My Chinny-Chin-Chin

She was sitting on my knee, studying my face as only a toddler can.

Wha's that, Gramma?" She pointed.

"My chin," I said helpfully.

"No, Gramma . . . that!" She pointed again.

"Oh, that's a scar, sweetheart."

She touched it. "Owww!" she said.

"It doesn't hurt, sweetheart. It's old. Like Gramma."

"Oh."

"Gramma got it from a cow."

She stared at me. Skepticism writ large in the two-year-old expression.  No way the gentle cows from the books we read could ever have given Gramma the two-inch scar she sported across her chin.
"Yep. A cow," I repeated.
So, for my granddaughter, and those who haven't heard the story . . .

Me and GollyGee. Ready for action...

I never used a saddle.

Only a 'riding pad'.
Tacking up was amazingly easier. Riding much more natural.
And no stirrups to get in the way.
But it afforded other . . . complications. For one thing you could never use a rope.
Nothing to dally to.
Chasing down and securing a calf presented . . . certain challenges.
But . . . Adapt. Adopt. Become adept. The theme song of ranch life.
I simply rode up beside them and leaned off to one side, catching said calf by the tail. Then I slid off on top of him. Or her.
It was fool proof.
Until I met Cow 175.
Head on.
But I am getting ahead of myself . . .
The day started out much as any other. I was 'riding herd'. Checking to see if anyone had calved, or needed help in doing so. I came across a small, obviously newborn calf hidden in the tall grass.
I should explain that a new cow mother will instruct her new calf to lie quietly until she returns.
I don't know how they do this. But they do.
The new little calves will simply lie there while you vaccinate them and check them over.
But the final step, the one where the calf is officially identified and tagged to match mama, is the trickiest.
Because this requires the attendance of said mama.
Imagine trying to pick out the mama when all the cows and calves . . . look the same.
I found that the best way was to straddle the calf and make 'distressed baby' noises. Guaranteed to encourage any mama to come on the run.
It worked.
Mama came.
Mama saw.
Mama attacked.
Now I should mention here that my Dad raised Polled Herefords. The breed known for their gentle dispositions. And the absence of horns. Thus the word 'polled'.
They don’t need them. Let's just say that if they had them, my scar would look a whole lot different.
And this story would have had a vastly different ending.

See that 'poll' on her head, between her ears? 
Avoid that.

Moving on . . .
175 hit me with the pointy part of her head. The part between her ears made entirely of bone.
I saw stars and quite a bit of the prairie as I left the calf.
In a summersault.
Backwards.
The culprit and her offspring wasted no time in vacating the area.
I got to my feet and stared after them, fuzzily. I had lost my glasses in the encounter. But that didn’t even slow me down.
I piled back onto my horse and started after the two, quickly nabbing the calf once more. This time, I took the precaution of dragging it beneath my horse—an old cowboy trick.
Something else you should know is that throughout my years on the ranch, I was known for riding really . . . ummm . . . green horses. Usually radically unsuited to ranch life. GollyGee, my mount of the moment was totally in keeping with this reputation. She was an ex-racehorse. Tall, lean, fast, and really . . . un-smart. Usually, a person walking anywhere near her would have startled her. Thus sending her, by the most direct route, to the moon.
And a person dragging something toward her? To Jupiter.
Perhaps the anger radiating off me in waves had a stupefying effect. Perhaps she was merely trying something new. Self preservation.
Whichever. She stood like a rock as I dragged the 50 pounds of protesting red and white calf beneath her.
Now most cows are afraid of horses. Fortunately for me, this particular cow was only over-protective, not suicidal.
She did laps while I injected and tagged her calf.
Then I stood up, releasing the baby, but before it could regain its feet and rejoin its mama, I walked over and booted said mama in her giant red butt. Twice.
I don't know what it did for her, but it made me feel a bit better.
Then I watched as the two of them headed for some human-less spot.
Riding back to the scene of the crime, I searched around until I finally discovered my glasses. Miraculously undamaged.
Then I rode home and stabled my horse.
And here is where the story really gets interesting . . .
My Mom was the daughter of a rancher. Her years of ranching experience were many and varied. But she could still be shocked.
When I walked in the kitchen door, she screamed. And ran for a towel. It was only then that I realized that I could feel the tip of my tongue.
Through my bottom lip.
And that my shirt was completely covered in blood.
Huh. How did I miss that?!

