by Baxter Black
My normal response to the roping chide would have been more like “Huh? Oh. It’s a gelding. Yeah, I guess you know, I get it. Ha, ha. Duh!”
The trick is to let the tormentor step into his own trap.
“My gosh, Bill, if I had a bull that threw calves like that, I’d sell ’im as quick as I could!”
“You had . . . you did. I bought him at yer yearlin’ sale two years ago!”
“This is ridiculous havin’ to nearly undress to get through airport security.”
“I’ve never heard anyone say that who’s been hijacked.”
“I’ve been tryin to call you for three weeks to tell you about this great networking investment opportunity. How do you expect people to get ahold of you if you have an unlisted phone number?”
(A visual esprit de l’escalier . . . the raised eyebrows.)
“How can you live without a computer?”
“Somebody’s gotta think up all that stuff you read on that little screen.”
“Ugh . . . how can you wear that fur coat?”
“I’m doing research on lunatics, and this seems to be good bait.”
“Dear, why do you always undercook my bacon? You know I like it crisp.”
“Yer mother always cooked it crisp, and she said you were difficult to potty train. I don’t want you to revert.”
“I hope you don’t mind us joining you. Looks like yer catchin’ all the fish.”
“Not a bit, have y’all been vaccinated for leprosy?”
“Would you mind me cutting in line? I have a handicap.”
“Oh. You a Republican?”
“I run every day. Are you familiar with running?”
“Yeah, I saw The Fugitive.”
“Don’t feel bad; you can’t be good at everything.”
“All I’m tryin’ to do is zip this jacket.”
“How could anyone be so stupid?”
“Maybe it’s the company I keep.”
Now that you’ve got the idea, try this on. . . .
“Did you make that bridle yourself, or is your kid learning leatherwork in kindergarten?”
Marvin Garrett is a World Champion bareback rider and the horse “Try Me” was his equal. She actually bucked so hard, she lost her balance and “went down,” but she recovered so fast, she appeared to shoot straight up out of the ground. How she did it, I’ll never know, and how Marvin hung on is beyond me. It wasn’t pretty. It was astounding.
TRY ME
When Marvin Garrett nodded his head, no one knew that eight seconds later Thomas & Mack Arena would be covered with goose bumps.
Marvin drew Try Me in the fourth round at the National Finals Rodeo in 1989. He marked her out and hung the steel to ’er like the rods on a Union Pacific driver! Try Me jumped the track! She slid, slipped, and rolled around inside her skin! She punched holes in the arena dirt!
Somewhere in the last two seconds, Marvin reached his limit. Everything in his firebox—experience, intuition, talent, and training—were at full throttle and blowin’ blue smoke! It was then, over the din of 15,000 rabid fans, Marvin reached down inside himself. I heard him whisper, “Yer mine. . . .”
The hair stood up on the back of my neck. The buckin’ horse went down! From where I sat sixty rows up, it looked like Marvin’s shoulders actually hit the ground! His legs pistoned! The horse exploded! She climbed out of the hole with Marvin stuck to ’er like a remora on a shark’s back.
I don’t believe you could’ve cut Marvin loose with an acetylene torch.
The whistle blew. The crowd went wild! Marvin tipped his hat. But if you’d touched him at that moment, it woulda been like layin’ your hand on an electric motor. He was hummin’!
Marvin had ridden Try Me with all he had left: will. Will, want to, gumption, grit, whatever it is that allows housewives to lift cars off babies and Samsons to pull down temples.
The crowd waited nervously for the score to be posted. We were nervous because of a loose brick in the façade of rodeo rules that says hard-to-ride horses don’t always score the best. Most of us in the arena that night would have been disgruntled but not surprised if Marvin’s ride had scored out of the money. Style often counts more than difficulty.
But rodeo is not like making a centerpiece out of angel hair and glitter. We’re talkin’ about a horse that can buck you off and a cowboy that claims she can’t. That’s how rodeo began, and that night at the National Finals the judges didn’t forget it.
Marvin and his pardner, Try Me, scored an 82 . . . good for top money in the go-round. They deserved it.
Six-year-old inquisitiveness.
IS THERE REALLY A SANTA CLAUS?
“Dad, is there really a Santa Claus?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Jason’s brother said there isn’t. He’s in the sixth grade.”
“What do you think?”
“I think there is . . . but how does he know what I want for Christmas?”
“You write out a list and send it to him, don’t you?”
“Yes, but if every kid does it, how does he ever read them all?”
“Maybe the moms and dads help Santa get some stuff.”
“Like if he runs out of Legos at the North Pole, they can just get them at Target?”
“Maybe that’s how it works sometimes.”
“Or maybe he’s just too busy to make them all himself.”
“I do know moms and dads can tell Santy if the boys and girls have been good for goodness’ sakes and have not been selfish and know the real meaning of Christmas.”
“I do. About Jesus being born and Mary and Joseph and the manger.”
“And how it is better to give than to receive.”
“I always put out cookies and milk for Santa. That’s a gift.”
“I think it’s more like giving to others.”
“To Tío Bob and Aunt Tamara and the cousins?”
“And other kids who aren’t as lucky as you are.”
