I have been up since shortly past midnight. At 12:13 AM a strange orange glow caught my eye thru the bathroom window. After accomplishing my mission, a commonplace midnight rendezvous, I stepped outside to see what was going on. Foggy eyes I saw the moon shining thru the high-level smoke from several wildfires. I hurried back in and grabbed my camera with the 200X zoom lens, preparing to play midnight paparazzi. I realized it was not a real blood moon, just a fake, and just another bloody moon filtered thru the smoke, but my desire to document such a sighting overruled my need for sleep. Once I had the backlighting, the distance from the porch light right, I was able to get a focus and snap this photo. Not until a car went by, no doubt an early morning shift worker, did I realize I was wearing only my night shorts, no top. I worry he may have seen my legs in dire need of a shave. Oh well, life goes on. Sometimes I forget I am not living on a ranch.
I am returning to this abandoned diary. After much self debate, I decided to share bits and pieces of the trivial steaming horse dung that seems to follow me around like we were besties. Cancer update - The recent to our area, Oncologist that came from our @Beth Gallagher's neck of the woods and her chosen by necessity medical cancer center, the famous Anderson establishment, looked me in the eye every time he asked me a question. I think he is trained in spotting liars that try to evade rather personal questions. I understand honest answers to these questions may be needed to determine tests necessary, but seriously I don't get his burning stare as he interrogated me about smoking. Do you or have you ever smoked tobacco? No! Never? Nope! Not even one cigarette? OK OK I confess, I smoked a pack of menthols my senior year while ditching English class. I was walking to the snooker hall wearing a mini skirt that I made with a high waist so I could pull it down enough to be legal in school, but I pulled it up off of the school's property to a scandalous length for that time in history. Just the one pack? Yes, one of my mom's friends saw me and I knew I was in trouble if I continued such behavior. She was cool and understood teenagers and their experimental behavior but I knew nipping the smoking in the bud, was a must. Did you ever smoke marijuana? Yes, but I didn't inhale. (I knew previously mentioning bud was a regrettable slip, but I couldn't take it back) His eyes became more penetrating. OK, that was a lie, but not very much or often. I was sent to XRAY that later verified my smoking history was not an issue. I was seeing him because my genetic testing shows I am at a high rate to get vaginal cancer. It seemed to me the smoking interrogation was irrelevant, but his nurse explained he looks at the possibility of any cancer and he thought my breathing was too shallow. After an invasive pelvic exam and questions of a very personal nature and while I knew my answers were true, I volunteered some info so he could see that my answers were not as puritanical as they sounded. All lab results came back negative for cancer. I am going next month and he will run all the tests again to compare. If he sees no change, I won't be gracing the cancer center again unless my PCP thinks it necessary. He says my recent loss of weight isn't from cancer as it was before. I may discuss my recent denture debacle later as it among other things led to my unsociable attitude that led to my self-imposed SOC banishment, but we shall see. Reviewing my old grade school report cards, it becomes evident that I never really played well with others. Be that as it may, I haven't given up and I am still working on it.
The Tepee In the late 1970s, I was at a ranch gathering with friends. One of our group was a full-blood American Indian and a mentor in keeping the old traditions alive. He had a tepee set up above his house where he practiced his drumming for exhibitions. His wife had banned him from practicing in the house for obvious reasons. Well, the "Cheif" as everyone called him, hadn't been at the last two gatherings. Since I had been working on a ranch rounding up cattle above his place, I was asked if I knew where the Cheif was. Without thought, I said, "The last time I saw the Cheif he was in his tepee beating on his tom tom." Everyone exploded into laughter and it took me a minute to realize that what I said could be interpreted other than what I meant.
The Dude Ranch After I finished my employment for a bridge-building company, A friend told me a dude ranch, a "gender" blind equal opportunity employer, was looking for a ranch knowledgable person to be a director of activities. I was unaware that my area had a dude ranch, but the idea intrigued me since I worked one summer in Montana for a dude ranch as a wilderness survival guide. After a long trip up a dusty mountain road, I arrived at the ranch. I pulled around to the parking area on the side and what I saw left me numb. There was a huge hot tub filled with nude guys. Some were kissing. I gathered my wits as one guy got out of the tub making no attempt to cover. He was wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and no doubt the head wrangler or should I say dangler. I dang near stripped the gears out of my old International 4WD backing up and then flooring it fishtailing and throwing gravel. I almost didn't make the narrow exit bridge crossing the creek.