When the Tough Get Going

You see a fence post. We see . . . 

Okay, I’m apologizing up front for this story.

It’s . . . gritty. So to speak.

Ahem . . .

I’ve always wondered about toilet paper ads.

Softer. Stronger. More effective.

I mean, why advertise this stuff?

Are there people who are not buying it?

Actually . . . yes.

Think of the people who live in places where dropping over to the local grocery store is really not a possibility. Like those in the deepest, darkest part of the jungle.

And their banana leaves.

Okay, I understand. Soft. Strong. Effective.

Now think of the cowboys on the wide, wide prairie.

Where there are no trees at all and leaves simply aren’t an option.

What are they going to do when nature . . . hollers?

Case in point . . .

Dad was out with his dad doing . . . cowboy stuff. Fencing and exploring the joys of barbed wire.

They were far from the ranch house and even farther from the miracle of indoor plumbing and its accoutrements.

Grandpa had to go.

You know what I mean.

He turned to Dad. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

Dad nodded and continued with what he was doing.

Grandpa set down his fencing pliers and pulled out his pocket knife.

Dad stared at him, confused. Didn’t he just say . . .?

Grandpa walked over to one of the cedar fence posts and, using said knife, shaved off several pieces of wood.

Then he smiled at Dad and disappeared over the nearest hill.

Can anyone say ‘ouch’?

The Real Thumb Wars

Oh, sure. It looks harmless enough now . . .

Washing and scrubbing and blow-drying and trimming.

And brushing and brushing and brushing.

And clipping.

And trimming again.

And no, this isn't the local hairdressing salon on Prom day.

It's the local barn, as the local ranchers get their local cattle ready for show.

Oh, there are a few differences. The cattle have hair in more places, for one thing. They are a fair amount larger. They seldom cooperate.

And said grooming is sometimes dangerous.

Not things the average hairdresser worries about.

Moving on . . .

The first thing that must be accomplished before grooming can begin, is restraint.

Not us. Them.

Oddly enough, most cattle don't like the idea of getting wet.

And soapy.

And they like, even less, the sound of electrical gadgets in their vicinity.

They tend to head for the nearest far-away place.

With enthusiasm.

On the Stringam Ranch, restraint was accomplished by running them into a 'head-gate'.

A contraption designed to snap shut just behind the head and hold the animal, in an upright position, ready for grooming.

Picture a hairdresser, when she has tilted her patient back over the sink to wash . . .

Okay. Know what? Don't think of a hairdresser at all.

Because none of that applies here.

Back to my story . . .

With the animal thus confined, grooming can begin.

Simple.

But the fact is that when one gets up close and personal with something that outweighs one by 15 times, things can sometimes get . . . interesting.

Case in point:

We were grooming the two-year-old bulls.

For those who might not know, they are the male cattle.

Don't be mislead but their age.

Toddlers, they aren't.

Most of them weigh anywhere from 1500 to 2000 pounds.

Most of that muscle.

And bone.

With just a touch of aggression.

And a bit of stupidity.

I should explain, here, that a head gate works because the animal coming towards it can see daylight through it.

They lunge for what they see as freedom.

Now I'd like you to imagine the force 2000 pounds of solid muscle and bone can create when it is properly motivated.

Force which is brought to a crushing, bruising halt by the solid head gate as it snaps shut.

I know what you're thinking.

Probably best to keep one's hands and feet and appendages out of the way.

I didn't.

Remember the 'dangerous' part?

It comes in here.

Unthinkingly, I had rested my right hand on one of the uprights of the head gate.

And was watching as the next victim customer approached.

With alacrity. (Oooh. Good word!)

