He had "work" to do.
It was ranch rodeo time, in the infancy of the sport as a competition. That was 20 years ago.
Today, both those little cowboys are grown up.
The older one rides into that same arena with his britches tucked in the tops of his boots, a trendy shape to his straw hat and a cocky grin on face.
The other, sitting solid in the saddle on a horse that isn't as calm as he is, wears a look of serious competitive intent.
A cousin rides in next to him, followed by a friend that rounds out the team of four.
The game is on. The young guns have arrived and before the day is over, they will have proved themselves a force to be reckoned with.
Ranch rodeo is a family sport as much as any has ever been. As it evolved through the years, the youngsters of the early days fell eagerly into the footsteps of their fathers, holding out for the day they too could participate.
Father and son, father and daughter, husband and wife, cousins, brother-in-laws, father-in-laws and any other assorted family connection possible, team up, enter up and in the spirit of competition, spend a day roping, riding and hoping to claim a little of the prizes at the end of the day.
Youth ranch rodeo hit the scene some years back, serving to fine tune the young buckaroos into competition-ready young adults.
A cowboy with a baby on the saddle in front of him during the warm-up or after the rodeo is a common sight. Before long, that same baby is the toddler at the arena fence shouting "Go Dad," with all his might.
The family dynamics at any event make it a kinfolk reunion as much as a rodeo competition. There will be several family patriarchs and matriarchs watching the events and being greatly entertained as they observe different branches of the family compete against each other, young and old.
There isn't much left out here in the West that keeps families connected like they were 50 years ago.
The few remaining big family ranches maintain a connection through the work they do, but this venue for ranch family playtime has added a new dimension.
Whether the "kids", taking in all ages from 9-60, arrive from the ranch, from a titled job, a college campus or anywhere in between, it all comes together in the competition.
Watching brothers rope and load a steer into a trailer with the same banter and sibling "encouragement" going on as would happen in the middle of a four-section pasture, takes "reality" entertainment to a new level.
And that little cowboy I saw last week standing on the fence rail hollering encouragement to his dad?
He'll be a third generation ranch rodeo cowboy and with any luck, his old dad might be given a spot on the team.
Julie has been watching ranch rodeo for two decades and still loves the next one just as much as the first one. Reach her for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net
He was only about 3 feet tall - boots, hat and all. He stood looking through the rails of the arena fence as his daddy and three other cowboys rode into the arena, pulling their hats down tight and shaking out their ropes.
His little brother played in the dirt on the ground behind him, driving a toy truck and trailer through freshly built "roads" headed toward a tiny stick corral. His interest in the arena was intense, but only for short periods of time. He had "work" to do.
It was ranch rodeo time, in the infancy of the sport as a competition. That was 20 years ago.
Today, both those little cowboys are grown up.
The older one rides into that same arena with his britches tucked in the tops of his boots, a trendy shape to his straw hat and a cocky grin on face.
The other, sitting solid in the saddle on a horse that isn't as calm as he is, wears a look of serious competitive intent.
A cousin rides in next to him, followed by a friend that rounds out the team of four.
The game is on. The young guns have arrived and before the day is over, they will have proved themselves a force to be reckoned with.
Ranch rodeo is a family sport as much as any has ever been. As it evolved through the years, the youngsters of the early days fell eagerly into the footsteps of their fathers, holding out for the day they too could participate.
Father and son, father and daughter, husband and wife, cousins, brother-in-laws, father-in-laws and any other assorted family connection possible, team up, enter up and in the spirit of competition, spend a day roping, riding and hoping to claim a little of the prizes at the end of the day.
Youth ranch rodeo hit the scene some years back, serving to fine tune the young buckaroos into competition-ready young adults.
A cowboy with a baby on the saddle in front of him during the warm-up or after the rodeo is a common sight. Before long, that same baby is the toddler at the arena fence shouting "Go Dad," with all his might.
The family dynamics at any event make it a kinfolk reunion as much as a rodeo competition. There will be several family patriarchs and matriarchs watching the events and being greatly entertained as they observe different branches of the family compete against each other, young and old.
There isn't much left out here in the West that keeps families connected like they were 50 years ago.
The few remaining big family ranches maintain a connection through the work they do, but this venue for ranch family playtime has added a new dimension.
Whether the "kids", taking in all ages from 9-60, arrive from the ranch, from a titled job, a college campus or anywhere in between, it all comes together in the competition.
Watching brothers rope and load a steer into a trailer with the same banter and sibling "encouragement" going on as would happen in the middle of a four-section pasture, takes "reality" entertainment to a new level.
And that little cowboy I saw last week standing on the fence rail hollering encouragement to his dad?
