Till The Cows Come Home

Life On The Ranch, ranching, Texas Hill Country October 23, 2013 Comments: 3

And the cattle did come home this morning, but not in a way I had ever before witnessed.

Let me set the stage. Our new ranch (Hidden Falls) is less than a mile from our main ranch (Medicine Spirit). Our herd of cattle has been on Hidden Falls just three times but based on today’s performance clearly the cattle know their way home.

Today I opened the gate at the new ranch and witnessed the cattle RUNNING, yes RUNNING through it. I had to speed by them in the pickup even to catch up with them and act like I was leading them. Fortunately I had opened the gates at Medicine Spirit leading to my preferred pastures.

The question in my mind is why the cattle were so anxious to return. They had water and salt at the new ranch. The grass was running out but they were getting enough to eat there. While I had a bag of ranch cubes in the bed of the pickup, they have never before run to hasten a feeding. In fact you rarely will see a mature cow run at all unless a dog is chasing her. I am unaware of any predators such as coyotes or feral hogs on the new place.

My theory is this: I think the cattle were homesick! Yes, maybe I am anthropomorphizing a bit, but what else explains their unusual behavior. The cattle drive proved so easy that the Border collies never even got out of the pickup. My ranch hand, Francisco, followed along but did not have to push the cattle. His job was limited to closing the gates.

When last seen, the cattle grazed contently at Medicine Spirit Ranch and, dare I say it, seemed over their homesickness. Life is good on the ranch.

Intruder

Border collies, Creative Writing, Life On The Ranch, ranching, Retirement, Texas Hill Country September 30, 2013 Comments: 2

The major transition points in life, e.g. retirement, have similarities to the boundaries of a ranch. It is at these dividing lines in life or geography that  stressful but often memorable events occur. The story below happened shortly after I retired from medicine  at the boundary fence of our ranch. The players are two rookie Border Collies, Bandit and Mollie, and one rookie, newly minted rancher, me. There is also one VERY large intruder. I hope you enjoy the story.

Intruder

 

For no apparent reason, my dogs’ ears suddenly pricked up. Their muscles tensed.  Mollie began to quiver and emit plaintive moans.  Wet snouts pressed forward, panting moist and warm on my neck. Just moments before Bandit and Mollie had been sitting in the backseat, calmly peering through the windows at the passing Texas Hill Country landscape.

We were traveling along a wash-boarded caliche road. The pickup shimmied down a steep hill, passed by a stock tank, and galumphed across a rusty cattle guard. Aggressive treads on sixteen-inch tires made crunching sounds on the limestone roadbed.

Twenty minutes earlier Bandit, our six year-old male Border Collie, had been relentlessly pestering me. His impatience had taken the form of mournful whimpering and pleading golden brown eyes. From a brief glance in the pickup’s rear view mirror, I thought I could detect a smug look across his whiskered muzzle.

From years of experience, I realized Bandit’s insistence could not be resisted for long. He had a history of inexorably wearing people down with his limitless canine shenanigans.  Nevertheless, a show of male gumption had seemed necessary on my part. As the steam rose from my coffee cup, I muttered to no one in particular, “What nonsense, it’s my ranch, I’m in charge, not that house demolishing, canine nut case!” Finally, as was typical and of no surprise to Trudy, my wife, Bandit succeeded in mobilizing me out of my chair and out of the house.

As we rode along that morning, Mollie applied furtive, staccato-like licks to my neck.  Was this her expression of appreciation?  In contrast to the more languid licking Bandit, Mollie, our three year-old, blue-eyed Border Collie demanded less attention and was far less demonstrative. While Bandit would nudge, paw, and connive to make his wants known, Mollie would usually sit a few steps away, studying every nuanced human behavior– Yoda-like through half closed eyes. 

Mollie loved to ride in the pickup. Mere mention of a trip would provoke frenzied barking and a skittering of paws on hardwood floors. Her fondness was largely anticipatory, as Mollie’s greatest delight in life was herding.

We had previously lived in the city of Lubbock where Mollie and Bandit, lacking livestock, had herded whatever moved. At times this had included groups of neighborhood children who chose to play in our yard, largely unaware cocktail party guests who surprisingly would realize they had all been rounded up in a tight knot, and most especially slow to move, human family members. An insatiable instinct to herd had over the centuries been bred into Border Collies and, as a defining characteristic of the breed, proved second only to an amazing intelligence.  I sensed Mollie had permanently tasked Bandit with the rallying of family members, a job Bandit seemed to relish even more than a juicy steak bone.

