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

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

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

Into the wild blue yonder.

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

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

CLASS REUNIONS

By Julie Carter

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

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

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

THE POCKET WATCH

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

THE HAT AND THE COWBOY

 by Julie Carter

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

HEADIN' DOWN THE RODEO ROAD

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