Lessons In Time

My antique clock is back in its place on the bedroom wall, faithfully counting the seconds of each passing hour. I brought it home from the shop not long ago, its first trip to the shop in the 60-odd years I've owned it. A small piece had broken and allowed the mainspring to uncoil, making the clock useless until a master clock maker repaired the damage and set it running anew. I could have bought a new, prettier clock for less money, but this one has a history to it, and I'm not willing to give up on it as long as its imperfections can be made right.

The clock used to belong to a bank, which donated it to a church. One of the church members, a man then in his late 50's, told me he remembered carrying the clock in a small parade from the old church building to the new one in 1907 when he was a boy of 10. The clock hung in the church parlor, then the office, and finally, with the passage of time and the advent of modern clocks that relied on electricity instead of springs, it was relegated to the church kitchen, near the stove. There it hung for years, essentially neglected except for being wound every Sunday by the ladies who made coffee and served donuts to the church members. But at last the rigors of steam and dust and neglect took their toll. The clock stopped running and was discarded. Another boy, about 10 years old, found it in the trash can and retrieved it. That's when I became its owner and protector.

I took the clock home and opened up its wooden case. Inside I found wheels and springs and gears coated with the grease and dirt that had accumulated over the years. I carefully removed the mechanism and soaked it overnight in a coffee can half-filled with gasoline. I brushed and cleaned the debris away from the moving parts, then oiled them. When the mechanism was back in the case I sat the clock upright, pushed the pendulum, and hoped for the best. The clock began to tick! I adjusted the weight until the clock kept accurate time, which, I found, it could do with amazing accuracy! It then took its place on the wall in my room, marching into the future to the soft, steady sound of its own ticking. Even today it's capable of keeping perfect time, now that its heart is whole again.

My clock has taught me a little about life. Its history has several lessons for me. For example, what starts out as a joyful experience can turn into rather a tasteless life of doing my job, unnoticed and unappreciated. I may have a place of honor today, but a lesser role tomorrow, and perhaps even an ignoble place of service the day after. But in every moment it's still my responsibility to perform the role given me, with all the faithfulness I have, for as long as I'm able. I've also learned that sometimes we discard what is useful because we're unwilling or unable to restore it to service. We do that with clocks and computers and boots and...with people. Isn't it just less trying to give up on a friend who's disappointed us? Can't we avoid more heartache if we simply walk away from a relationship that no longer meets our needs? It is, and we can, but perhaps in so doing we've left another person in the trashcan, where they wait to be collected and disposed of for good. How much better it is to reach out, to reconcile, to restore. We don't have the power to give life, but we are capable of adding to its flavor and usefulness, if we only make the attempt. Finally, I've learned that there are some repairs I cannot make by myself. I need help, expert help from others. Somewhere, there's someone who understands my condition and knows how to make me right again so I can continue into the future, like my clock.

Each one of us serves our purpose, fulfilling our role with some degree of faithfulness. We tire, we accumulate debris that slows us down and makes us less effective. We change jobs or homes or partners, but the things that impede us remain inside, clogging up our mechanism, troubling our heart. One day we find ourselves at the point of being discarded as no longer useful to anyone. I think at that point we need a new owner and protector. I know this sounds foolish to some, but I firmly believe this is exactly the point where God is willing to intervene, to become that person to us. He will take us out of the trash can, clean out the debris, replace the parts that have broken, and give us the push we need to start ticking again.

My clock is back home where it belongs, marking its life and mine, teaching me about life with each soft and familiar tick.

Bonnie

Maybe Bonnie wasn’t the best horse in my little string, but that summer she became my favorite.

It was that summer I rode for the Ehrlechers, and the boss gave me four horses to ride and to look after. Bonnie was one of them. Bonnie Bluebelle was her actual name but she was just Bonnie, my sweet little mare. She’d come to the Ehrlecher spread from a dude ranch in Fort Davis, and although she wasn’t exactly a young lady she was still spry enough to chase a cow critter through the brush and generally catch it. Bonnie was about half quarter horse and half a mixture of who knows what else, and she wasn’t all that special just to look at her but she did have the biggest, prettiest eyes I’d ever seen in a horse. Intelligent eyes, like she really understood what was said to her and being done around her.

