Horseshoes, Cowsocks & Duckfeet

by Baxter Black

  “Yup,” he said, “I do what I have to to build her self-esteem.”

  We’re talkin’ abnormal affection here.

  EDSEL’S TRUCK

  They say that dogs often take on the behavior of their owners. Chuck loved old vehicles, especially trucks. They rusted pretty quick in the heat and humidity of southeast Texas, so finding one whose body was in good shape was like striking gold.

  His wife, Judy, didn’t mind his harmless collecting. The ranch had lots of places to park old trucks, and his hobby was a reliable source of amusement for her over the years.

  Enter Edsel. A year-old German shepherd pup who could not pass the rigid registered-breed physical exam. He showed a tendency to hip dysplasia, and his ears would not stand up straight. The softhearted breeder had him neutered and gave him to Chuck, who gave him the name in honor of that crack in Ford Motor Company’s good judgment that had a life span shorter than a cream pie in a food fight.

  Edsel adopted Chuck’s love for old vehicles. He and Chuck would walk out to the pasture littered with molding REOs, IHs, Studebakers, Caminos, Model A’s, Power Wagons, and Chevys. They would pull open a door and climb up in the cab with its bare springs, crystallized glass, wooden crates, and grass growing up through the floorboards. They covered many an imaginary mile on quiet afternoons.

  One day, they had a visitor in a sleek, racy, low-slung Cadillac DeVille. The ranch driveway was gravel with water-diverting speed bumps. They parked in front of the house and came in. Seeking muffler contact or warmth or shade, who knows, Edsel crawled underneath the Caddy. When the visitors went to leave, they heard a yowl! Thinking they had hit a dog, they jumped out. They had managed to high-center Edsel between the car and the speed bump. He couldn’t budge. It took a bumper jack and two Vienna sausages to get him out from under.

  Chuck came home one day with a “fairly good” 1940 black Ford pickup, with the intention of fixing it up. Edsel shared his enthusiasm. Although the windshield was out and it wouldn’t run, the wheels still turned and the hood ornament was intact. Dear Judy refused to be persuaded to join him, but Chuck would have his son chain up the old Ford with his tractor and pull him around the yard. Actually, out on the highway occasionally. Judy said it was a sight to see: Chuck at the wheel, smiling serenely, and Edsel in the passenger seat, tongue lolling, nostrils flaring, and ears blown straight up in the steady breeze as they circled past the kitchen window, around and around. Edsel developed a deep attachment to the truck. He began sleeping in it and storing bones in the bed.

  Alas, one day, a neighbor took a liking to the ’40 Ford and offered Chuck more than it was worth. The problem of the dog came up. They worked it out. Chuck retained joint custody and visitation rights, and Edsel stayed with the truck. And, until Edsel went to dog heaven, on pretty afternoons you might see a tractor pulling an old ’40 Ford pickup down a Harris County road with a man and a dog ensconced in the seat, a picture of contentment. Out on a date, some might say.

  JACKSON HOLE FIRES

  Nature is relentless—sooner or later it bites you in the backside and takes back its own.

  That’s what kept running through my mind as I listened to dramatic reports of forest fires threatening multimillion-dollar homes in the Jackson Hole, Wyoming, area. What a tragedy it would have been had any firefighters been injured or killed defending those homes.

  It is the casual arrogance of modern man that allows us to build in floodplains, forested plots, sandy beaches, earthquake faults, tornado alleys, and lava flows.

  In ancient history, man built in dangerous places but often out of ignorance. Nowadays, we intrude ourselves on risky ground, fully informed of the danger. Yet we blithely charge on like the Russian roulette player.

  One cannot criticize the need for humans to expand and settle. And natural catastrophes can occur anywhere on the planet. Yet it does seem that common sense eludes many of our choices. Our ego overrides the wisdom of old-timers.