            My doggy road crew and I meandered along in the “Old Gray Goat”- a nickname Trudy and our two grown children had given my aging Ram pickup. After the dogs had alerted, they remained fixated on whatever excitement it was that lay ahead. I could see in my rearview mirror how their eyes stared at a distant spot, as if their gazes like matter were drawn into a black hole.  Then Mollie gave an ear-splitting yelp and began climbing into the front seat. 

While forcing Mollie back and navigating the Gray Goat around a clump of Live Oak trees, our herd of cattle came into view.  My growing concern began to gnaw more deeply, but I lacked an explanation for my anxiety. The dogs then became still more agitated and began to race back and forth in the backseat.  A disquieting sensation arose in my gut that something was very much amiss. But what was it?  After several moments of visually searching, the answer gradually became clear, like finally achieving focus with a pair of binoculars. 

“Awwwww shit,” I yelled to no one except my already aware canine companions. With my fist, I pounded the steering wheel in frustration.

He would have been hard to miss. The white bull was huge and contrasted sharply with my herd of smaller black cows.  He possessed a massive, shaggy head accented with black ears, black nose, and curiously black-rimmed eyes. In excess of a ton, the bull’s size alone would have made him stand out from the others, as he was at least twice the size of my Black Baldy heifers.

I looked for the small Black Angus bull that was supposed to breed the heifers but found him nowhere in sight.  Almost immediately I realized the behemoth before me would produce large and undeliverable calves. This mammoth bull had to be removed and the heifers protected, but how? 

Panic began to flow over me like a cold, breaking surf. The unfortunate reality was that the welfare of these young cows depended on me– a recently retired city guy and newly minted but largely clueless rancher.

I swung hurriedly out of the pickup and forcefully shoved two intensely interested Border Collies back into the truck cab. Unmistakable disappointment appeared on their muzzles. These rookie dogs, if unleashed, I thought, might cause a stampede and in any event would only be in the way.

I glanced to my left and spotted a mangled section of downed fence.  Barbed wire dangled from broken cedar posts that had snapped like matchsticks.  The ground nearby was gouged and scraped, as if by spring tilling. This area, I realized, was the scene of an unsuccessful defense put up by the smaller Angus bull.

In an attempt to learn something about ranching, I had read several books on the subject. What else would you expect of an educated city guy? Bulls, I had learned, were intensely territorial. The resident bull would usually confront an interloper at the fence line and ferociously defend his domain.  The gouged ground before me spoke to how the smaller Angus had made such a vain attempt, but given the size difference, he would have had no more chance to repel the huge white interloper, than would a destroyer pitted against a giant battleship.

On impulse I picked up a small limb and proceeded to strip off its smaller branches. I then pressed ahead in the direction of the great white bull. My hand repeatedly gripped the stick’s rough bark, as if milking it of a plan for expelling the pale intruder.

My intense concentration distracted me so that I failed to see an exposed tree root. My body hit the ground violently. As I landed, a hot, searing pain exploded down my leg and into my lower back. My head next hit, smacking into an unfortunately placed cow patty. I felt dazed and momentarily disoriented. As I gathered myself and slowly pushed myself up from the ground, the pungent smell of dung assaulted my nostrils.  My initial embarrassment was replaced by a seething rage that rapidly welled up within me. I distractedly scraped cow dung from cheek and glasses and began to limp onward, my anger overcoming the pain. 

“I’m coming to get you!  Can’t sneak onto my ranch!”

What I expected to accomplish by making such a patently hollow threat was unclear, but lacking a plan, bravado was all I could summon– outrage having swallowed common sense. As I saw it, the bull threatened my kingdom and challenged my role as protector of the yearling heifers.  Bulls, to be sure, were not the only territorial animals on the ranch that day. 

The herd grazed lazily in a nearby paddock about two hundred yards from my abandoned pickup. When my limp-along advance had closed to within thirty yards of the herd, the bull raised his massive head from his grazing and slowly turned to stare in my direction.  His baleful eyes bored into me, halting further progress.  The bull’s unblinking black eyes projected what I perceived as surly defiance.  I was especially taken aback by the size of his massive neck. It was huge–thicker than a man’s chest.  Steeling my resolve, I foolishly crabbed forward, my eyes measuring the distance to what I hoped was a safe retreat to nearby cattle pens.