He'll be a third generation ranch rodeo cowboy and with any luck, his old dad might be given a spot on the team.
Julie has been watching ranch rodeo for two decades and still loves the next one just as much as the first one. Reach her for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net
HUSBAND SITTER
By Julie Carter
Word recently came that the Husband Sitter had left town and Ineta was back in the spotlight as the fulltime recipient of her spouses attention. The demands were wearing her patience thin.
"What's a husband sitter?" you ask.
What would normally seem to be an awkward situation when Ineta's ex-husband and her current husband, Daryl, re-instituted their long-standing friendship. In reality, it was a convenient brotherhood on many levels.
Ineta's definition of a husband sitter is: Constant companion to validate every comment, complaint, and action of the husband. Who better to do that than an ex-spouse of the current wife?
Daryl and the Husband Sitter were team ropers. Daryl had a flourishing but time-consuming business to run, so he needed help to keep his considerable collection of rope horses ridden and tuned as well as seeking a steady practice partner. Putting the Husband Sitter on the payroll to do that job made perfect sense, as least to Daryl, and certainly to the Sitter, who preferred that to any structured, "real" job. You recall that I mentioned that he's a teamroper.
Only someone with Ineta's sense of humor could look at the situation, laugh at it and actually enjoy the fact that Daryl had a friend to go play with, leaving her some freedom to do other things.
After all, as she pointed out, the Husband Sitters job description including being available at all times to keep the husband company.
The Husband Sitter was in charge of all the "honey-do chores" the husband couldn't or wouldn't do and no errand was too menial for him to accomplish.
He tuned and trained the rope horses; saw to it that they were fed, vetted, shod and ready to haul.
He frequently chauffeured Daryl's rig and horses to ropings that were days and statelines away, meeting Daryl at a nearby airport when his private plane landed.
Other times, he was steady company for Daryl on all the long road trips.
Evening television was a bonding sport for Daryl and his Sitter. They liked to watch the same cop shows, Westerns and hours of RFD TV. Like two kids at a matinee movie, they'd sit and laugh or discuss the programs as they aired.
The Sitter also provided for a ready and willing breakfast, lunch and dinner partner. He was available to be a constant drinking companion and conversations about the "old days" could be repeated frequently without a note of "I've already heard that."
In deference to a testosterone related malady that causes exaggeration and expansion of the feats related in the "old stories," the Sitters job required that he never doubted the facts as presented. He also knew there would be only one storyteller and it wasn't him.
The benefits for Daryl were many. He had a built-in "Wife Complaint Department."
Since the Husband Sitter was on the payroll, he automatically always agreed and usually limited his comments to, "I know what you mean."
When the drinking partnership was in play, the Sitter could be known, to Daryl's delight, to add a few observations of his own.
Details of the broken partnership are sketchy, but Daryl seems to be content not to have to complain about his former Sitter, which sounded much like his complaints about his wife. A pattern may be emerging.
Much to Ineta's relief, already a new Husband Sitter is in place and this time, one that has not shared any "family" history.
The concept of a Husband Sitter isn't really as unusual as it may sound. Tell the story a few times and you'll almost always get a return story of equal or better value.
Human nature is entertaining when we step back and let ourselves look at ourselves.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net . For those interested, Walmart will soon offer a "husband sitter" section located next to household goods
Word recently came that the Husband Sitter had left town and Ineta was back in the spotlight as the fulltime recipient of her spouses attention. The demands were wearing her patience thin.
"What's a husband sitter?" you ask.
What would normally seem to be an awkward situation when Ineta's ex-husband and her current husband, Daryl, re-instituted their long-standing friendship. In reality, it was a convenient brotherhood on many levels.
Ineta's definition of a husband sitter is: Constant companion to validate every comment, complaint, and action of the husband. Who better to do that than an ex-spouse of the current wife?
Daryl and the Husband Sitter were team ropers. Daryl had a flourishing but time-consuming business to run, so he needed help to keep his considerable collection of rope horses ridden and tuned as well as seeking a steady practice partner. Putting the Husband Sitter on the payroll to do that job made perfect sense, as least to Daryl, and certainly to the Sitter, who preferred that to any structured, "real" job. You recall that I mentioned that he's a teamroper.
Only someone with Ineta's sense of humor could look at the situation, laugh at it and actually enjoy the fact that Daryl had a friend to go play with, leaving her some freedom to do other things.
After all, as she pointed out, the Husband Sitters job description including being available at all times to keep the husband company.
The Husband Sitter was in charge of all the "honey-do chores" the husband couldn't or wouldn't do and no errand was too menial for him to accomplish.
He tuned and trained the rope horses; saw to it that they were fed, vetted, shod and ready to haul.