  These last two decades have seen an influx of suburban dwellers moving to the country. Many quiet rural communities have been “invaded” by city folks seeking a more pastoral environment. But rather than fit in, they wind up rebuilding their previous environment, which is mostly concrete malls, fast food, Wal-Marts, and theaters. They have an expectation of the protective, service-oriented technology to insulate them from inconvenience, even if their property is only a summer home.

  And, it’s not such a bad thing, this trickle-down decadence. The original residents of these rural communities benefit. They like having an espresso or “TCBY” now and then. But there was a reason bear hunting was allowed, roads were closed in winter, the swamp was drained, they all had cellars, or brush was cleared. And no one built houses in the bottom of the arroyo, on the mudslide hill, or in the deep woods.

  I’m sure those homeowners in Jackson Hole were warned . . . not by the real estate developers, the chamber of commerce, or contractors, but by the spit-and-whittle seasoned natives who live in trailer houses, ranches, and thirty-year-old houses in town.

  So when the big fire came, the new homeowners were the only ones who were surprised, and, as usual, their expensive ill-placed monuments to modern man’s arrogance were saved to burn another day.

  Which, some might say is inevitable, unless they can start paving the area right away. Because, although nature does bide its time, it is relentless. However, this summer’s lesson will not go completely unlearned. I expect we will see some of these homes on the market soon, as soon as they can get the smoke out of the curtains.

  Being raised in Las Cruces, New Mexico, and presently living forty miles from the frontera in Arizona, I am steeped in the Mexican culture. Furthermore, making my living in agriculture, I can appreciate the immigrants’ enormous contribution to the “cheap food” policy closely guarded and maintained by the U.S. Congress. These workers are responsible for more than just the jalapeños in our cornucopia.

  HISPANIC AGRICULTURE

  “I’m concerned that more Hispanics aren’t going into agriculture as a profession.” So spoke my old friend Buddy, who is Hispanic himself. He was president of the state Ag Chemical Association. He has three grown children, none of whom show any interest in their dad’s or granddad’s agricultural livelihoods.

  I have given this phenomenon much thought since our discussion, and I keep coming back to the same reason for it: Maybe most Hispanics associate agriculture with hoes. They want to be as far from the reminders that their parents, grand-parents, or great-greats came across the border and spent their lives in toil.

  In a recent survey of the one hundred most influential Hispanics in American business, 77 percent of which were descended from Mexico and Cuba, not a single one had an agricultural affiliation. Over 50 percent were included in government; the majority of the rest were evenly divided between corporate business or were entrepreneurs. These findings certainly confirm Buddy’s assertions.

  I grew up in the Southwest. My home county is 65 percent Spanish-speaking. I have a great respect for Mexican immigrants, legal or illegal. They have traits I admire: ambition, bravery, self-control, stamina, and a desire to improve their condition. I like to think if I was trapped in hopeless class prejudice and economic oppression, I’d climb a wall or swim a river, too.

  Mexican labor has been the backbone of southwestern agriculture for centuries. As it has been for every other race of immigrant people, it is the first generation in a family that bears most of the burden and suffers the perils, the drudgery, the fear, and prejudice.

  Even today, Mexican immigrants are mostly poor rural people. The skills they possess include a feel for land and stock, dirt, water, and produce. It is natural for them to seek work they are accustomed to.

  A regular or even seasonal paycheck at minimum wage here in the land of plenty can make them rich men back in their hometowns in Mexico. Should they choose to stay and raise their families here, they can earn a decent living. But they hope for a better life for their children. They
send them to school and insist they speak English.

  Yet, as Buddy says, rarely do these descendants pursue an occupation in the business where their ancestors have had such a great impact.

  America today is becoming a service-oriented society. It does not place much value on farming, mining, or timber occupations. Matter of fact, it looks down on any job that involves manual labor.

  But any farmer or cowboy can tell you it is honorable work that requires skill and gets hands dirty. What is more manual than scooping a bunk, shoeing a horse, building a fence, blocking beets, or picking oranges?

  Maybe with many Mexican Americans, the memory of pickin’ cotton is too fresh. But like Buddy, I agree that American agriculture could benefit from the now bilingual, educated, assimilated descendants of Señores Juan, Tomas, José, and Maria, who gave them a start.

