by Baxter Black
→ I felt sorry for myself when I had no hat, till I met a man who had no . . . Wait a minute, that’s not right.
→ Vet prognosis: Those that linger have a better chance than those that die right away.
→ Whoever named the Dumb Friends League has dang sure punched a few cows.
→ If you are not generous when you can afford to be, it marks you as a small person. That is not the same as being generous with somebody else’s money. That’s merely being cheap.
Jack is a real person and just like I describe.
JACK’S CREATION KIT
I can remember the first time I saw Jack. It was then I realized that human beings came in kits . . . ready for assembly.
I appreciate the blessings I’ve been given: a sense of humor, a good . . . no, uh, a full . . . no, uh, a quick . . . no, uh, a sense of humor. So please don’t think I’m ungrateful.
I can watch a good veterinary surgeon C-section a heifer in twenty minutes and admire her. Although it does bring back a surge of memory wherein I’m stripped to the waist on a windy knoll, my knee in the incision to keep the intestines contained, wielding a four-inch suture needle and ten feet of umbilical tape whipping in the breeze. But it doesn’t bother me.
I can attend a horse-training class in which the trainer takes a twelve-year-old Belgian/Arab stallion that’s never been touched by human hands, and in fifteen minutes, that same horse will be driving a crew cab pickup with manual transmission. As I listen, I see flashbacks of lashing lunge lines, broken poles, steel panels bent double, concrete posts upended, rope burns on the palm of my hand, and the emergency room ceiling. But I’m not jealous.
At rodeos, good ropers effortlessly cast their silken strings around speeding beasts while visions of tangled lines, duck-out horses, balky steers, dust clouds, and thumbs the size of Polish sausage flit through my mind. But I feel no envy.
Everybody’s good at something, I always say. But when I saw Jack standing on the stage with a guitar in his hand, he looked like a Greek statue of Hercules. Broad across the shoulders, narrow at the hip, tall, a face chiseled from marble, and a full head of hair. Surely, I thought, he can’t sing.
He opened his mouth and a deep booming operatic note came rolling out. Well . . . the guitar must be a prop. Then he played a rippling set of passing chords up and down the neck. I soon found out he was a magnificent songwriter, sincere, God-fearing, modest, and impossible to dislike.
It was then I realized human beings came in kits. Each kit with equal parts comes trundling down the giant assembly line in the sky. My kit had the misfortune of being next to Jack’s.
“Let’s make this one special,” said the angel in charge. “Let’s give him calves like ostrich thighs. Where can we get ’em? How ’bout this box? He’s supposed to be a cowboy poet. He won’t need calves or shoulders, or hair for that matter.
“Jack needs a voice that sounds like heaven’s announcer. We can take most of this poet’s vocal cords and just leave him a big nose. He’ll get by. . . .”
So by the time Jack and I reached the finish line, together we had the makin’s of two complete average humans. But they’d robbed so many parts out of my kit to build Jack, he was really one and a half humans and I was made out of what was left.
Seeing us side by side, it’s easy to understand the kit theory of creation. Sort of like comparing the king of the jungle, a magnificent lion, with a hyena-anteater cross.
Oh well, I kinda like ants.
I never expected this story to generate such incendiary mail, e- or otherwise. It was as if I had trampled something sacred. In my defense, it was an innocent observation, as in “Look, the emperor is buck nekkid!”
CAVE PAINTING
So there I was, taking a snapshot of my brother-in-law. He was standing in front of drawings on a cave wall. The cave was isolated, well hidden, inaccessible, and not known to many twenty-first-century travelers.
We had been told the paintings were thought to be centuries old. It was easy in this lonesome place for me to imagine a band of nomadic Native Americans living or at least summering in this high mountain condo.
The wall motif showed humans hunting a variety of hooved, ring-tailed, and horned beasts across the rocky face. I appreciated the sanctity of what I was witnessing, but a question kept burbling up in my mind like indigestion. Why were early painters of western art such bad artists?