The bull hit the gate.

Then, realizing that he couldn't get out that way, immediately pulled back.

It was the pulling back that saved my hand.

Which had been caught between the upright and the metal plate that it snapped against.

Absorbing the entire force from 2000 pounds of mass.

On the run.

If the bull hadn't reacted as he had, my thumb would have been neatly and completely removed.

With surgical precision.

By the sharp, metal plate.

As he reared back, I gasped and jerked my hand away.

Then slumped against the fence as blackness threatened.

Dad looked at me curiously.

Everything had happened so fast that he hadn't seen it.

Wordlessly, I held out my hand.

The imprint of the plate could be plainly seen in the heavy, leather glove that I wore.

Which glove was also instrumental in saving my thumb.

Gently, Dad removed the glove.

As I gasped and swore breathed heavily.

The skin hadn't been broken, though there was a lively line of red where the plate had hit.

I was rushed to emergency, but subsequent x-rays showed that the bones hadn't even been broken.

A miracle.

When the pain and swelling subsided several weeks later, I was left with a numb thumb (something that continued for the next two years), and though the skin hadn't broken, a scar, which I carry to this day.

I learned some valuable things.

1. When a piece of equipment carries the warning: Please keep hands clear, there's a reason for the warning.
2. Inattention begets injury.

and

3. Two-year-old bulls look just fine the way they are.
4. Fussing not required.
5. Or appreciated

Mom always told me, and I quote, “You have to suffer to be beautiful.”

She never pointed out that I would suffer.

And something else would be beautiful.

I probably should have paid attention.

Nasty Little Ball of Death

Warning: Use with caution...

“Gramma! Can we make some popcorn?”

Words so innocently uttered.

So casually agreed to . . .

Some of our grandchildren were over for the evening. (Yes, this was pre-Covid.)

A movie was indicated. And what’s a movie without popcorn?

We are a popcorn family. We have a large, ‘theatre’ popper.

Fully capable of keeping up with the masses.

Gramma enjoys making it.

The kids enjoy watching.

Everyone enjoys eating.

It’s a perfect world.

But, sometimes, even perfection has its drawbacks . . .

The machine was in full pop. Kernels sizzling and swelling in the ‘cooker’.

Spilling out in a fluffy, white, delicious tide over the side and into the ‘hopper’.

Then . . . a tiny problem.

The twin lids over the cooker are merely metal flaps. Designed to hold in the hot, rocketing little explosive devices that are popcorn kernels. And to flip up as needed to let the deliciousness out.

One of these flaps got jammed open.

Little molten balls of death were spewing everywhere.

I had quickly ushered the assembled grandkids away.

And was approaching the machine, set on repairing the problem.

And that’s when it got me.

A sneaky little smoking-hot kernel.

And the term, ‘smoking hot’ is, in this case . . . not good.

It hit me above the collarbone, then proceeded to roll into my collar and from there, down under my shirt and into my bra.

Where it stayed as I tried, madly, to reach it.

The dance I performed is classic.

The blisters I have are noteworthy.

After things had calmed down, and noting my woebegone (Ooh! Good word!) expression, Husby decided to cheer me up with a story of someone who had it far worse than me . . .

It was in high school shop class.

Husby and his fellow classmates were being taken, carefully, through the basics of welding.

“Remember, boys,” the teacher said in. “Never, ever, weld over your head!”

Now the consequences of such an action should have been obvious. 

Right

And they were obvious. Except to Monty.

A few days later, he was happily welding.

Directly over his head.

Now I probably don’t have to explain that the temperatures of metal and binding substances used during welding reach temperatures of over 2500 (F) degrees. 1371 (C)

Ummm . . . hot. Like hotter-than-hot hot.

A piece of slag dripped from his project and down the open collar of his shirt.

Where it formed a small ball of death. 

It proceeded to roll - consuming skin, hair and anything else it encountered - down the boy’s body.

Wrong

Lodging somewhere way too near his groin.

