He was raised on a cattle ranch. Tall and lean, with a mustache,
and twinkle in his brown eyes, he epitomized the cowboy. Up early every
morning, even on weekends, coffee black and real butter on his toast, he drank
his whiskey pressed. The only time I remember him in shorts and sandals was a
family trip to Mexico, otherwise he wore wrangler jeans, boots—cowboy, and
thick-soled work boots (he's a lineman)—button shirts, and occasionally—very occasionally—a
cowboy hat. Never without a pocketknife, he often whittled whistles for my
brother and I; he bought me my first horse and taught me to ride.
I was a slow-learner. When my dad handed me a brush and told
me to apply elbow grease to my new pony and clean him up, I blinked.
"Elbow grease?" Dad blinked too; obviously surprised I had no idea to
what he inferred. And then he explained. I applied a lot of elbow grease over
the years to keeping my succession of horses brushed and shiny.
When that first horse refused to be caught, and instead
charged me so I'd drop the bucket of oats and run, leaving him to nosh at his
leisure, dad came down to the horse pen with his bullwhip. He never touched the
recalcitrant "knot-head", but snapped the whip left
and right, working that horse into a corner and then keeping him there, hissing
the whip at his nose when he attempted to run, at his heels each time he
presented his rump. When Knot-head faced dad squarely, the whip fell silent. The
instant that stubborn pony attempted to deke left, right, or run, the whip
sang. Eventually the horse caught on. Huffing and puffing, nostrils flaring and
ears tipped forward, he stood there on trembling legs while dad slipped his
halter on. I never had a problem catching my horse again—all I had to do was
crack the lunge-whip (I was too small to master the bullwhip) and he'd face me square,
ears forward, and submit to the halter.
Those idyllic years ended when I was a teen and mom and dad
separated, but by then the damage was done; I was country. And despite living
most of my adult years in suburbia I still love everything cowboy, and in my
heart I ride dusty trails on spirited ponies, under clear blue skies.
Copyright Deborah Anderson 2013 |
It is the heart which
experiences God, not the reason. ~Blaise Pascal
3 comments:
I have a soft spot for cowboys, too. Your dad sounds like quite a man. :)
Thank you Linda; he is. :)
Cowboys are easy to go soft on, which is probably why one features as the hero in my novel. *g*
Take care!
What a great memory of your dad! :)
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