THE DAYS OF KOOL-AID SUMMERS

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'COWBOY' IS A PROCESS

 

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WORTHLESS?

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

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

The cowboy went to war

The cowboy went to war

Julie Carter Cowgirl Sass & Savvy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Julie can be reached for comment jcarter@tularosa.net

The Blackberry -- Not just for pie anymore

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cowboy and the skinwalker

The cowboy and the skinwalker

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

It happened on a high desert ranch in Navajo country. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All he could find were the tracks of several coyotes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cowgirls don't cry

Cowgirls don't cry

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy by Julie Carter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those life lessons will always serve her well. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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