The Dog Back in the 1970s, while waiting for a range fence job to be approved, I took a job painting a house in a small town for an old couple. Anyway, as I am painting away happy as can be, and I see a car pull up, a very short guy (about the size of Danny Devito) in a suit gets out with a briefcase, opens the gate to the neighbor's yard, walks in and halfway down the walk is suddenly rushed by a yapping Dachshund. He starts backing up and the dog rushes him, leaps up, and bites him in the crotch, and the dog's teeth get hung up on the guy's pants fly. The guy starts yelling and beating the dog with his briefcase, finally knocking the little yapper off. The dog staggers around and finally takes off yapping at a very high pitch. A very heavy unkempt lady comes out and starts cussing at the guy who quickly retreats to his car and takes off. The police arrive and question me as to what I saw. I tell them my story and give them my contact info, then I go back to painting. A few days later I am served with a summons to appear in small claims court. The lady was suing the salesman for the vet bill (checking the dog over) (the dog was found to be uninjured) and the salesman was countersuing for damage to his pants. After I told the court what I saw, referring to the dog as a small dog, the old judge said to me in a gruff sarcastic tone, " Well if it isn't too much trouble or inconvenience for you young lady, tell us what breed of dog you saw attack the salesman?" "Well I am no expert on dog breeds," I said sweetly, "but I am guessing it was a Weiner dog." BAM BAM BAM went the gavel and I was scolded and threatened by the old judge to never disrespect his court like that ever again.
Busted after 20 years My fake grandnieces, now in their 20s, have long known that great fake auntie Faye had a secret candy stash. Despite the many times, they have stayed with me over the years, all their attempts to find my stash have met with disappointment. I never ate my finest chocolates when they were around but they saw wrappers in my garbage can at times and suspected I had a secret stash. Yesterday they dropped by, stayed for lunch, and one spilled some of her soup. She reached in my rag drawer and after pulling out a fine-looking clean-up rag, shrieked so loud it almost knocked me off my feet. "I found it, I found it, I found auntie's secret candy stash!" I can imagine finding the Lost Dutchman Goldmine would be less exciting. I usually had a stack of rags that camouflaged the stash for years, but in one of my recent downsizings, I decided I didn't need so many rags, easily assessable, and just kept one covering the stash and a few others in my storage closet. Both girls were so upset with themselves that all these years the stash could have been found if they had just grabbed a few rags and done some extra cleanup. "Well played auntie," they said now realizing my genius hiding candy under a pile of stained old rags that no young semi-divas are going to touch. So today I must replace my now depleted candy stash and find a new hiding place.