Now Old Man Ehrlecher was a horse man from the old school. He wasn’t much of a fan of pedigrees and bloodlines, but he had a way of studying an animal, of watching it work just a little, and knowing if it would make a using horse or not. He was fond of horses, not as pets, but almost the same way he’d value a good hand who was a steady worker. He’d always treat horses and men right if they did their jobs.

That’s why he insisted every riding hand have his own string and be accountable for taking care of every mount as if it were his own. So I rode and looked after four horses that summer, but little Bonnie became my favorite.

Now she wasn’t always a lady, mind you. She had a female’s way of surprising me now and again, and sometimes she’d act out in some stubborn, hard-headed way that’d aggravate me for a spell, but we always worked out our differences and got to be good working companions.

If you depend on your horse to get the job done you care for it, just as you would your other tools of the trade. You don’t just ride in at the end of the day, strip off the tack and turn your horse into the pen or pasture, you check to make sure it hasn’t picked up a cut or a scrape that goes untreated, you dry it off if it’s wet or sweaty, you wash off the mud, you get the burrs and such out of its tail…you take care of it. I learned how to take care of my horses, and Bonnie became sort of a mentor to me.

You see, I learned some valuable lessons from Bonnie, things that made me a better hand for Mr. Ehrlecher and things that helped me understand a little more about people and dealing with people. Like I said, she wasn’t always a lady. One day early in the summer I was getting her ready to turn her out into the pasture for the night when I guess I surprised her by walking up to her right hindquarter sort of unannounced, and she cow-kicked me right above my left knee. Oh, it did hurt something fierce, but I just sort of leaned against her until I could move without favoring my leg so much it’d be obvious to the others. She stood there patiently, turning her head back and looking at me like she was saying, “OK, cowboy, what did that teach you?” And after giving it some thought there was something valuable to learn from that kick.

In my hurry to get Bonnie (and later myself) cleaned up in time for me to go in for supper I’d neglected to let her know I was there, nearby. So when I sort of came out of nowhere as far a she could tell, I was one of those two kinds of things that spook a horse: I was something that moved. She taught me to stay close to the horse I was working with, to let it hear my calm voice, to lay a hand on it to let it know where I was when close by. So I learned to stay close, to keep a hand on Bonnie and any other horse I was working with as I moved around, and to let it learn my voice. They’d hear my voice, and as I moved aft of the withers I’d give a touch or a pat, and on those occasions I walked behind them (never an especially bright thing for a cowboy to do but sometimes it was the shortest way to get to where I needed to be) I’d drag my hand across the hindquarters just so they’d know it was me and not a horse-eater coming around their other side. I ran out of things to say pretty soon so I sang to the horses as I worked with them, especially to Bonnie.

My Bonnie chases after the cattle,
She’ll cut ‘em when I give her her head.
My Bonnie’s the best dog-gone cowhorse
That was ever on the Ehrlecher spread.

Well, I never claimed it was a good song, or that I had a singing voice worth listening to, but it was my song for my little mare and she never complained.

And that experience with my string, it taught me about working with people, especially later in my life when I was accountable for others and the work they did. I learned to treat people with the same kind of consideration I’d give a good work horse. After a difficult day or the end of a demanding project you take care of your people before you take care of yourself. And you always let them know you’re nearby, not always as the boss but as a work companion. You don’t pop up out of nowhere and you keep your voice calm even when you don’t feel that way inside. I don’t recommend giving folks a pat on the hindquarters, but some kind of touch can do wonders—a handshake, a real pat on the shoulder, or a phone call or a Snickers bar in the break room. You let people know you’re there and you care and most likely you won’t get cow-kicked.

The summer passed quickly and I went back to school. The months and the years flowed past, a slow but unstoppable river of time. Even though I didn’t want to I sort of lost touch with that time in my life. The memories were still there in my mind but neglected. Life had acquired a way of taking up so much of my present that I didn’t seem to have much time left for enjoying the past, like I should have.

