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.

If You Want to Be Clean, Stay out of the Corral!

Oh sure, she looks clean now . . .

I've decided that ranching is not 'clean' work.

I had been herdsman for my Dad for several months.

This combined my favourite activity, riding, with various other responsibilities.

Like checking the herd every day for cows that were calving.

Cows that looked like they were about to start calving.

Or cows that looked like they were thinking about starting to calve.

Ranching takes a lot of head work.

Also helping them when it became necessary.

And hauling feed.

Cleaning pens.

And grubbing around the barnyard doing whatever Dad came up with.

Yep. Not clean work at all.

This day, though, I was determined to stay . . . unsoiled.

My new boyfriend was stopping by and I wanted him to see me as the picture-perfect cowgirl. 

Sun in her hair and smelling of the outdoors - grass, sage, and fresh air.

Things started well.

I buckled the riding pad on my horse.

Thus eliminating the possibility of being covered with hair when he arrived.

I rode out to the calving pasture.

It was a bright, fresh morning with just a bit of a breeze.

Perfect.

I finished my initial sweep.

The easy, treeless part of the field.

No cows inconveniently doing messy things.

I started back, this time through the brush and small trees.

Still nothing.

Everyone was grazing happily, or contentedly lying down, chewing their cud.

It was a peaceful scene.

A clean scene.

I rode into the last copse (real word, I looked it up) of trees.

And there she was.

That one cow determined to undermine my perfectly planned morning.

Obviously calving.

And just as obviously having trouble.

Rats.

I rode over.

Yep. Trouble.

The calf's head and feet had emerged, but the little creature was obviously caught at the shoulders.

Poor thing.

Thoughts of my pristine wardrobe disappeared as I considered my next move.

The cow had to be herded to the ranch buildings.

And quickly.

We made it in record time, considering she was in heavy labour.

Finally, she was enclosed in the nearest empty corral.

I slid off my horse and quickly erected a 'pen' of plank walls around her, further hemming her in.

Then I reached for the calf's little white feet.

But this cow didn't want my help.

And certainly wasn't disabled by any discomfort she might be feeling.

I should have realized that a cow who had made the trip from the field to the ranch building at the speed she had, while in labour, was actually Supercow.

As my hands closed firmly over her calf's feet, she made a leap, flattening my hastily-erected fence and pulling me through the rubble.

Now a normal person probably would have let go at that point.

I guess I'm not normal.

Because I didn't.

Let go, that is.

Instead, I desperately hung on to those feet as the cow pulled me around the corral.

Through the dust.

And a couple of icky pools.

And that's when the calf . . . fell out.

Soon, mother and baby were happily together.

And I was headed to the ranch house.

I needn't tell you how I looked.

From head to foot.

My boyfriend's truck and I reached the front gate together.

It's all about timing.

Stay on the Sidewalk Where it's Safe

My rocketship.

Occasionally, when Mom got tired of driving twenty miles of dirt roads for everything, my parents would move the family to our town house.

The one in town.

It was a whole different lifestyle for me.

I had a tricycle.

Red.

Sturdy.

With a little plastic tassel hanging from one handle grip that waved in the breeze when I went really, really fast.

Which I did.

Often.

I was the master of the universe!

I could go anywhere!

As long as I stayed on the sidewalk.

The streets around our block were 'dangerous'.

There were dragons there.

Okay, so Mom described the dangers as speeding cars that would flatten me into a pancake, but I put my own spin on it.

It was so much better.

So, back on the tricycle.

I rode it endlessly.

Doing laps of our block.

The different homes were categorized according to points of interest or what foodstuffs could be procured there.

Lodemier's house, where the baloney sandwich ruled supreme at snack time, and where best friend lived. Reese's house, where good cookies could be found at any time. Madge's house, another food emporium. Winter's house, with the cute, fuzzy Pomeranians. And so on.

It was paradise.

For me.

I'm not sure what they thought when Diane pulled onto their sidewalk on her trusty steed.

At least they were kind.

And polite.

But I knew that there was nothing more interesting than the homes on our block.

Why would anyone venture out onto dragon-infested gravel in search of anything else.