Making a living or making a dying? I can think of a couple of years I lived solely off the small profit I made from mountain ranching. It was based on trading. I would help my alfalfa grower in trade for enough hay to feed dairy goats through winter. They were profitable because I could buy half-breed day-old calves from dairy farms each spring for a very low price. Once weaned I moved them to an allotment I had in trade for my labor for keeping count and watch over a rancher's herd. The great cow horse I used was in trade for spring, summer, and fall pasture for it. The owner was still responsible for vet bills. Adding another 20 or so head to the allotment didn't cost the rancher anything since he ran a lot fewer cattle than most on his allotment. He found he profited more by under grazing than overgrazing and it kept him out of the politics and in better graces with the Forest Service "experts" that leaned more toward tofu than beef. Besides, when these loafer light experts considered that the addition of 20 orphaned half breed day old calves, rescued by a kindly young woman that bottle-fed them twice daily and released them to frolic in the mountain meadows as nature intended, they were reduced to tears and labeled me as a compassionate hippie whereas some ranchers labeled me a crazy goat roper although I never roped a goat in my life. The hermit that saw me riding double bareback wearing only homemade leather pants and knee-high mocassins, with the horse unencumbered by heavy cinched leather, was brided with a pot of homemade chili to unsee what he thought he saw. From then on he referred to me as the Indian Lady. After a brief scrape with an illness that ran up some hospital bills, I decided to return to work in good weather for pay and medical insurance. I discovered that medical insurance is necessary for "making a living" and my self-sustainable lifestyle was paving the road to "making a dying." I have thought now that I am on SS, Medicare, and a union pension, it might be nice to return to ranching because that small profit every year would be a bonus. Then reality takes over and I realize I struggle to keep up this place on the edge of town and don't have the patience for all the political bull pucky that is falling on ranching. Since riding a horse, even an old slow one, would be considered reckless self-endangerment and the rattlesnake sighting this last summer that reminded me that ranching can be hard on an old lady's bladder, I have removed ranching from my bucket list. I should have listened to one of my hardworking lifetime ranching grandmas when she said, "It isn't that girls can't do hard heavy work, it is that they shouldn't." In my youth, I thought that marriage was about having babies, but now I realize it is about getting free labor for the hard and heavy work. Time for a coffee break as this key pounding is hard on my old several-times over frost-bitten and swollen-knuckle fingers.
Here is a chapter from my Aunties book, Ranch Trails The Horse Race In about 1916, during World War 1, everyone was doing what they could to make money for the Red Cross. Around New Year, when Castle Hot Springs Hotel was filled with well-to-do people, from the east, the management sent invitations to ranchers around the country to come and stay as their guests for a few days. The hotel was having a grand ball and a rodeo. We were all very excited and made new shirts and brushed up our leather riding skirts for the occasion. My brother helped me get my little chestnut pony ready and we were off to the show. The men rode broncs and tied goats and calves. Then there was a horse race for women. One cowboy fitted me out with a real whiz little filly they called Tiny Bell. I had never been on her before, but they said she could really fly. They lined us up and when that gun banged, we were off! Little Tiny Bell took me to the finish line in a flash. They showered me with great gifts: a beautiful handmade bridle, spurs, and a box of chocolates. It was really exciting. They all shook my hand and congratulated me until I was dizzy. The money that was won was donated to Red Cross. I heard it was around one thousand dollars. My auntie at the far left, age 16, on Tiny Bell at that 1916 Rodeo.
Way Down South in East Texas Having spent some time as a child and teen in Texas, I can say my memories of chiggers, armadillos, opossums, big barn rats, copperheads, rattlesnakes, water moccasins, snapping turtles, tornados, and humidity leaves me a bit prejudiced against the Lone Star state. I am now living in Eastern Oregon, opossums are everywhere thanks to some Texas liberal animal activist that brought them here many years ago. Rattlesnakes are native, so Texas bears no burden for their existence here. Raised on a Colorado mountain cattle ranch, for the most part, I spend time all over Texas with relatives that had some big ranches west of Hill Country in mesquite land and one never married great Aunt that had 40 acres in the backwoods of southeast Texas. After she retired from schoolteaching she became a recluse hillbilly, dressing in overalls with a scarf on her head and lace-up combat boots. She thought I should dress the same so after a visit to the feed store, I was just an 8-year-old version of her and learned to milk goats, run trotlines, kill and skin cottontails, make snapping turtle soup, and garden a 2-acre plot. I already knew how to care for her 8 Hereford cows, but was disappointed in her 24-year-old mare that only semi trotted after being stung by a mud dabber. Hoeing Johnson grass wasn't my idea of summer vacation, nor was spraying 7 to kill the giant grubs that attacked the many rows of corn. She insisted I sing gossip tunes with her as we slaved in the early morning heat and humidity to help make the experience more enjoyable. "I'll Fly Away" became my favorite. I even dreamed about flying high above her garden, more correctly called a hand tool maintained mini-farm. I was excited to go to her country church because I could wear a dress instead of those horrible overalls and combat boots, however, pumps replaced my church-going handmade custom cowboy boots with cutouts and fancy stitching. "Those Spanish dancing boots are not to be seen in the Lord's house," she said. It was a long month. Treating chiggers in the nether region with sulfur leaves a bad memory. Chaining her truck in the summer because of a half-mile of gooey clay mud road before hitting the gravel, spurs my PTSD. I knew about snow chaining, but for mud, no thanks!
