Rodeo. Minus the crowds. And drama

Some of the crew . . . and the all-important 'squeeze'.

Branding.

First a little lot of background . . .

Branding, at the Stringam ranch, invariably took place in high summer.

And lasted forever.

Okay, I was six. Everything seemed to last forever.

Except Christmas, but I digress . . .

For the entire day prior, every rider on the place would be involved in gathering the herds. With an operation the size of ours, this was no easy task. The fields were a section (640 acres) in size and, normally, two riders would have to work together, collecting the herd. Then those smaller herds would be gathered, one by one, into the main corrals.

The sun would be high and hot, baking the wonderful scent out of the sage.

There would be glorious vistas of open, wind-swept prairies where one could see, literally, for miles.

Heat and dust and sweat.

And an unbelievable din.

Picture this: Hundreds of cow and calf pairs, which, when herded together immediately become . . . unpaired.

They start bawling for each other. ('Where are you?' in cow, invariably sounds the same, 'Mooooah') They aren't smart enough to actually . . . look . . . for one another.

The cows merely sniff any calf that happens in their vicinity. 'Sniff', nope. 'Sniff', nope. 'Sniff', nope. 'Mooooah'.

And so it goes . . .

Slowly, each herd is driven to the corrals and penned. Hay is thrown into the mangers. The cows finally find their babies. Peace is restored, somewhat.

Then, another herd is brought in and everyone immediately becomes separated again.

More bawling. Then they get sorted out. Then another herd.

This goes on all day and into the evening.

Things are quiet for the night.

Then, the big day dawns. The most exciting, but noisiest day of the year.

Cows and calves are separated and the cows are moved into the largest pen.

The calves go into pens which connect to the chutes. One by one, these smaller, though not necessarily easier to work with, animals are pushed down the chute and into the squeeze (an apparatus which captures the calf and then converts into a table by tilting sideways).

And then, with the noise, come the smells.

Hot metal of irons in the fire.

Burning hair as those irons are briefly pressed to the tough hide.

KRS, a disinfectant.

Manure.

One by one, the calves are branded. Inoculated. Then released.

One by one, they find their Mamas.

And slowly, ever so slowly, order is restored.

Then the entire herd is released and driven back out into the pastures.

More noise and confusion.

Then all is quiet.

 Every year, on the ranch, this is a highlight.

For us humans, anyways. (I have to admit, it probably isn't quite as exciting for the cows, or their babies.)

Enough background . . .

This was the most exciting year of all. This was the first year I was able to participate. Well, as something more than just chief mischief-maker.

The excitement was palpable.

A crew had been assembled. (As branding is such a big job, invariably, neighbors come in to help.)

My oldest sister and I were given the smallest, and nearest field. We left the chatting, gesticulating crowd and headed towards our assignment.

The two of us gathered our herd and pushed them towards the corrals. At one point, just below the ranch buildings, it is necessary to cross the Milk River.

Twice.

But the crossing is shallow and, usually, the cows show little concern.

Our small herd marched across without a pause. We chased them up the hill and into the corrals. Then we sat back and watched as the others herds came in.

There were a few tense moments, but mostly, everything went off well.

The herd was tucked in for the evening.

The next morning, the real work began.

I was assigned to be the 'pusher'.

And no, it's not what it sounds like.

I was the person inside the chute with the calves, pushing each of them into the squeeze so they could be branded.

It was hot, heavy work, especially for a 6-year-old.

And I loved it.

Push. Push. Push. Gate closes. Squeeze . . . ummm . . . squeezes. Tilts sideways. Branding. Shots. Tilts back. Squeeze - unsqueezes. Front gate opens. Calf bolts.

Push. Push. Push . . .

And so it went throughout the day. At noon, Mom appeared with lunch for everyone and we abandoned our posts to gather in whatever bit of shade we could find, and gorge.

Have I mentioned that Mom is a great cook?

Two brothers, neighboring ranchers noted for their pranks and hijinks, were on hand to help us out.

They had found a comfortable spot for lunch on one side of the car Mom had driven up in.

Mom and Dad had relaxed on the other side.

Mom had made the mistake of supplying sliced watermelon for our dessert.

The two brothers, as they had finished each piece of watermelon, launched the rinds up into the air over the car, aiming for my hapless parents.

Two rinds had been met with silence. Obvious misses.

The third rind went up.

"Hey!" My Dad's voice.

Bingo.

Dad got up and stalked, playfully, around the car, but the brothers were already gone. He shook his head, turned towards the corrals and walked over to stand next to the chute.