The warriors’ hands looked like branches on a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Their feet resembled those on a camera tripod. The elk, deer, or moose looked like sawhorses with mangled TV antennae for antlers. What I assumed to be bears could easily have been armadillos, abandoned tires, old disk blades, a carpet remnant, or elephant spoor on a Tanganyika airstrip.
It was puzzling to me. I have a second-grader. He draws people with hands. Granted, they look like potholder gloves, but they resemble hands much more than the ones in the cave painting do.
I have observed that in every group of thirty or forty people (however many a clan is), there are a few who have a natural ability to carry a tune, some who can shoot straight, some who are good with dogs, and some who can draw.
Were there no cave painters who knew which way legs bent, who could depict the shape of a buffalo, a foot, or an antler? Was it because they were forced to use the tar-and-broken-limb medium? Were they limited by the size of the canvas? Was the lighting always bad?
It has been pointed out that drawing is an art that must be refined. Realistic depiction must be learned. I guess that must be true, though it still seems to me you could raise Frederic Remington or Norman Rockwell in the wilderness, give them a piece of charcoal, stand ’em in front of a cave wall, and get a more accurate representation. Shouldn’t there be some inherent ability?
The real truth is probably more shabby. The chief’s daughter always fancied herself an artist, but all she could draw were stick figures. The chief decreed that no one should draw better than she, and it stuck. So the real native artists turned to turquoise, silver, and beadwork, and waited for Charlie Russell to come along and paint them realistically.
Or is this something an art history major would know?
I have logged jillions of miles on airplanes in pursuit of entertaining the agricultural masses (I give humorous speeches for a living). I put myself in the care of those professionals in the cockpit. And to their credit, I have made an equal number of takeoffs and landings.
SPRINGTIME FLYING
I’ve had occasion to fly in lots of small planes. They don’t bother me. I always put my faith in the pilots and let ’em do their job.
However, over the years I’ve developed some caution when I fly over the western plains in springtime, especially if I’m under 35,000 feet. They have some monumental weather in that swath of country, from Amarillo north up through the Dakotas. Tornado season, ya know.
One bright spring morning several years ago, I boarded a little six-seater in Chadron, Nebraska, on a milk run headed for Denver. I was the only passenger and I took the backseat. On boarding, I noticed the pilots’ luggage in the compartment behind my seat. One bag was open. They set my hangin’ bag on the floor behind their stuff.
I strapped in, and took out a book. The pilots were young men. They gave me the brief safety instructions, and off we went, headed south.
As we leveled out, I could not help but notice the giant wall of black clouds to my right. They rose farther than I could point. The flight was bouncy. The copilot kept checking on me. Suddenly a vertical clearing of sunlight split the storm clouds. The plane banked into the clearing. They were going to try for the scheduled landing in Alliance.
From the cockpit dashboard, pencils and sunglasses flew my way. The pilots’ giant black book of maps of every airport in the world broke open and filled the air. Over my shoulder I could hear the bags bangin’ around. . . . T-shirts, Fruit of the Looms, and a Stephen King novel issued from the luggage compartment. A lone dirty sock snagged on the seat back in front of me.
Once the plane was under control, the copilot leaned back and asked about my health. “We’re going to bypass Alliance,” he said, “and Sidney doesn’t look good either.” He was the color of Cream of Wheat.
I looked back to the east. I could see all the way to Philadelphia.
“North Platte’s right over there,” I said, pointing.
We landed in North Platte in 52 mph winds. That’s where I spent the night.
Jerry said one spring he caught a ride from Valentine, Nebraska, to Winner, South Dakota, with an Irish engineer named Joe. It was Joe’s airplane. The weather was springtime rough, and Joe’s plane didn’t give Jerry much confidence.
When he climbed in the four-seater, he noticed Joe was wearing a parachute. “You got another one?” Jerry asked.
Joe said, “Don’t worry, you prob’ly won’t need one.”
And speaking of airplanes . . .
CHAMPAGNE FLIGHT
Steve and Penny, good seedstock breeders from Iowa, made a trip to Hawaii to check out the thriving cattle business in our fiftieth state.