The four-stomached herbivore lowered his massive head and began to repeatedly scuff a huge cloven hoof along the ground, throwing dirt up and under his enormous belly. The intent of the bull’s aggressive display was unmistakable and once again stopped my forward movement.  I was close enough to him to observe how his dirt-caked nose dripped, and how drool streamed out of his maw. He began to make a rumbling, low-pitched sound, as if from a bass speaker. The sound was so granularly deep; it was hard to imagine it coming from an animal, but rather more fittingly from some sinister subterranean chasm.   Evolution had designed this menacing warning to frighten away other bulls, predators, and no doubt foolish, beginner ranchers like me.

The bull mercifully did not charge or I likely would not be writing this piece.  Perhaps startled at seeing a yelling, flailing, idiotic man, carrying only a small limb, he chose instead to relish the entirety of the scene by falling back.  The novelty of my hobbling charge might have given the creature pause. Alternatively he may not have even viewed me as a threat, but more of an inconvenience, like a pestering swarm of black flies. 

For the next twenty minutes, I gamely attempted to separate the bull from the herd. I ran at him yelling wildly. I threw rocks at the bull and verbally berated him. I threatened him with my unimpressive stick. All my efforts proved useless.  Despite the coolness of the morning, I soon found my shirt soaked with sweat and my legs aching. My lungs began to burn and demand more oxygen, forcing me to bend over and rest my hands on my knees.

On one brief occasion I separated the bull from the heifers, only to have him rapidly circle me and rejoin the herd. Irritation and humiliation settled over me like a morning fog.  Bulls, I learned, could move surprisingly fast to be such massive animals.

Defeated, exhausted, and still smarting from my fall, I stumbled back toward the pickup. The sun had by then climbed high above the eastern blue hills but provided no illumination as to how to evict the trespasser from my ranch.

I turned back toward the surly creature and, and just in case any nosey neighbors happened to be watching from over the fence, shook my fist in the air and yelled, “Just you wait, I’ll make you the biggest meatloaf in history, make the Guinness Book of Records, you will!” 

Despite my bluster, I felt thoroughly and unequivocally diminished. A roving ruminant had outsmarted me. Heading toward the pickup, I heard my boots scraping along the ground. I felt ashamed because with all my years of advanced education, I had been outwitted by a dumb bovine. I was exhausted, stank of dung, and ached from my unsuccessful, sophomoric effort.

As I neared the pickup, I began to hear frantic but muted howling.  When I looked up from the caliche-strewn ground, I was surprised to see the pickup rocking from side to side. I heard Bandit and Mollie’s muffled wailing, obviously demanding their release from the cab. 

I could see that Mollie had jumped into the front seat and was careening from side to side. She banged into the doors, using her body like a small battering ram.  In his frenzy, Bandit had shredded the back seat upholstery. Shredded white seat stuffing made the interior resemble a winter snowstorm. A piece of the padding still crowned his black and white head, like snow atop a mountain peak. I stood dumbfounded, looking at the swaying truck and the havoc ensuing within. I learned a valuable but expensive lesson– never leave a Border Collie in the pickup when near the cattle herd.

My dogs seemed to be demanding their chance with the bull. But realistically, how could small, inexperienced dogs from the city confront this mammoth creature? Bandit and Mollie could be hurt or even killed. The risk seemed too great to consider.  I felt anguish, torn between by fear for my dogs’ health, yet equally tormented by feelings of responsibility for the well being of my heifers. 

Many good reasons for not releasing the dogs flitted through my mind: they could be kicked, stomped, or butted.  They could stampede the herd or run off in fear and become lost. But what other possibility did I have to protect the young cows from their reproductive fate? The dogs’ frenzied desire to participate, in what seemed their Border Collie birthright, struck me as compelling. 

I grasped the door handle, but still I hesitated. Should I really open it? I had no real chance of removing the bull on my own, having already failed miserably. Certainly the dogs could do no worse than my misadventure, which had driven the intruder still farther from the breached fence line. 

Peering through the window of the pickup, I asked the collies, “You guys wanna help?”

Deeply emotive howls erupted.  Their tails beat a staccato against the seatbacks. Their eyes demonstrated a burning intensity, and their bodies quivered, as if racked by fever. I tentatively pushed the button on the door handle, cracked the truck door ever so slightly, only to have it blown open, as two yelping Border Collies erupted like demons streaming out the gates of hell. 