Fresh original cowgirl poetry by Faye Let Er Ride You know girl sometimes best to let things slide Take a firm stance then walk and step with a glide That is what he meant but with old cowboy pride One of few words simply said, girl, just let er ride I was ten then, a real woopie tie yi yo cowgirl mounted on hoof And not about to listen to my old Texas uncle with snow on his roof So I went thundering off through the mesquites after a breakaway steer And while a 14 hands fall doesn’t sound like much of a story to hear It is all in the details of that fall, the nitty-gritty, that made it hard to bare You see my chaps didn’t fully protect my backside from that prickly pear The old paint nudged me as to say you silly girl you were extremely lucky Old auntie scolded, old uncle just said “let er ride” his trademarked horse pucky Now at seventy one I think about that ancient time Before I get riled and violently share a piece of my mine Let er ride is great advice before one has a fit But notice I didn’t say I do, I said I think about it On a recent rural walk I pondered and composed these lines Looking out in the distance where the desert meets the pines Thinking of the changes and all the rules we must abide I know what my old uncle meant by his “let er ride.” Confront life and take a firm unyielding stance Don’t go thundering off before choreographing your dance Backing off and not crowding instead facing that steer Would have saved me a painful poke right in the posteer My cowboy cousins upon hearing about the thorn in my patoot Laughed until they hee hawed, my dilemma was such a hoot Suffering embarrassment and shame, I searched for a place to hide If only I had known what old uncle meant by "Let Er Ride!"
Flat Brim by FF Sung to the tune of Big Iron by Marty Robbins On the forum of net ranchers, typed a stranger one fine day Boastfully typed to folks welcoming him, he had way too much to say Everyone well knew his business, everyone saw the tomcat For the stranger there among 'em wore a George Strait cowboy hat A George Strait cowboy hat It was early in the mornin' when he appeared on the net Came postin’ from the urban side, quickly wanting to make a bet "He's a roper, with no lariat swingin'", came a whisper from each lip "He's here to do some business with the big W on his hip Big W on his hip" On this net there was an old woman by the name of Oregon Fay Many men had tried to impress her, how many we cannot say She was widowed and a loner, though a senior of sixty nine And the stains on her flat brim made chills run up the spine Chills run up the spine Now the stranger started talkin', made it plain to folks that read Was a roper and a bragger, placed a rope round the head He came there to impress the ranchers with rodeo of the day Said he knew rodeo better than mountain woman Oregon Fay Mountain woman Oregon Fay Wasn't long before this story was relayed to Oregon Fay But the roper didn't worry, about a woman photographing hay Many men had tried to take her, twenty men had made a slip Twenty-one would be the roper with the big W on his hip Big W on his hip The mornin' passed so quickly, it was time for them to post It was twenty past eleven when he posed and made his boast Folks were watchin' on their screens, everybody held their peace They knew this roper's hat was about to get a crease About to get a crease There was fiber optics between them when they stopped to make their play And the swift wit of the mountain woman is still talked about today Roper braggin’ had just posted, wearing his George Strait he said Was better than the woman with the flat-brimmed on her head The flat brim on her head It was over in a moment and the folks had gathered 'round Right there strait before them lay the hat of the roper on the ground Oh, he might have gone on braggin' but he made one fatal thread When he tried to match the cattle woman with the flat-brimmed on her head The flat brim on her head FLAAAAT BRIIIIMMMM!!! (Well maybe a bit of a pencil crease down in front and up at the back hahaha)