Through an oversight (she says he forgot; he says it involved the International House of Pancakes, Slobodan Milosevic, and the air traffic controllers’ handbook), they were forced to purchase first-class round-trip airline tickets. They had to take their youngest out of college to pay for the trip.
They spent several days observing the big ranches on the island of Hawaii, loading feeder cattle on ships for U.S. and Canadian destinations, and making new friends.
Upon boarding for the return flight, they and the other passengers watched a Very Important Person and his entourage create a scene. He was a mid-forties hawkish-looking man with slicked-back hair pulled into a ponytail off his balding forehead. Dark eyes, gold earring, cream suit, black collarless shirt, and a diamond ring big as a dinner roll led some to think he was either a drug kingpin or a maître d’ at Caesars Palace. Steve thought he had seen him at the sale barn in Winterset, but he wasn’t sure.
This VIP insisted on boarding first. He bustled about his seating area, 1D—first seat on the aisle on the starboard side. He had also purchased the adjoining window seat upon which he laid his lizard skin briefcase, tungsten alloy featherweight laptop, gold lamé cell phone, and compact sound system. While all were boarding, his six vassals loaded in coach. He held up the departure to complete an important call. The entire first-class section heard him say, “Paint it robin’s egg blue.”
Once they were en route, his behavior was demanding, arrogant, and snotty. The passengers around him felt sorry for the flight attendant who took the brunt of his abuse. She managed to get the surrounding passengers accommodated cheerfully between the VIP’s outbursts and complaints about the turbulence, bitter coffee, mediocre champagne, cheap silver-ware, thin blankets, and monotonous view.
Meanwhile, Steve and Penny had been rat-holing the plastic forks, unused napkins, and extra packages of nondairy creamer. The flight attendant also presented them with a bottle of champagne she had unwired but never opened. (“I’ll put it in the overhead storage up front. You can pick it up when you leave.”)
“The captain has lighted the seat belt warning for landing. Please remain in your seats.” The plane descended from 35,000 feet into the Los Angeles airport. At precisely 1,100 feet above the runway, a gurgling, fizzing gusher poured from directly above the VIP. A Niagara of champagne sluiced from the overhead compartment along the leading edge, cascading over his hairdo, down his neck, and onto his seat.
He was screaming, trying to cover his head and unbuckle his seat belt. The flight attendant leaped to his side. She held him firmly beneath the foaming waterfall, insisting repeatedly, “You must remain seated for your own safety.”
He spluttered and squinted as she did her duty. Only once did Penny see her smile, but fellow travelers were observed in various displays of mirth, from covered-mouth giggling to Steve’s braying like a mule and pounding the back of his seat.
As they were debouching, the flight attendant apologized to Steve and Penny about their bottle of champagne. “The change in pressure must have popped the cork,” she explained, suppressing a guffaw.
“Actually,” said Steve, “we’re not big champagne drinkers anyway. I’m glad you found another use for it.”
Some customs cry out for further elaboration. After all, the hubcap began as a lug nut cover.
THE BUTTERFLY WEDDING
A new phenomenon is upon us . . . the butterfly wedding.
Butterfly breeders offer boxes of monarch butterflies to brides and mothers of brides. They arrive chilled and are warmed up for the big moment, then released in a golden cloud. It is very romantic and fairly expensive.
For those on a smaller budget, the moth wedding might be more appropriate.
This wedding takes place in the dark with the bride wearing a coal miner’s helmet. The reheated moths are released, and the bride switches on her headlamp. For an extra ten dollars, the helmet can be fitted with a bug zapper, so the light show can be augmented with sound effects.
As this wedding fad begins to spread, I can see entrepreneurs reaching out beyond the traditional butterfly-kissin’cake ceremony.
Imagine those sturdy folk all around the Great Lakes marrying off their daughters in a fish wedding.
It could take place in knee-deep water on the edge of a cranberry bog. Or in a hockey arena down on the ice: Choreographed just as the groom says, “I do,” the entire audience in the hockey rink grandstand would repeat, “Ya, he does,” and throw a six-pound mullet over the glass barrier.