It just didn't make sense.

So I stayed on my sidewalk.

And was safe.

Most of the time.

There was an alley running the length of our block. The back yard of every home opened onto it. It was a hive of activity every day as dozens of children ran and played.

Occasionally, it was used for vehicles.

Go figure.

Our neighbour, especially, was known to park his huge grain truck there during harvest, to keep the behemoth (real word) off the street.

And that simple act diminished the safety margin by a factor of 100.

I don't know what that means, but it sounds . . . unsafe.

On this particular afternoon, our neighbour had come into town from his farm for lunch.

Having finished said lunch, he had strolled back out to his truck to return to work.

I had also recently finished my lunch. And was on my way to his house for a much-needed cookie fix.

For a short while, the two of us occupied the same general space.

But his vehicle was vastly superior to mine.

In size at any rate.

I was just crossing the entrance to the alley, safely staying on my sidewalk as he was backing his truck up.

I should mention here that trucks in those days didn't have warning beepers or rear-view cameras.

In fact, they barely had mirrors.

Needless to say, my neighbour didn't see me.

Or my tricycle.

It could have been a disaster.

I pulled into the alley entrance,

And stared, transfixed at the enormous blue box of the truck backing, slowly but steadily, towards me.

This was different.

Closer. Closer.

Huh. Something whispered that maybe I should get off my tricycle and move to the side.

I did so.

The truck kept backing.

Backing.

There was a tiny crunching sound as it ran over my tricycle.

Huh. There's something you don't see every day.

The driver kept backing, oblivious to what had just happened.

He waved at me cheerfully as he went past. Then, reaching the street, he reversed direction and headed out.

I watched him go.

Then looked at my tricycle.

Or the little mashed-together bits of metal that used to be my tricycle.

Sigh.

Dad would fix it.

I ran home.

Dad did fix it. And it looked even better when he was through.

Brighter red.

And two little tassells instead of one.

And I think he made it a little bigger.

Dads could do anything.

Soon I was back on the sidewalk again.

Conquering worlds.

Staying safe.

Parking For Dummies

See? There's hardly any dent!

Driving is important.

At least when you live on a ranch a million miles from anywhere.

Well, not quite a million, but almost.

Moving on . . .

And it happened early.

Driving, I mean.

As soon as I was able to reach the pedals on the tractor and still hold onto the steering wheel,  I was driving.

Mowing, baling, stacking.

There were lots of reasons to perch me up on 'the beast' and start the engine.

But on a tractor, I had the entire field to turn around in.

And on the Stringam ranch, the fields were . . . large.

Enough background.

At the age of twelve, I graduated to the pickup.

Again, I was limited to travelling in the fields and doing ranch work.

But I was still driving.

And in control.

More or less.

One morning, bright and early, I decided to go for a ride.

I don't know why.

It was spring.

I'm an idiot.

Take your pick.

Anyways . . .

Because I was still a fairly new driver, and driving was still a treat, and because I was basically  lazy, I decided to take the pickup to the far corral where my horse, Peanuts was currently residing.

All went well.

I drove there and parked.

Spent an hour or so with my horse.

Drove back to the ranch house.

And that's where everything went wrong.

Sigh.

I should probably mention that I had gone riding very early. So by the time I returned, everyone was still in dreamland.

I drove carefully up to the carport situated, by the by, directly beneath my parent's bedroom.

And very, very carefully drove into it.

And I do mean 'into'.

Crunch.

Oops.

Frantically, I backed up.

And clipped the pillar again.

I tried to straighten out and hit it a third time.

And a fourth.

The truck just kept getting more and more . . . crooked.

Stupid machine.

Fifth.

Sixth.

This was going nowhere fast.

By now, my door and the pillar were probably looking like hamburger.

Can wood and/or metal look like hamburger?

And suddenly, there, standing in a shaft of early morning light, was my father.

Now I should explain to you that my Dad always wears pajamas.

Nicely pressed, matching button-up top with trousers (that Mom cuts off just below the knee and neatly hems).

They are quite a sight.

But I digress . . .

At this time, I only vaguely noted his light green PJ's.