It was the signal for the rest of us to get back to work.

I crawled up the side of the chute and prepared to drop down inside.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alfred, one of the brothers, sneaking up behind my Dad. I turned to watch.

Alfred was carrying a pitcher of ice-cold water, which he proceeded to empty into my Dad's back pocket.

"Hey!" Dad spun around. But by then, Alfred had, once more, disappeared.

Everyone, including Dad, got a real laugh out of that one. Fortunately, with the hot, dry air, his soaked pant leg soon dried.

By sunset, the work was finished and the herds sent back out to pasture. Everyone who had been involved assembled at the house for supper, feeling sunburnt, windblown, tired . . . and happy.

That year, as in previous years, we all sat around the table, talking and laughing.

And it was then I realized that branding was a time of gathering, not just of cattle, but of  family and friends. Because of the vast distances between settlements in this prairie country, people go months without seeing each other.

So branding, in addition to being the apex of the year, regarding the work, is also a time of visiting. Re-acquaintance and exchanging of news.

Perhaps that is the reason it is so important to all of us who live on the ranch.

My George



Then



My big brother, George and I are two years and four days apart.

When I was born, he wasn't quite ready to have a younger sibling. But, eventually, he accepted me.

It only took fourteen years for us to become best friends.

In our early days, George and I mostly avoided one another. Whenever we tried to play together, we inevitably ended up fighting. Usually the fights were over who started the fights, but why quibble over details?

Fortunately, living on the ranch, there were numerous other opportunities for mischief than playing with siblings.

George had his things mechanical, I had horses.

It was a perfect world.

* * *

When I turned twelve, the magical world of 4-H opened up before me. Finally, I, too, could belong to that tantalizingly exclusive club that my older sister and brothers all enjoyed. I, too could choose a calf and raise it for a year. And go on tours. And calf-club meetings.

Life just didn't get any better.

Dad brought in a group of weanling calves for us to choose from. I instantly decided on the little red-and white-one. No, that little red-and-white one. There. The one next to the other little red-and-white one.

Okay, so they were all red-and-white.

I finally made my choice and my calf, along with my siblings' calves, was shut into a special pen.

For the first day, I was ecstatic. I couldn't stop looking at my calf. He was perfect! He was going to be a champion.

He was mine!

I watched as George hauled feed into the pen, both morning and evening.

This was exciting! This was fun!

He offered to let me carry the pail.
This was work!

And I think that was the last time, ever, that I fed my own calf.

If it weren't for steady, reliable George, all of my 4-H calves would have starved to death.

And, oddly enough, he never complained.

* * *

Fourteen and I was able to attend my first dance!

George drove us there.

I think I danced twice. (One was 'Hey Jude', the customary and interminable last song, which one would inevitably end up dancing with someone who smelled.)
After the dance, George and I stayed in the kitchen and talked until four am.
It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

After that, we spent hours every day, just talking. Movies, books, friends, dates, music. The topics were endless and interesting.

And fun.
We never seemed to run out of things to discuss.
Which of my girlfriends had a crush on him this week.

School. (Miss Mueller, my English teacher loved my brother, but hated me. Go figure . . .)

Dating. When I turned 16, this was a new and wondrous world for me. George guided me through some of the pitfalls and heartbreaks. Once, when my date abandoned me for another girl at a dance, George provided a ride home. And a shoulder.
He got me through.

* * *

In his twenties, George decided to travel down another road. In black leather, long hair and a beard. And on a Harley.


Still then

 He was still my beloved brother. Just a bit . . . scarier to look at.
Once when he was coming for a promised visit, my second son Erik, then six, waited up to greet him. When this long-haired man appeared, Erik took one look and fled down the stairs to his bed.
It was very shortly afterwards that George asked me to give him a haircut.
And not long after that when he decided that he needed to settle down.
For many years, he struggled with relationships and church attendance/standards. Then, just before he turned 50, he decided that he needed to make some serious changes.
Which he did.
And then he met Mikenzie.
She, too had experienced hardships in her life. But, like George, she was ready for something . . . eternal.
I was a witness as the two of them, dressed in white, knelt at the altar and gave their vows to each other. And to God.
I couldn't help but think of my former long-haired, black-leather-clad brother as he took his new wife into his arms and kissed her.
And accepted her daughter as his own.
Forever.
Today, as always, George is busy, organized, and frightfully clean.
But perhaps for the first time in his life, he is happy.

And that makes me happy.

Now, with Mikenzie