Screaming, dancing and frantically shedding clothes, Monty finally retrieved the little purveyor-of-death and spilled it out onto the floor.

While his classmates, teen-aged boys all, laughed at his discomfort.

He and his appendages survived.

Though they sported some rather impressive scars.

Husby was right.

Suddenly my little popcorn kernel took on a whole diminished perspective.

I have seven little blisters.

I’m glad I wasn’t around to count Monty’s.

Cart-Wheeled

It started out innocently enough.
Twenty of us spread in haphazard rows across the gym with our trusty little yoga mats beside us.
The lights were bright. The music lively—almost drowning out the grunts and gasps of the aforementioned twenty.
My youngest daughter and I had taken up a position on one side of the gym where we had a clear view of our faithful leader . . . erm . . . leading.
With a big smile permanently spread across her face, she was enthusiastically and effortlessly taking us through all kinds of exercises.
Working our non-existent abs and biceps in the plank and pushups. Testing creaking knees in lunges and squats.
Introducing things like the ‘inchworm’ and the ‘mountaineer’.
Yikes.
But, teeth gritted in determination, we were having fun.
We had been at it for about 20 minutes.
And many of us (okay, me) were starting to see a real sweat glow.
Then, that fateful command. “Okay everyone! I want you to try a cartwheel!”
A cartwheel? Had we heard correctly?
My daughter and I looked at each other.
She shrugged. “Well, here goes,” she said.
Now I have to tell you that, in a bygone day, I was actually able to do a cartwheel. A credible one.
I even taught others how to do them.
Did I still have it in me?
Only one way to find out.
I leaned over, my hands reaching for the floor . . .
And did a perfect round-off.
I kid you not. I did. A perfect one!
Now a round-off differs from a cartwheel in that once one’s hands are on the floor, the legs come up and rather than continue over in a spread-eagled, look-at-me-I’m-a-starfish sort of fashion, are clapped together and the body turned so the feet touch the ground together in a 180 degree turn from where they left off.
Got it?
Well I did it.
A perfect one.
And yes, I was as surprised as everyone else there.
Now did I gloat over my triumph and calmly move on to the next exercise?
I did not.
Oh, I gloated all right. I gloated myself right into another cartwheel.
I mean, if I could do it once, I could do it again, right?
Wrong.
This time, I tried a regular cartwheel. The spread eagle one.
Where one’s limbs are expected to be . . . spread-eagled.
Only mine don’t do that anymore.
There was a distinct ‘pop’.
And instant pain.
Now you have to know that our instructor is the sweetest, gentlest girl ever born. No way I was going to let her know I had injured myself. She would probably bathe me with her tears.
So to speak.
Instead, I gasped and somehow maintained a smile through the rest of the exercises.
Then limped home.
And kept on limping.
For two months.
I’m telling you all this in case any of you ever want to include me in your exercise regimen. Please know this:
I've discovered I’m a one-cartwheel woman. And that cartwheel has passed.
Ouch.

Tough Ranchers

We depended on our horses on the ranch.

They were usually well trained and quiet, something you needed when you worked cattle. A jumpy horse would rile up said cattle and get them nervous.

This made them difficult to handle. They may hurt themselves or just go running in some crazy direction and lose lots of precious weight that Dad had just spent many feed dollars trying to put on their bodies.

Because, let’s face the hairy truth: Cows aren’t the geniuses of the ranching community . . .

It takes many years to make/train a quiet cattle horse.

You start with a colt that is full of lots of energy and you train and train using various techniques to develop a well-behaved horse.

Having said all that, somewhere in the training/breaking process, you have to use the ‘green broke’ horse to work cows as part of their schooling.

Our family had a friend that I’ll call RG, who was in the middle of one of these young-colt/quiet-horse processes.

On a beautiful spring day RG and several members of his ranch crew were taking a large herd of cattle from their ranch headquarters to the spring pasture—a trek that put Dad’s ranch at the half way point.