It was about six or seven years later when I moved back to that part of Texas and I enjoyed catching up on things with friends and former neighbors. Old Man Ehrlecher had retired and his daughter and son-in-law were doing a good job of running the ranch. I was visiting with them over coffee one day when in a pause in our talk Sasha said, “The vet was out at the ranch last week and told us Bonnie’s condition is deteriorating. He said it’s about time to put her down.” Her words stunned me. I knew Bonnie was getting along in years, but… I was speechless for a moment, trying to loosen the grip of that hard, icy hand around my heart. “He diagnosed her a few months ago with HYPP. I guess she has just enough quarter horse in her to make her susceptible.” That cold hand was still there, and it felt like there was something inside me about to break.

“There’s no cure for that, is there?” I croaked out, already knowing the answer.

Sasha just shook her head slowly. “Katie’s brokenhearted. She learned to ride on Bonnie, after we took her out of the working herd. How do you explain something like this to a seven-year old?” I didn’t have an answer. I couldn’t even explain it to myself.

It was about ten days later when Karl, Sasha’s husband, called me. “Doc’s coming out this afternoon. It’s time.” I thanked Karl for his call, and I really meant it. Most folks don’t understand the feelings that were aching inside me right then, but horse people do, and the rest won’t “get it” so I won’t even try to explain. I made some excuse or another to take off from work and drove out to the Ehrlecher ranch.

I got there ahead of the vet so I had a while to talk with Karl and to go see Bonnie. I could tell she wasn’t right, the way she sort of swayed, a mite unsteady on her feet as she stood in the round pen. They had a worn stable sheet draped over her but I could see she looked tired, almost frail, and I figured it must be the ravages of the disease that was taking her away. In a way I guess it was a good thing for me to see her like this…it made it easier to understand and deal with what needed to be done. She was too good a little lady to let her linger like this.

Karl led her out of the round pen, the vet and I following close behind. She moved along painfully, hooves shuffling in the dust, a slightly stumbling step every dozen feet or so. My throat tightened and began to ache. We walked, oh, a couple hundred yards from the round pen to a flat area where some creosote bushes and a few scrub honey mesquites punctuated the flat ground. Karl had already prepared Bonnie’s resting place with a backhoe, a shadowy slit in the earth with one narrow end sloped downward where she’d be led. Bonnie backed down the slope as Karl guided her, her beautiful eyes wide and alert, but still gentle and trusting. Doc moved to her side and I stood just forward of her withers, my hand clutching her mane, the ache in my throat almost unbearable. I didn’t see Doc give the injections, and there was no outward sign from Bonnie of any pain or fear. She stood there a few minutes, waiting patiently. I pressed my cheek against her neck, held tightly to her mane, and as best as I could I hummed our little song to her as I felt her grow unsteady and then slowly collapse almost on her left side, settling down for her final sleep. The vet checked for a heartbeat, examined her eye for any pupil dilation, then stood and nodded to Karl and me. It was over.

I looked down at my little mare then reached for the stable sheet that was still draped over her. I pulled it up to cover her head. I just couldn’t bear the thought of dirt falling directly into her face. Yeah, I know, I’m overly-sentimental. So sue me.

I began the long and lonely walk back to the pens and my truck. Doc stayed to talk with Karl who started the backhoe. I guess in part to cover the noise of that machine as it finished its hateful work, but in greater part to try to beckon some of those beautiful but neglected memories I’d let lie for too long, I heard what could barely pass as my voice singing.

Bring back…bring back…bring back my Bonnie to me….
…..to me…..

The Football Team from Shafter, Texas

The best summer of my life was 1963 when I rode for the Ehrlecher spread in Jeff Davis County, Texas. They had about 30,000 acres and a couple of thousand head of mixed beef cattle that had to be counted, vaccinated and treated for screw-worms. I was trying to make a hand and they let me ride, paying me $50 a week and all I could eat. They set me up with 4 horses; I had to bring my own hotroll.

We had an old Airstream trailer where we slept, out in the middle of nowhere, too far from town to make it worth riding or driving in. The cook had a tent and a wagon where meals were prepared. After a long day in the saddle we'd wash off in the stock tank, have supper, and then entertain one another with stories--some of them were even true.