“Kind of like us being Santa’s helpers.”
“Yeah, that’s a good way to look at it.”
“So how does he find everybody?”
“He must have a map of the world or just know the way.”
“I’ll bet the reindeer know the way, just like Sonny and Coyote know the way home after we’re done riding.”
“Or maybe Santa has a couple good dogs who ride in the sleigh. They could help him get home, too.”
“Like Hattie and Pancho. So, do you think I’ll get an Arctic Lego set for Christmas?”
“I can’t tell for sure. Only Santa knows.”
“Are you gonna get what you want for Christmas?”
“I’ve already got it.”
“Dad, do you believe in Santa Claus?”
“Yep. If you’re smart, you’ll always believe in Santa Claus.”
Dave and Jan are ranchers, but Dave’s also an artist (see accompanying drawing) who drives a pickup with a bent frame.
PICKUP DREAMS
I’m not sure what it is about pickups that make men drool. Maybe it’s because women drool over men in pickups. But sometimes a cowboy will overreach.
Dave and Jan came by our house on the way to the city. They were goin’ pickup shoppin’. “I need one that can handle those steep, rocky canyon roads with switchbacks like a bad case of hiccups and nothin’ but washboard between the washouts. It’s gotta be able to pull a loaded twenty-foot gooseneck up the face of Gibraltar without grabbin’ compound,” explained Dave. “I’m thinkin’ a three-quarter-ton, four-wheel-drive diesel with manual transmission.”
That afternoon, they shopped and shopped. Four big dealerships, each with twenty-five to fifty new pickups . . . but not one four-speed manual transmission.
“Everybody wants an automatic,” said the dealer.
Dave stuck to his guns, but with each subsequent shiny macho machine he was shown, the sticker price began to weigh heavier on his mind.
He and Jan had dinner in a restaurant, then
stopped at one last car dealer. Twenty-eight trucks on the lot. Twenty-seven had an automatic transmission. His dream truck flexed before him. The adrenaline rush surged through him, washing away all budget concerns. He smelled the new grease, felt the gearshift sorta click around the H. He sat tall. He became General Patton leading his cavalry across the Alps.
A couple times the dark cloud of doubt darkened his glittering vision, but Jan encouraged him. “You can do it,” she cooed.
They drove it off the lot.
Back home in bed, Dave dreamed of shackles on his ankles. He was carrying the truck on his shoulders as the dealer heaped optional accessories on the bed.
As he wound his way through the next day’s chores, he had visions of his children begging on the street, his mother coming out of the nursing home, and his wife selling Tupperware, all to help make the payments. “It’s only fifteen dollars a day for six years,” the dealer had said. “Just skip breakfast!”
Dave tossed and turned that night unable to sleep. Desperation frayed his mind.
Next morning, the dealer called with a problem. Seems Dave’s trade-in had a bent frame. “Can you bring the new one back?” he asked.
Dave gulped, and much to the dealer’s surprise, said, “Gas mine up; I’ll be there by noon!”
And who says cowboys can’t spot a good business opportunity when it hits them in the face?
The idle mind is Henry Ford’s workshop.
THE FORD EX’S
I was commiserating with a friend a while back who was recovering from a divorce. He had lost his new car. “What kind was it?” I asked.
“A Ford,” he answered, “one of the ex’s.”
“You mean an Excursion, Expedition, or Explorer?”
He said, “It don’t matter. Now it’s just one of the ex’s.”
The ex cars, Ford’s answer to the Chevy Suburban. But I’m a little worried that their naming scheme is going to play out soon. Excursion? I guess it beats the Ford Hike or Stroll or Ambulation.
They have done well in the past with names: the Mustang, the Thunderbird, the Galaxy, and even the Falcon had a modicum of glamour, but the Expedition? “Let’s load up the Sherpas and head for the mall!”
If this pattern continues, will we eventually see the new Ford Excruciate or Exfoliate? “Yes, friends it will take the hair right off your head!”; “Drive the new Ford Explosion . . . but wear your seat belt!”; “Try our new Ford Excuse. . . . If you’re late, all you have to do is point to your car: ‘That’s my Excuse!’”
Specialty cars could be developed for various professions, i.e.,
CONTRACTORS—Excavate
PEST CONTROL—Exterminate
RAILROAD EMPLOYEES—the Extraneous
STRIPPERS—the Exotic, the Exposure, or the Exhibition
MARRIED PRIESTS—the Excommunication
LAWYERS—the Extortion, Extradition, or
the Philip Morris model, the “Exploitation”
For those who prefer the riffraff to know that the car they drive cost more than a new aircraft carrier, how ’bout valet parking your Ford Extravagant or Exorbitant or the classically simple Ford Expensive?
Many more possible names come to mind that I suspect Ford has considered and discarded or filed away for future use: the Extraneous, the Extreme, the Excelsior, the Extinguisher, the Expectorant, or the Excretion.
Regardless, they build good cars even if they aren’t very imaginative, although there are times, as with every make of vehicle on the road, when the owner thinks he’s driving a Ford Expendable, a Ford Extinction, or even the ever-popular Ford Expletive Deleted!