  Agriculture for them offers more than just blisters and sore backs. Abuelito already paid that price.

  This was written more than a decade ago. It’s sad that it’s still topical.

  ETHIOPIA, WHY ME?

  Ethiopia is a long way from here. Besides, I don’t know a single Ethiopian. And, I’ve been busy. I haven’t had much time to think about Ethiopia. How ’bout you? We’ve got a lot on our minds. We’re tryin’ to make ends meet.

  Ya know, it’s hard for me to imagine anyone starving to death. I admit I’ve seen it, but only rarely, in animals. The body’s fat begins to go to work on its own protein stores. Stuff like muscles. Muscular power and activity decrease as the body continues to burn itself up to survive. The skeleton and heart muscles are about the last thing to go. Death is usually due to heart failure. But, like I said, I’ve never seen it in people.

  I’ve seen pictures, though. Lots of ’em from Ethiopia. Lethargic, bloated children. Skinny adults with no hope in their eyes. I think they print those pictures to get my sympathy.

  Then they run commercials showing happy diners, smacking their lips and not cleaning their plate. Then they cut to a shot of a walking skeleton: no hair, lots of flies on the person’s face. You’ve seen ’em. It’s always a child, did you notice?

  Course, they are always asking for money. Send it here, send it there; all for the starving children. How do we know it’s not siphoned off by bureaucratic middlemen? How do we know it even gets to the children?

  Sounds like the Ethiopians have had a run of bad luck. They need a little rain. I guess some of us know about that. Why, some of us have even applied for drought relief.

  Who are these Ethiopians? Are they all starving? There must be some fat ones. Probably the ones in the front of the line—the ones doling out the wheat. They live in a country that is almost as big as Texas and Iowa put together. It is a communist country but one of the prominent religions is Christianity. In Africa, no less. I hadn’t realized that.

  It’s getting harder and harder to ignore Ethiopia. Commentator movie stars, singers, politicians, columnists, and yer run-of-the-mill do-gooders keep throwing it in our faces.

  What do they expect me to do—help?

  This commentary was written at the beginning of America’s war on terrorism, shortly after we had begun attacking the Taliban forces in Afghanistan. The UN was also airlifting tons of food aid. The incongruity of dropping food and medical supplies to the natives while bombing the country struck me as odd.

  It once again put American agriculture on the front page.

  FOOD AID TO AFGHANISTAN

  Allow me to quote Yar Mohamed, Afghani soldier: “We will never surrender bin Laden. . . . We will do everything for the safety and security of our guest.”

  Reminded of the thousands of tons of grain being shipped into his starving country by the UN, most of which is being donated by the American government, he dismissed the food aid by saying, “It is the politics of America.”

  Ain’t it ever? The beefed-up, months-early farm bill steam-rolled through the House over President Bush’s objection. Politicians know, our allies know, even our enemies know . . . that our agricultural bounty, the sweat and soil, the seed and toil, the abundant dirt cheap life-sustaining daily bread is the cornerstone of politics in America.

  One strategy to win a war is to starve the enemy. So why are we willing to pour food aid into the cauldron of Taliban territory in the midst of the fighting? Self-defeating, some would say. I suspect it is based on the conviction that Yar, in his fanatic loyalty, would be willing to starve himself for the cause, but Mrs. Yar may not be quite so willing to starve her children to prove a point.

  Once again America charges into the breech of conflict with butter and breadsticks.

  Politicians, even more than generals, know that if your weapons are edible, one must have a ready supply of ammunition. Thus, the current emphasis on the new farm bill.

  President Bush is concerned that it will stimulate overproduction. Congress knows it will. Overproduction is the basis of the cheap-food policy encouraged by Congress since God invented supply and demand.

  This time, however, no one will be griping about “subsidized farming.” We expect to have to feed hundreds of thousands of Muslim refugees during our war on terrorism. And no one doubts that American farmers will rise to the occasion.