Our friend dropped by earlier in the day and left his green broke colt, planning to trade his well-trained cattle horse for the green horse at the halfway point. This would give the green horse the opportunity to work with cows, but the cows would be tired and quiet and not likely get excited if the horse got a little jumpy.

I was up at the barn when our friend rode up to exchange horses. He quickly saddled the green horse and mounted.

I guess his horse was not quite ready for any cattle drive because he pulled his head down and started bucking.

Now, initially I thought that this wouldn’t be a problem. RG was a seasoned cattle rancher and he could manage a green horse.

Then I realized that RG was also 75 years old and maybe not as strong as a young rancher.

The horse bucked several times.

I held my breath. With every hop of the horse a word popped into my head.

Don’t!

Fall!

Off!

The!

Horse!

You!

Are!

Old!

And!

Will!

BREAK!

I hoped and prayed that RG could get things settled before he was piled.

And I would have to call an ambulance.

But RG couldn’t hold on any longer and the horse piled him good. He groaned and let go of the horse’s reins.

My body hurt just seeing him get planted.

It seemed for a brief moment that RG was down for the count and I was afraid that my greatest fears had come true.

I was about to run over and ask him if he was ok when RG pulled himself up, spun around and grabbed the reins of the horse. He placed his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle.

It was like a reflex action. I was sure that RG was hurt and would have liked to come into the ranch house for a rest.

I thought: ‘RG is going to be sore tonight.’

Once RG was back in the saddle, his horse settled. He said, “I’ll be back later for the other horse.” Then headed down the road after the herd of cattle.

I watched anxiously as he rode away, not wanting to see a repeat of the piling episode.

I didn’t.

I learned something from this: These old ranchers are tougher than my generation.

Marlboro man you ain’t got nothin’ on RG!

It's fun to see stories of the Stringam Ranch from a different set of eyes.

Today's adventure is courtesy of my little brother, Blair.

Rolling Ball of Death

Warning: Use with caution...

“Gramma! Can we make some popcorn?”

Words so innocently uttered.

So casually agreed to . . .

Some of our grandchildren were over for the evening.

A movie was indicated. And what’s a movie without popcorn?

We are a popcorn family. We have a large, ‘theatre’ popper.

Fully capable of keeping up with the masses.

Gramma enjoys making it.

The kids enjoy watching.

Everyone enjoys eating.

It’s a perfect world.

But, sometimes, even perfection has its drawbacks . . .

The machine was in full pop. Kernels sizzling and swelling in the ‘cooker’.

Spilling out in a fluffy, white, delicious tide over the side and into the ‘hopper’.

Then . . . a tiny problem.

The twin lids over the cooker are merely metal flaps. Designed to hold in the hot, rocketing little explosive devices that are popcorn kernels. And to flip up as needed to let the deliciousness out.

One of these flaps got jammed open.

Little molten balls of death were spewing everywhere.

I had quickly ushered the assembled grandkids away.

And was approaching the machine, set on repairing the problem.

And that’s when it got me.

A sneaky little smoking-hot kernel.

And the term, ‘smoking hot’ is, in this case . . . not good.

It hit me above the collarbone, then proceeded to roll into my collar and from there, down under my shirt and into my bra.

Where it stayed as I tried, madly, to reach it.

The dance I performed is classic.

The blisters I have are noteworthy.

After things had calmed down, and noting my woebegone (Ooh! Good word!) expression, Husby decided to cheer me up with a story of someone who had it far worse than me . . .

It was in high school shop class.

Husby and his fellow classmates were being taken, carefully, through the basics of welding.

“Remember, boys,” the teacher said in. “Never, ever, weld over your head!”

Now the consequences of such an action should have been obvious. 

Right

And they were obvious. Except to Monty.

A few days later, he was happily welding.

Directly over his head.

Now I probably don’t have to explain that the temperatures of metal and binding substances used during welding reach temperatures of over 2500 (F) degrees. 1371 (C)

Ummm . . . hot. Really, really hot.

A piece of slag dripped from his project and down the open collar of his shirt.

Where it formed a small ball of death and proceeded to roll - consuming skin, hair and anything else it encountered - down the boy’s body.

