Half Cocked TBT ...

Here we are to Friday, so I'm going to post a Throw Back Thursday (which makes no sense, but that's the way things are around here)...  by reposting an old post from three years ago entitled:

 "Half Cocked..."

Most of my wrecks have come either around cattle or on horses.  Some were bloody, some were just plain funny, and some just were.

 One normal day the Cowman and I were moving a 100 head of heifers from one pasture to another.  The pasture they were in sat in a small valley between rolling hills and high mountain ridges.  A small dry stream with many deep cut banks traversed the valley.  

The Cowman sent me to bring'm, while he was busy setting the gates.

Heifers can be tough to work, they have a tendency to be flighty, one minute huddled together and the next kicking and running in all directions.  Most days if you take your time, and keep them at an even pace, things work out.

This day wasn't going to be one of those days.  I gathered them up at the far end of the valley and started them toward the gate at the other end.  Everything was going along smoothly when over the rolling hills popped three black helicopter gunships. This happened often enough on that ranch that the Cowman and I were used to them.  In fact, I loved to watch them play hide and seek thru the draws.

  

This day they swooped down the valley fast and low, banked, made another run down the valley, then powered up to go over the high ridges and were gone. I'm pretty darn sure they were laugh'n their heads off on that last pass. Because those wringy heifers had not seen the like before and started stampeding.  There we are: the heifers, the big bay horse and I, all pretty much going full out, when out of a deep cut bank came a large herd of squealing wild pigs.

 The heifers went berserk, what with the gunships having gone over them twice, and now wild pigs shooting out of the ground.  
Of course, that big ol bay horse had to join in.  As I'm grabbing leather, for the third time, to stay on the bucking horse, I look up. There off to the side, a horseback, sets the Cowman.  His arms crossed, reins resting on the horn, and I swear to God, giving me the steely eyed look, with one eyebrow cocked and a smirky smile...




 

TBT way back when...

Sorting through boxes of pictures, putting dates and places on the backs of the ones not marked. Dad and I have done this for his pictures, I'm still working on mine. 

I found one that had been posted on a bulletin board for some family event, possibly my late mother and father-in-laws 60th anniversary party.  When the person that took down the pictures put my pictures in a baggie for me, they didn't take the tape off the back of the photos, unbeknownst to me. While sorting I pulled them apart, and thought I had ruined one of my favorite photos of the Cowman and Marymine. 

Scouted around and found a place that restores photos.  They said they could fix it!  I picked it up the other day. 

  

A bit of the story behind the picture...

The young Cowman wanted to go back to college and finish his degree. We saved up, loaded up Marymine, and headed down to Cal Poly SLO. While I worked full time, the Cowman worked between classes. We bought a beat to heck ol White delivery truck, and hauled hay at night, with Marymine sleeping beside me. 

We loved the beaches and the ocean, so every chance we got we went. I think this picture was taken at Pismo Beach, or less likely Avila.
Yes, this was considered casual beach wear to the Cowman. He really didn't like shirts and Wranglers that were not pressed. Marymine didn't care what he wore as long as he was close.

Ah, being young and a lot in love, it was all way more fun than it should have been, way back when... 

Rock Solid

A friend called today and asked me to come and redesign her office.  She is very kind hearted but a bit of a packrat, I on the other hand, tend toward ranch minimalist.  A member of the "be packed, loaded, and ready to head out by the time the last stock truck is loaded" group.  So why she chose me to do this redesign was a mystery.  Until we walked the space, and I turned to her and asked, "How do You see this space functioning?"  She said, "See, that right there is why I asked you, of all the people I asked for help with this, you are the only one that wants to know what "I" need this space to do."  Oh great, no pressure there.  After four hours of moving heavy furniture, bagging the stuff that needed to go away, and putting a few things in storage, we had a clean neat workable space for her.  I have a few things to place to make it function even better and we will call it good.  She's happy, her man friend is happy, and so I'm happy.

Even a ranch minimalist can have a soft spot. So I told her of the time when moving cowcamp, the Cowman saw a lone box by the door, grabbed it and proceeded to load it in the nose of the stock trailer.  "Jeez, what the hell is in this box?"  The box was plainly marked, but he hadn't seen the label.  I asked him to put it in my truck and I would take care of it. As he loaded it in my pickup he saw the label...  "Box of Rocks".  "So what's really in this box?" he asked.  
"Rocks" I said, "there are three grind stones: two I found on the home ranch, and one I found up on the Sprague.  The others are the heart shaped rocks the grandkids and I have found over the years. They remind me of special people and places."  The Cowman just shook his head and said, "You know, most women collect china, or silver, or jewelry, or shoes, but not you!"  "A Box of Rocks!"  He whistled up the dogs and headed out with a shake of his head...     

Not Enough...

It's been three years since I walked out the door of the Cowman's life.  It's been two years since I scattered his ashes on the mountain side over looking the high valley that he loved.

Will I always feel I failed him, probably. But I learned a few things from that journey:

  I learned that his doctors didn't expect him to make it to thirty.  I learned that I would not accept that, and neither would he.
  I learned that after being thrown across a room, and sliding down the wall, I could get back up. That I could help him, who in the moment, didn't know it was me trying to correct the raging chemical imbalance.
    I learned to be on a first name basis with most of the paramedics, flight medics, ambulance services and hospitals in two states.  I learned that the time between the start of his reactions and their arrival was fraught with danger for all of us. 
  I learned that you can do everything right and things can still go to hell pretty darn fast. I learned that if I showed any signs of panic, it simply made things worse. 
  I learned to be prepared, I learned when and how to approach a situation, and to always know where my kids were in a given moment.
  I learned that I could be dead asleep and still feel a slight body temperature change, as long as I kept one hand on him.  I learned that it was a heck of a lot more mentally comfortable to wear jammies if there were going to be four paramedics in the room with us.  

In the end, I learned that I couldn't save him from himself or his disease.   But damn, it's hard feeling that I failed him.  It's hard to know that my try, my desire, and my love weren't enough...