  There is no promise to producers that they will be paid more than the subsistence prices they are paid now. But for the time being that doesn’t matter. As Yar says, “Food aid is the politics of America.”

  So the flags flying across the fruited plain from our barns and combines, our tractors and saddlehorns will be a sign to Mrs. Yar that if the farmers have anything to do about it, her children will not starve to death in her arms while our brother soldiers go about excising the cancers of the civilized world.

  This one ran on NPR Christmas Day, 2001. America had soldiers in harm’s way in Afghanistan. Flags were flying across the country; President Bush had an 88 percent approval rating; and many of us felt a renewed sense of communal affection.

  It was also a time of reflection for many baby boomers, me included. It stimulated a mixed bag of mail.

  EMPTY PLACES AT THE CHRISTMAS TABLE

  This Christmas, I am filled with a deep sense of respect for my father and brother, Grandpa Tommy, Thurman, Wayne, Foxy, Clovis, Pinto, Jim, Danny, and their thousands and thousands of comrades who have gone to war.

  This holiday season, as in too many in our lifetime, there will be empty places around the Yuletide table for sons and daughters in the service of our country.

  In my mind, soldiers—perhaps because I never was one— hold a mystical image: knights, rifles, battered banners, gun smoke, charging horses, tanks, glory, honor, and courage.

  Vietnam was my war. I was never drafted, I didn’t volunteer. I regret it. During that time I held Jane Fonda and the deserters to Canada in contempt. Yet, was I any better than they if I never served?

  Since September 11, there has been a significant reversal in the attitude of the public toward our soldiers. From a suspicious, distanced acceptance to an almost gushing admiration. It is easy to have an impersonal relationship with “the military” if you think of them as professional robots in uniform. But when we see our family, friends, and neighbors’ kids enlisting, we remember that ours is an army of everyday citizens serving for a short time, doing their duty. And that they will be back, most of them, and we will be better off because they went.

  I grew up in the era of war protesters; I see them appearing now, still receiving lots of media attention. I guess it’s a good thing, in a way. They can be a barometer of the battle. Because they’ll always have the right to protest . . . as long as we are winning.

  Patriotism is a personal realization that there is a greater calling than your own self-interest. Divisive and bickering as we can be among ourselves, when our family is threatened, we can be a fearsome foe.

  This new war is different. We are fighting ruthless back-shooters, and they have our children in their crosshairs. It is hard to be blasé when you see soldiers with automatic weapons on the
concourse at the Kansas City Airport.

  Our government’s response has been swift and massive with the overwhelming support of Americans. I have no doubt we will prevail.

  I hope and pray that our knights in armor will slay the terrorist dragon and return victorious to sit with us at the Christmas table very soon.

  Go git ’em, doughboys. Yo mama, Osama! I wish I could go with ya.

  There are places on earth where living does not come easy. Places with harsh environments that most people would not do well in: parts of North Dakota, Nevada, Maine, Arizona, Oregon, or Louisiana. The Great Plains with its blizzards, droughts, tornadoes, and constant breath-stealing wind can drive people to the edge, too. All you can do is stand and take it, because it’s not gonna give in.

  HARDY TREES

  Shade don’t come easy on the high plains. It takes a pretty hardy tree to survive.

  It is no place for the oak, the maple, or the stately sycamore. Though these trees are imposing and grand, they are cripplingly dependent. They are like corporate purchasing agents. Powerful and catered to only as long as their lifeline remains intact. In the case of these trees, they require a constant supply of water in vast quantities.

  As long as it rains, they stand tall and live long, resistant to the puny encroachments of bugs, woodpeckers, and real estate developers. They have the strength of iron.

  But survival in a land where rain is dear requires a different kind of strength. The ability to bend without breaking, stretch without snapping. To shrivel and wither, then spring back pliable and sinewy when exposed to water. Their strength is that of rawhide.

  I saw a photograph in a magazine of an old gas station. The photographer was trying to capture a nostalgic feeling. The horizon behind the station was flat, and the ground was dusty. The only thing green was the elm tree.