The wedding party would be up to their halibut in seafood. The bride could toss a can of tuna to the expectant bridesmaids, and the best man would be clad in a rented tux and snorkel.
Not to be outdone, the Society for Fun with Fungus would offer toadstool weddings. The bride and groom could exchange ringworm, and truffles would be served at the reception. The wedding cake would have lichens on the north side.
It’s not that those weddings haven’t been done. I can remember reading about motorcycle weddings, skydiving weddings, scuba weddings, cowboy weddings, and spelunker weddings, for example. All flamboyant, planned by the couples primarily to get their picture in the paper.
But the butterfly wedding strikes me as a little less ostentatious. Beautiful but not garish.
Yet even the butterfly nuptials might be too showy for some. They could opt for a quieter theme, such as the elegant pollen wedding, the classic cheese wedding, or a subdued ceremony featuring dental floss.
Although there’s no guarantee, you can never tell about some of those wild dental hygienists.
Most of the dances I’ve been to, I was playin’ in the band. But dancin’ with my wife, Cindy Lou, is one of my life’s greater joys.
LAKE VALLEY
A friend of mine said, “Happiness is a honky-tonk parking lot full of Texas license plates!” I’ve got to say, I know what she means. They say people from Montana will use any excuse to have a party! I can vouch fer that, but Texans are right up there with ’em! What you’ve got to remember in Texas, though, is everybody dances in a circle. It’s like a skating rink. It’s easy to get the hang of it once you’ve learned to do the two-step.
I grew up dancin’ in New Mexico. They dance the same as Texans. The first Saturday of every month, they’d have a dance at Lake Valley. Lake Valley was a ghost town ninety miles from home. The ranchers and their wives would put on the dance. It was always packed! They would start at nine, and they held it in the old schoolhouse. Ol’ man Doolittle played the fiddle and stayed up by the blackboard. Anybody that wanted to could “set in” with him.
The old board floors would give under your feet, and it was always a little dusty. Little girls would dance with each other if the little boys were out of reach. Grandpas would dance with daughters, and proud young bucks would dance with their mothers or sweethearts. It was grand!
They didn’t allow firewater inside, so those with a mind to would make an occasional trip to the pickup. I remember those clear nights, the silvery stars, the high sounds of “Maiden’s Prayer” sailin’ on the breeze, and happy people’s laughter comin’ through the open window of that ol’ schoolhouse.
I notice in my travelin’ that they’re still playin’ some of the same songs ol’ man Doolittle played. Most honky-tonk bands will slip in “Faded Love,” “San Antonio Rose,” or “Double Eagle” somewhere before the night’s over.
By the way, if you wanna polka—I mean really polka!—get up there somewhere between Glendive, Montana, and Winner, South Dakota. They really get my feet to tappin’.
I guess, when you think about it, music is good for your soul.
“Bachin’” (as in bachelor) on a cow camp requires the occasional trip to town to do chores, i.e., buyin’ groceries, tobacco, and parts, gettin’ the mail, and doin’ the laundry. It should be routine.
DOIN’ THE LAUNDRY
Some days it doesn’t pay to do the laundry. C.D. and Howard were stayin’ out at the ranch and had built up a pretty good pile of dirty clothes. C.D. loaded it all in the pickup, weighed it down with the toolbox, and took off for town.
A month of start-and-stop drivin’ around the ranch had resulted in carbon buildup in his diesel, so he took the opportunity on a long stretch of gravel to blow it out. He had it up to seventy and was watchin’ blue smoke and gravel spread out behind him like the rooster tail on a speedboat.
Just then a gust of wind blew his hat off. He reached over to retrieve it off the right-hand floorboard. When he looked up, the road was swervin’ out from under him as it curved to meet the highway blacktop. He bounced over the bar ditch out into the sagebrush, still in control. It was then that Lady Luck pulled the tablecloth out from under his dirty dish. He hit a concrete culvert . . . head on. It stopped him like a tree trunk stops an arrow!