CLASH OF THE TITANS
Bernie was a cell phone bully. He was rude and dense
and loud.
He was welcome as a cold sore in the midst of any crowd.
He never noticed human beings politely in pursuit
Of contemplation, quiet talk—he wasn’t too astute.
He never asked those seated near, “I say, mind if I phone?”
One must assume his boorishness was deep down to the bone.
One afternoon, he strode into the airport waiting room,
Plopped down beside a gentleman that most would say
of whom
Was never inconsiderate and normally devout,
But Chuck took on a darker side when Bernie’s phone
popped out.
He dialed up, then smugly sat, and waited for the call
As if the twenty other folks weren’t even there at all.
Then Bernie quick began to blab, his breath to halitose.
His words careened around the room and singed those in
too close.
Incensed at Bernie’s lack of grace, Chuck gave him quite
a start.
Addressed him in a civil tone, “I say, mind if I toot?”
Bernie humphed, then turned away, disdain upon his brow.
“I warned you, sir,” Chuck smartly said, then fired one ’cross
the bow.
It caught poor Bernie’s pinstriped suit and frayed his
snappy threads.
The sharp lapels curled at the tip, his collar hung in shreds.
But Bernie felt he had a right to bother and impose,
To force himself on all around. His conversation rose.
Another strong yet subtle blast, an SBD, I guess,
Was Chuck’s response, and Bernie took it full upon the chest.
It rose up like a mushroom cloud, encircled Bernie’s head.
His words cut smoke rings from the fog—like donuts,
people said.
But undeterred by Chuck’s attacks, he never took the hint,
He blabbered on like all was fine but he’d begun to squint.
Chuck launched a dank torpedo, an aromatic burst
That set poor Bernie’s hair on fire as toxic fumes dispersed.
The phone began to crackle, there was static on the line.
But rudeness is a funny thing, can cloud a person’s mind.
He stubbornly refused to budge, remaining quite obtuse.
His tie began to throb and glow, his boutonniere came loose.
Chuck reached down deep for one last blast, achieved his
heart’s desires,
That cleared the room and left the scent of burning rubber tires,
Of heavy metal meltdown and of twisted steel grooved,
But . . . amidst this flaming ambience ol’ Bernie sat unmoved.
His ragged suit lay at his feet, no longer pleats and creases,
Just single-breasted leisure wear, like melted Reese’s Pieces.
His tie somehow survived the fight, though wadded up
and stained,
But . . . in spite of being scorned and shamed, his
obstinance remained.
Chuck’s ire was up, still resolute, he’d shown this clod what for,
That piggish manners would not go unchallenged anymore.
They tried to stare each other down, these Titans wound up tight,
One, who’d reached his patience’s end, the other, impolite.
Just then ol’ Bernie’s cell phone rang, though feebly, it is true,
He looked at Chuck, then took the call, then said, “Well, it’s
for you.”
For those concerned enough to worry, we experienced millennium panic. It was as real as most other phobias, i.e., speaking in public, being too fat, or stepping on a crack. It all turned out to be in our mind. It was a high-tech phobia that would never have risen its ugly head if the new millennium had begun in 1965.
Y2K—NO SWEAT
Time is inexorable. Time marches on. Time and tide tarrieth for no man. But time is arbitrary. A clock is the figment of man’s imagination. Like musical notes or justice.
How long shall we make a day? What shall we call this bird-song? What would be a fair sentence? We have concocted something out of thin air, built a whole system around it, and chained ourselves t
o its capricious rules to the point that the world lay in panic at the coming of some whimsical imaginary date called Y2K.
But who says man can’t roll back the hands of time. Maybe he can’t, but he can dang sure roll back the hands of the clock! He does it every year when he wants to. Daylight saving time, he calls it.
Newfoundland is in a time zone thirty minutes different from Quebec. Madagascar is fifteen minutes from everyone else. The simple fact that you can set your watch ten minutes fast shows that time is no more a real thing in the scope of the universe than the color you paint your house.
So if we were truly concerned about the world coming to a screeching halt the first day of 2000 . . . we could have just changed the numbers. Have a daylight saving century, or better yet, a daylight saving millennium.
We could have gone directly from December 31, 1999, to January 1, 1000. Surely our computers would have been able to distinguish the Modern 1000 with its car payments, bank accounts, Indian treaties, and space shots from the Medieval 1000 with its joustings, burnings at the stake, and virgin sacrifices.
But most important, we would have simply put the problem off. Not unlike the way Congress puts off saving Social Security every year.
But as you can see, the earth has survived our insignificant tempest in a teapot.
To put the Y2K fear in perspective, we should take a lesson from our fellow earth travelers, the animals. What was the impact of the first day of the new millennium on the insect world?
Roger Miller said it best: “Every day is Saturday to a dog.”
This was written for the turn of the century
2020
It is the year 2020. I am seventy-four years old. I quit team ropin’ last year. Never did win a buckle.
The U.S. Team Ropin’ Association kept raising the age limit to tie on. If I could have hung on six more years, I might have finally caught up. They never would put me back to a two handicap. Doin’ good at that one ropin’ in 1996 cost me a lot!
