Even Cowgirls Love Gentlemen

Me and Golly Gee.
And yes, that is a band aid on my nose.
Sexy!

I learned two things that summer.

1.      Barbed wire gates are tricky.

2.      Some young gentlemen, though they look strong, aren't.

Oh, and . . .

3.      Poor guys.

I was herdsman for my Dad.

A simple job, now that calving season was pretty much over.

My duties consisted of making sure that all four-footed red and white creatures were safe and happy.

Much like a mother hen.

On horseback.

It was the perfect job.

The only difficulty lay in the fact that all summer, there had been gangs of young men between the ranch buildings and the field.

Okay, groups of young men weren't a normal, or unwelcome, sight in our part of the country.

And these were seismic crews  in groups of ten or so who were more-or-less busy laying out lines and setting the charges that would indicate hidden reserves of oil.

So, riding past them wasn't a difficulty, really.

Okay, it was a bonus.

But I did feel like I rather . . . stuck out

Particularly if they weren't busy at the moment and had nothing, other than me, to watch.

On this particular day, feeling distinctly uncomfortable, I slid off my horse and effortlessly opened the gate.

In full view of about ten pairs of eyes.

Sigh.

I smiled, feeling rather . . . exposed, then hurriedly pulled my horse through and closed the gate.

I wasted no time in moving to the far side of the field, hoping that, when I was done, they would have moved a little further down the road.

It didn't happen.

By the time I finished my sweep, they had finished their work and were standing around, just outside the gate, waiting for their data to be collected.

And with nothing to do but watch me.

Perfect.

I dismounted and opened the gate.

Again, the cynosure (real word) of all eyes.

I led my horse through.

“Can I help you with that, Miss?”

I turned.

One of the young men, obviously a gentleman, had stepped forward.

I looked at the gate post in my hand, then back at him.

“Umm . . . sure. Thank you.”

I handed him the post and stepped back.

He stuck the post into the bottom loop, then pushed it upright.

The post, I mean.

It didn't come anywhere near the all-important top loop.

I should point out here that a barbed wire gate is held shut by two loops of wire, one top and one bottom. If the bottom loop isn't high enough on the lead post, the gate is increasingly harder to fasten.

The young man had obviously seen me open the gate.

With the swat of one hand.

His manhood was now on the line.

He pushed, while trying not to appear that he was pushing.

Still no progress.

He began to get red-faced.

He put his shoulder to the post and pushed some more.

Still a gap of two or three inches.

A mile in 'gate' terms.

I suggested that he push the bottom loop a little higher on the post.

He did so.

And was still an inch out.

Oh, man.

He had offered to help me.

And he couldn't.

I couldn't bear to stand there and witness his embarrassment.

I told him, “I have to get to the ranch. I'll just leave you with that. Thank you so much!”

And gave him my biggest smile.

Then I jumped on my horse and made a quick exit.

A short time later, when the crew had moved on, I went back and checked the gate.

It was fastened.

I don't know if the poor man did it himself, or if half the crew had to help him.

At least I wasn't around to witness it.

But I will always be grateful.

He was a true gentlemen.

And even a cowgirl appreciates that.

Ring Around the Collar

Me and GollyGee

Not using a saddle really did pose certain challenges. Being unable to use a rope being the most notable. Unfortunately, I had to learn that particular fact by experience.

I had been Dad’s official herdsman for . . . about two weeks. A job that had hitherto been the responsibility of one or more hired men.

Our operation had shrunk in size until we no longer needed hired men. We kids could do most of the work. And did. 24 hours a day. Seven days . . . but that is another story.

I was checking the herd for prospective, or recent, mothers. My horse stumbled, literally, over a small, newborn calf lying in the tall grass. Abandoned. At that early point in my new career, I didn’t know that the calf certainly wasn’t in any danger. Mama was nearby.

All I could see was a small, defenceless little creature that needed my help. I picked it up. And somehow got it across the riding pad on my horse. And then managed to get up behind it. No mean feat for someone without stirrups.

Or a brain.

I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures of the cowboy bringing home the small, half-frozen calf. The tiny creature lying helplessly across his saddle. I had always pictured myself doing just that. It seemed . . . romantic somehow. And was. Until the calf peed. All down my new riding pad. You never saw that in the pictures.

I managed to make it to the corrals in the corner of the pasture. I set the little cretin down in a corner and went off in search of Mama. There. The cow running around and bawling. Now all I had to do was reunite them. Simple. Not. She didn’t want to vacate the area where she had last seen her baby. He must be here. If she ran back and forth a few . . . thousand . . . more times, she was sure to stumble over him.

I had an idea. I would rope her. She certainly wouldn’t be able to argue with that. Genius! I rode back to the corral and returned with my Dad’s brand new lariat.

Getting the loop over the head of the frantic cow was easy. Then I would just . . . dally . . . I looked down in consternation at the place where the saddle horn should be.

Where it . . . wasn’t.

The rope slid through my hands, along with the cow.

I managed to reunite cow and calf. Finally. By bringing the calf and putting him back where I had found him originally. The cow wore Dad’s expensive new lariat for several months. I called her ‘Ring Around the Collar’. I though it was funny.

Dad didn’t.