Flat Brimmed Ladies Hat by FF After the immediate shock of tragedy started to melt I stopped by the old hatters to price a 100X beaver felt Shaping it would be with a gentle pencil roll on the brim Down in front, up in back, he cleared his throat ahem ahem “Wouldn’t this crease or that be more for a young cowgirl your age Don’t you want to be fashionable like the cowgirl Hollywood rage?” “No,” I said, “I don’t, you see each shape of this hat comes from ancestors of old” “Will you tell me those stories,” he asks, “If my asking is not too bold.” I shared my ancestors’ stories from Colorado, Arizona, and Texas Stories of ranching and rodeo, with hardships that affected both sexes His mannerisms told me it was time to leave, he had heard enough To make me a hat that was versatile, all-weather, feminine but tuff I wore that hat in all seasons and weather for ten years more or less Before it was stolen right off my head during a crowded rodeo mess Why did it survive through all the hardships, what’s the reason Just to be stolen off my head during a fun rodeo season It was on my head during one bad fire season so frightening With ambers falling all around, a fire started by fast lightening So you see those brim burns from embers all a glow That fell like it was winter and I was caught in the snow Wasn’t a fashion statement put there for a diva to wear My hat protected me from burnt, singed, and damaged hair Those blood stains came from a deep ugly leg gash It served as a bandaid held on with quick rope lash The dirt, the manure, even the result of eggs broken Gave it character, made its story, a real one not a token You see that custom hat from 100X beaver Even served in the pickup when I puked from a fever My hat was stolen off my head, but my mind retains the stories The thief will never know that hat, with all its boastful glories A hat is just a hat, a cover without all the glorious tale Like times it saved my noggin from unexpected hail Contemplating getting a new flat brimmed 100X beaver hat Makes me wonder what stories it will have, with brim so flat Maybe it will make me a better person, a sweet old lady well You see even all the attributes of 100X, won't hold up in hell
Ebenezer and the 49 Ford Unbeknownst to me, my grandpa’s old mule, Eb was spending a few days at our ranch. Since his resume included wood sculpturing with a specialty in split rails, he was kept in the five acres known as our yard that was fenced with steel posts, five strands of barbed wire, and twisted wire staid, mutton tight, although no sheep were to be found within miles. I was the black sheep of the family and there was no ba ba about it, but that is a story for another time. Whilst I was only sixteen and should have been crazy about horses and boys, I suppose one factor that kept me from falling off the cliff to such a storybook romance valley, was the three neighbor boys, not cowboys, but wranglers. Horse raisers with delusional ideas that they were horse breakers. I was raised with wisdom from my grandpa that was a horse and mule raiser and had used mules for plowing fields, harvesting hay, and horses for real old west cattle drives. His wisdom gained from experience taught me that men do not break horses, the horses break them. He laughed about horse whispering and said believing in such was not even good horse sense, but that is a story for another time. Spontaneous might describe my decision to buy a 1949 Ford pickup. I had seen one for sale out at the end of a long drive leading up to a ranch. I was on a mission that day delivering hay and had no time to take the long drive up to the main house. I noticed the grill on it was a bit smashed and would certainly need replacing before one such as myself could be seen in the parade before the rodeo, with the window down, parade waving and throwing candy to the kids and ignoring dirty looks from their parents that were burdened and heavily ladened with dental bills. Old doctor Harry would smile and wave while his wife, his dental assistant, blew kisses. Here again, a story better saved for another time. Sluggish might describe how I felt the next hot summer evening when I made the decision to go back and buy that old pickup. My mother had told me to go back early in the morning and buy it because the early bird always gets the worm. It wasn’t a worm so I felt no urgency. As I entered the drive heading up to the ranch, I saw the old 49 racing downhill toward me. I pulled off to the side as it sped by with a young man about my age at the wheel wearing a beat-up old cowboy hat. He smiled and waved. I could tell he wasn’t a real cowboy, just a rodeo type, probably a team roper, and still living with his mama downtown, but that is a story for another time. Disappointment overshadowed my enthusiasm as the kindly old ranch lady confirmed it was sold to Mr. Goat Roper and he was going to make a hot rod out of it. Her husband hobbled out to let me know it was in excellent mechanical condition and all original. He wished I had come sooner, but if wishes were horses he would be riding his old quarter horse as the Grand Marshall in the upcoming parade and I would be driving the old Ford and promoting decay and contributing to organized dental crime. I will now shut the barn door and save this stampede of words story for another time. Several days later whilst I wallowed in unnecessary pity over my recent loss due to my own lack of quick response, my eyes caught sight of an