Lodging somewhere way too near his groin.

Wrong

Screaming, dancing and frantically shedding clothes, Monty finally retrieved the little purveyor-of-death and spilled it out onto the floor.

While his classmates, teen-aged boys all, laughed at his discomfort.

He and his appendages survived.

Though they sported some rather impressive scars.

Husby was right.

Suddenly my little popcorn kernel took on a whole diminished perspective.

I have seven little blisters.

I’m glad I wasn’t around to count Monty’s.

Top(per) This

Chico, not Topper. But you get the idea . . .

Topper. My eldest brother’s horse. The ultimate in challenges.

My world was small. I admit it.

By the age of seven, I had moved through the ‘pony’ stage was ready for something a bit . . . bigger. Certainly more challenging.

My brother’s sorrel gelding was the answer. 

If I could ride him, I would have achieved my greatest goal. By so doing, I would enter the world of the adults. I would finally be considered a grown-up.

Or so I thought.

We were selecting our mounts for yet another round-up. This one to include branding and all of the fun and high-jinks that went with that.

My brother, Jerry, stepped into the corral ahead of me. He lifted the halter he held and approached . . . Ranger. 

Ranger?

My day had come. Before anyone could think of stopping me, I moved to Topper’s side and slid my halter over his alert head. 

So far, so good.

Grooming and saddling took next to no time. A good thing as I was in a fever of impatience.

And then I was aboard.

Wow! The ground was so far away! This horse was a giant! Okay, he would have had to stand on tip hooves to reach 14 hands, but I had been riding a Shetland pony. My measuring stick was slightly skewed.

But I digress . . .

And we were off.

All went well to that point. In fact, all continued to go well as we received our assignments and separated to begin collecting the herds. I was given one of the smaller fields. A measly little quarter section. No problem. Topper and I started off at a brisk trot. I was amazed at how much more quickly he moved than my little Pinto.

I have to admit here that Pinto had one speed.

Slow.

This was living! 

And then . . . that sun. 

In Southern Alberta, at least the corner where I was raised, the early summer days are . . . hot. There are no trees. The sun beats down on the hard-packed earth, turning it into a heat reflector of gigantic proportions. In no time, the heat waves are distorting every horizon. 

And the favourite little blue jean jacket so necessary when you first hit the barnyard is suddenly superfluous. And distinctly uncomfortable.

And really needing to be removed.

With slow, staid Pinto, a simple task. No sooner thought of, then accomplished. He wouldn't even have noticed.

With Topper, another story entirely.

I undid the buttons.

His ears flicked back. I’m almost sure his eyes narrowed. “What are you doing up there, Human?”

I slid one arm half-way out of the sleeve.

A jump. A little kick. “Whatever it is, I don’t like it!”

I stopped moving.

He settled.

I moved, he jumped.

This went on for some time. Then I finally tired of the theatrics and decided to show him who was boss.

I shed my coat entirely.

He decided to show me who was really boss and shed me.

Entirely.

I’m not sure whether I bailed off, or he planted me. It matters little because the results were the same.

My face took the brunt of the landing.

When I came to my senses a short time later, I struggled to my feet and discovered that Topper was actually waiting for me a little distance away.

I approached him slowly. The only speed I could muster.

He watched me, warily.

I drew closer.

He tensed.

Closer still.

He let fly with both back hoofs.

I really don’t know how I managed to survive life on the ranch. I must have a particularly hard head. 

The next thing I remember is one of our hired men, Bud. He had followed the trail of my belongings until he finally discovered me, lying in a very small heap and plucked me from the prairie floor, like flotsam off a beach.

I noticed, with some degree of satisfaction, that he had already rescued my beloved jacket.

Reunited. I may have smiled. I really couldn't feel my face.

Bud set me on the saddle in front of him and I looked down at the horse he was riding.

Eagle.

The delicious appaloosa.

The ultimate in challenges.

If I could ride him, I would have achieved my greatest goal . . .

You can see where this is heading.