There was one story told by another hand, Sixto (his last name I don't recall) that he swore was true. I must’ve heard him tell it at least a half-dozen times that summer and it was always the same. Some of the other cowhands scoffed, but he swore it was true.

I've taken the liberty of putting it in first person, the way I heard it from Sixto, and I think I've got most of it right as to dialogue. I know the facts are just as he told them back then. Once in a while I've added a comment in [ ] to explain something a little better that he didn't originally tell, since we all knew back then what he was talking about.

******

It was in '53 when I was working for the sheriff's department down in Presidio. I was a new deputy in the department, and Sheriff Race was my boss. [Race Harland, known as "Sheriff Race" to most of the people in the county] I had night duty, and that meant I just drove around to see if there was trouble out on the roads. Kids would buy cheap wine or tequila over in “the O’ [Ojinaga, a Mexican town just across the border from Presidio] and raise hell in their daddy's car. Sometimes there'd be some bad wrecks, but usually just a car with drunk kids that run through a fence.

One particular Friday night in late October I was over on 67 [state highway 67, between Presidio and Marfa] when I saw this old yellow school bus chugging down the grade from Marfa. I pulled up alongside and saw a bunch of kids in the bus and they looked like football players because I could see some standing and talking with football jerseys on. The bus had "Shafter ISD" painted on the side. Like I said, it was an old-looking bus. I followed it for a while, mostly because I had nothing else to do but then I wondered if it was going to make it up the next hill. After a while I passed and waved at the driver and went on towards town.

A few days later I was in Shafter and stopped at a gas station for coffee and to stretch my legs. Just making conversation I asked the kid at the station about the high school football team, if they were having a good season. He shrugged and said "They used to have a six-man team here but not in a few years, I don't think." That puzzled me but not much since that old school bus could have been sold to another district and never painted so it could have been some other team I saw. But after I finished my coffee I went over to the school just to see, since I was curious and being curious is part of a deputy's job.

I walked around but didn't see any school bus even though classes were going on. The whole school didn't have more than about 80 students, brought in from the ranches and a few who lived right there in Shafter. After a while I saw an old guy painting and stopped to kill some time with him and just be known around town. When I asked him about the football team he said "Who told you there was any football team here?" I told him I'd seen the team on the bus just a couple of weekends before. He stopped painting and gave me a real funny look. "Deputy, we ain't had no team here in years, ever since the accident." About that time I felt this kind of chill run up my back.

He told me back in 1948 there was a six-man high school team that played some of the other little schools around, like Marathon and Fort Davis and Valentine, but that was the last year. He told me about the accident.

The Shafter team was returning home from a game in the school bus, getting close to home out on 67. The best anyone figures they topped a hill and began the downgrade, but something must have happened to the brakes or the steering because at the big curve right where 67 crossed Cibola Creek at the edge of town the bus went off the road and down a drop off into the dry creek bed. Every one of them was killed.

******

Sixto went on about checking the accident records in the Sheriff's office and he found the accident report, but he never told anyone who worked there what he'd seen because he feared losing his job or at least being laughed at. Only after he quit the department and started cowboying again did he feel he could talk about his experience, and then only to men he trusted not to call him a liar or a lunatic. After hearing his story and seeing the look in his eyes as he told it, I couldn’t call him either one.

You May Belong to a Cowboy Church...

If your cutting horse has more formal training than your pastor
If "pray for rain" is a permanent and printed line on the prayer request form If on the Sundays that you baptize, the horses go thirsty until 1:00 pm.
If roping dummies are considered playground equipment
If starched wranglers are considered formal attire
If tofu is thought to be a foot condition
If all of your church hymns start with a fiddle kick off
If your communion bread is really a flour tortilla
If a cow dog has ever interrupted a prayer service
If you have ever ate a church potluck supper out of Dutch ovens
If a barrel horse has ever been the church prayer list
If your church's sign was cut out and put together in a welding shop
If your church parking lot has to be dragged, leveled and rerocked every two years.
If the elders ever had to call a workday to build a barbed wire fence to keep cattle out of your church parking lot
If you ever had to avoid horse manure in the church parking lot
If mugging has nothing to do with a "stick-up"