ad for a 1949 Ford pickup for sale. The ad said to bring your own can of gas and a good six-volt battery. It had a perfect grill which was ideal since I had no time left for doing bodywork. With no time to waste, I unhooked the six-volt from the old John Deere MT and I grabbed a five-gallon can of gas ready to go to the field with the old MT. One of my older cousins had just come to quilt with my mother and seeing I was a desperate woman on a time-sensitive mission, handed me the keys to her new Chevy Camero. She regretted calling shotgun as gravel flew and I cowtailed like an Angus with butt horseflies. Well, I guess that is a story for another time also. Amidst all this panic with time being of the essence, I saw flashing lights behind me. I pulled over and despite me pulling back my open shirt so he could see my skimpy bikini-clad cleavage or more like lack thereof, the handsome young officer wrote me my first ticket, no wait a minute it was my second, but that is a story for another time. I arrived at the ranch offering my dream 49 for sale. It was still for sale and the body was perfect. Sure the paint was faded but no dents and the grill was perfect. The grill is what announced the glory of these old iron ponies. I had cash and with no hesitation, I shelled out the cash, all four one hundred dollar bills like I would the candy at the parade. With the MT’s six-volt installed and an empty can of tractor gas, I headed down the road with my cousin following in her Camaro, still a bit confused over this entire event. It was apparent to her that while she was a real deal ranch woman, her mentoring over the years to try and girl me up, had failed, but that is a story for another time. Arriving back at the ranch after buying a new six-volt, filling the tank with gas, and buying new jeans and a top for the parade, the only parking spot left was on top of the hill that went down to the field where the old MT was parked with the drawbar raised and some short extension for the PTO my daddy was fabricating, protruding as to mock me for disabling it by stealing its gitty up and go. Now this story I will spill like spoiled milk for thirsty barn cats. It was late so I took no care in trying to get the old transmission in a gear. I learned to double-clutch quickly and in a hurry on my way home. With the emergency brake pulled and my beauty parked on the flat, howbeit the top of a hill, I went inside and slept like a goat milk-fed baby with a fresh cotton diaper. The next morning I woke early and got all gussied up since it was parade day. My bowl of Quaker oatmeal went down as never before. I said a quick prayer thanking the good Lord for not allowing one of my grandmas to come and visit since she always dumped prunes and their juice in my oatmeal. I never understood why her constipation had to become my problem, but that is a story for another time. Sashaying out to where my new love was parked, my parade date, my ace on the table that would mock the wrangler boys, and their idea that girls should not drive old pickup trucks, had me standing in shock. Some thief had stolen my pickup, probably the wrangler boys conspiring to make me all girly. I ran inside announcing in an outdoor rodeo voice that would be suitable for Swiss yodeling, that my baby had been stolen. Looking out the dining room window I saw old Eb moseying around. He seemed to have a smirk on his face. I bet he is in with the wrangler boys, I thought and ran outside. He had moseyed over to the crest of the hill and stood looking below where the MT was parked. I ran over there and looked down to see my new baby had gone downhill and its front had smashed into the old MT’s rear. That perfect grill was smashed. Suddenly I was in my Nancy Drew mode and it was obvious that Eb had pushed my pickup from the rear. His hair with some other mule smudging was all over the tailgate. I fired up the International and towed the 49 back up and checked it out. The radiator was still good, all the damage was just cosmetic with one exception. The emergency brake cable had broken giving way to all the shoving by old Eb. I will never know whether Eb did it intentionally or not, but being my grandpa’s special mule and having a biblical name, I had to let it ride. With wood blocks for safe parking and my diva girly girl wrangler/cowgirl ranch cousins boys in the back throwing candy, I crept along in the parade like I was driving the best of the show, a blue ribbon winner. With the boys in the back, my hand was freed to give a continuous parade wave. It wasn’t my fault that her boys, spoiled little mutton busters, ate one piece of candy for every piece they threw, but somehow that was added to my black sheep list, but that is another story for another time.