Because Dad. Wasn't. Happy.

I let the engine die.

We stared at each other.

"What the hell is going on here?!"

Okay, he's a rancher. Sometimes they say 'hell'.

But only when really perturbed.

Usually when I'm around.

"It's okay. I can fix it!"

"Diane, get out of the truck!"

"I can fix it, Dad!"

He just looked at me.

I know that look. I've seen it before.

A few times.

Ahem . . .

I climbed sheepishly out of the truck and moved towards him.

"What on earth are you doing? You almost shook me right out of my bed!"

"Umm . . . I went for a ride."

"In the truck?"

"Well, Peanuts is clear over . . ."

"I know where Peanuts is."

"Well, I drove over there and went for a ride."

"At five o'clock in the morning?"

"Well, yes."

"Get in the house."

One never moves faster than when avoiding fallout. I knew this from past experience.

I disappeared in a heartbeat.

There were a couple of 'bruises' on the support of the carport.

And a dent in the truck door. (Which popped out when Dad went to get the mail and slammed the door.)

So the damage was relatively minor.

I did learn to drive.

For real.

But I'll always remember that first time.

And my Dad in his PJ's.

Some things you just never forget. 

Lady and Other Horses I Have Known



My littlest sibling, Anita (she's so cute!)
With another of our horses, King Prancer . . . and a friend





Age or inexperience were no barriers when it was time for roundup on the Stringam ranch.

The newest Stringam was merely perched up on Lady and told to "Hang on!"

A little background . . .

Lady was a tall, black mare of indeterminate years, who knew more than most of the humans in the vicinity. She would be put on tail (the position in the . . . er . . . rear . . . of the herd.) and could keep the entire herd going.

With or without human guidance.

So it just made sense to put the most inexperienced rider with the wisest teacher.

All one had to do was be ready for any sudden shifts and turns.

If a cow suddenly took it into her head to take off for . . . elsewhere, Lady was on them in a heartbeat. Less, if your heartbeat is slow.

Over the years, we had a few mishaps. Lady would suddenly spot a member of the criminal element sneaking away and she would charge, heedless of whomever was, more or less, sitting in her saddle. Many times, if her rider was particularly inattentive, she turned right out from under. Her hapless human would suddenly discover just what it was like to hang, suspended, in the air.

For a moment.
Then he, or she, would end up finding out just how hard the prairie can be. Usually on their backs. Staring up at the sky, and completely devoid of breath.
Lady would complete her transaction and return peacefully to the scene of the crime. She would nose her rider gently and look down at them with soft, 'Now what are you doing down there?' eyes.
She was too sweet and too gentle to really make any of us angry, regardless of how long it took to regain our breath. Plus she was a darn good worker.
The funny thing is, we never tried bringing her out without a rider. As I look back, that would have been a logical experiment. (And certainly one that my brother George, he of the strange aversion to horses, would have loved to try.)
But the fact of the matter was that there were simply too many Stringams clamoring for a chance to help with roundup.
To send out an empty horse would have been criminal, however entertaining the rest of us might find it.
Lady was definitely one of a kind.
Oh we had other horses. Lots of other horses.
Slim. Tall and rangy, and with a terrible loathing for men. But a sweetheart when ridden by a woman or child. Coco. Another gentle mare, quiet, unassuming, but lazy. Far happier with her nose in a manger than breathing the soft prairie winds. Steamboat. An enormous and unholy mix of thoroughbred and percheron. He could cover the ground quickly and efficiently, but with a gate that could rattle the fillings out of anyone's teeth. The ponies, Pinto, Star and Shammy, who would submit to anything their young riders could inflict, except leaving the ranch buildings. Luke. Nipper. Topper. Eagle. Peanuts. Gypsy. The list goes on and on.
These, and others like them were our partners and friends during the long hours that define ranching.
Each had their own distinct personality. Likes and dislikes.
And all were graded according to ability, size, and disposition.
As us kids grew, we were graduated from one to the next.
But we all started with the same mount.
To say that we could ride before we could walk was, literally, true. We had Lady. She of the very, very apt name.