He frequently chauffeured Daryl's rig and horses to ropings that were days and statelines away, meeting Daryl at a nearby airport when his private plane landed.
Other times, he was steady company for Daryl on all the long road trips.
Evening television was a bonding sport for Daryl and his Sitter. They liked to watch the same cop shows, Westerns and hours of RFD TV. Like two kids at a matinee movie, they'd sit and laugh or discuss the programs as they aired.
The Sitter also provided for a ready and willing breakfast, lunch and dinner partner. He was available to be a constant drinking companion and conversations about the "old days" could be repeated frequently without a note of "I've already heard that."
In deference to a testosterone related malady that causes exaggeration and expansion of the feats related in the "old stories," the Sitters job required that he never doubted the facts as presented. He also knew there would be only one storyteller and it wasn't him.
The benefits for Daryl were many. He had a built-in "Wife Complaint Department."
Since the Husband Sitter was on the payroll, he automatically always agreed and usually limited his comments to, "I know what you mean."
When the drinking partnership was in play, the Sitter could be known, to Daryl's delight, to add a few observations of his own.
Details of the broken partnership are sketchy, but Daryl seems to be content not to have to complain about his former Sitter, which sounded much like his complaints about his wife. A pattern may be emerging.
Much to Ineta's relief, already a new Husband Sitter is in place and this time, one that has not shared any "family" history.
The concept of a Husband Sitter isn't really as unusual as it may sound. Tell the story a few times and you'll almost always get a return story of equal or better value.
Human nature is entertaining when we step back and let ourselves look at ourselves.
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net . For those interested, Walmart will soon offer a "husband sitter" section located next to household goods
TRY TO REMEMBER...OR WAS IT REMEMBER TO TRY??
 |
| Into the wild blue yonder. |
Someone found it necessary to make and share a list of the advantages of living past the age of 50, or 60 and climbing to 70.
I tend to believe that every day above ground is a good day, but there are other perks to hanging on to life in the second half of your century of living. I'm also an optimist.
1. Kidnappers are not very interested in you. I find that to be absolutely true. I have never been kidnapped nor even threatened with abduction. In fact, the only reference to it that was ever made in my lifetime was by my dad. His comment was something about having pity for the kidnappers. Age doesn't seem to be the real factor in this one.
2. In a hostage situation, you are likely to be released first. See No.1 for references.
3. No one expects you to run, anywhere. Speed takes on a more relative definition with each passing decade.
4. People call at 9 p.m. and ask, "Did I wake you?" I have yet to be able to answer, "yes" to this query because I have a teenager in the house.
5. People no longer view you as a hypochondriac. Instead, one has to learn the polite art of not monopolizing the conversation with long, detailed renditions of aches, pains and remedies.
6. There is nothing left to learn the hard way. However, I keep testing that theory daily.
7. Things you buy now won't wear out. The Maytag man never considered that he might never see you again when he promised that the new washing machine he just delivered would last you 25 years.
8. You can eat supper at 4 p.m. or breakfast at noon. This holds true if you are unemployed, single and living alone.
9. You can live without sex but not without your glasses. Enough said, except to note, well ... never mind.
10. You get into heated arguments about pension plans. That may have changed with the recent political black cloud that came over people's plans for retirement. There is no edgy humor here.
11. You no longer think of speed limits as a challenge. In fact, you no longer think of them at all. That may indicate more habit than age.
12. You quit trying to hold your stomach in no matter who walks into the room.
Bulkier sweaters, "big" shirts, and jackets allow breathing. Oxygen is so much better for your health than holding your breath.
13. You sing along with elevator music and the designated "oldies" radio station is your "home station" while driving anywhere. There is comfort in knowing the words to the songs if you don't dwell on the fact that they were on 45s when they were first popular.
14. Your eyes won't get much worse. Refer to No. 9 and buy reader glasses in bulk at Sam's or Costco.
15. Your investment in health insurance is finally beginning to pay off. The medical industry keeps inventing more tests to run on us to make sure that happens.
16. Your joints are more accurate meteorologists than the national weather service. While that's not actually saying much, it's true. The "weather knee" is a valuable indicator and every old timer has a good story to go with it.
17. Your secrets are safe with your friends because they can't remember them either. It takes several friends to keep a good rumor going.
18. Your supply of brain cells is finally down to manageable size, if I could just remember what to do with what I have.
19. You notice that you are drawn more and more to things written in big print and you have learned the keystrokes on the computer keyboard to make the font on websites bigger.
20. You can't remember where you saw this list before and why you thought it was funny at the time.
Enjoy today, whatever the age. Tomorrow is not promised. Now, where are my glasses?
Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@tularosa.net.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)