“Go get the bull!  Get him!” I screamed after them, my voice full of desperation.  The dogs, like low flying cruise missiles, immediately sped off in the direction of the herd.

The two dogs charged pell mell across the pasture. Mollie, the younger and more recently acquired dog, was first to reach the vicinity of the bull.  She cut her stride, dropped her head, and began cautiously to circle the herd.  When an opening arose, Mollie darted between the bull and the cows.   There she crouched, fixing an unwavering Border Collie “eye” on the giant white bull.  The bull immediately alerted to her presence and froze in place.  Mollie then hunkered down about ten yards away from him, as if awaiting Bandit’s arrival. 

And this was not long in coming and consisted of a headlong, yapping, suicidal charge straight at the gigantic bull. Bandit’s kamikaze onslaught caused the giant bovine to spin around to face his reckless attacker.  But at the last instant, Bandit veered off, barely escaping a fierce head butt. This diversion of the bull’s attention, as if by signal, prompted Mollie to surge forward and repeatedly bite the bull’s hind legs. 

The bull appeared at first startled by the nips and then perturbed by them.  He twisted his massive body around to determine the source and focused his malice on Mollie. The bull clattered a huge hoof over the rocky ground.  He bellowed a loud, deeply pitched warning, turned, and retaliated with several ferocious kicks that narrowly missed her.  My spirits sank.  Landing one of these kicks would crush a dog’s skull. 

To my surprise, my dogs, usually docile pets, had been transformed into snarling, vicious predators. They fixed wolf-like stares on the bull with lips pulled back revealing their gleaming white canines. My fear for the safety of the dogs was by then mixed with an awed incredulity at their agility.  They repeatedly darted at the bull and, at the last instant, dodged his enormous flying hooves.  I felt loathing for this unwelcome intruder, threatening the well being of my heifers and my rookie herding dogs. My heart pounded so hard in my chest, I felt it might burst.

The bull shifted his stare frequently between Bandit and Mollie, his fury-filled eyes never leaving the dogs. Lifting his massive head, the bull, to my amazement, took a few tentative steps, backward. The dogs, seeming to sense his hesitancy, stepped up their swirling, frenetic attack, an assault that left the bull uncertain and bewildered.  While the dogs appeared to be dodging and diving haphazardly, soon it became apparent to me that the dogs, working in concert, were having a wanted effect.

By then I had moved close enough to the mêlée to smell the musky aroma of the bull and to hear the growling of the dogs.  I briefly studied the situation and then hurried to station myself on the far side of the bull, opposite the downed fence.   I brandished my stick– a stick that in the presence of the dogs garnered renewed respect. Together the dogs and I, ever so slowly, edged the stubborn bull across the pasture, away from the herd, and in the direction of the breach. 

After several more minutes of the dogs lunging and my wielding the stick, the dogs and I managed to move the bull about a hundred yards in the desired direction. Then near disaster struck. Circling at full stride from opposite sides and intent on watching the bull, the dogs collided with one another full force, sending both sprawling. For an instant, my Border Collies laid on the ground, legs splayed out awkwardly.

After a moment to assess the changing situation, the bull recognized his opportunity and whirled around. He then rambled back in the direction of the herd. The giant bull swept by me, ignoring my wind milling arms, leaving me standing helplessly in his wake. He had passed by so close that, had I been foolish enough to reach out, I could have run my hand down his broad, muscular back. I began to taste not only the dust he had kicked up but also imminent defeat.

The dogs soon reacted by groggily regaining their feet. Bandit stretched a hind limb and Mollie shook her head, causing a jingling of her collar tags. Then both dogs turned, and sped off toward the retreating bull and back into the fight.

 Mollie soon closed the distance between her and the bull. She arrived directly behind the bull where she chomped full force down upon his tail.  In the next instant, I saw Mollie, attached Bulldog-style, rocketing along behind the bull, like a miniature black and white caboose behind a huffing steam locomotive.  When the bull eventually slowed, Bandit circled him and charged head-on. This time Bandit did not dodge, instead biting down on the bull’s thick, pink snout. His bite left behind a bloody gash. Bandit’s attack had momentarily distracted the bull from the tenacious, tail-riding Mollie. 

The bull, now bleeding from his nose, appeared progressively flummoxed by the two tenacious dogs.  He took a few steps away from Bandit and then proceeded to buck like a rodeo bull, tossing the still tethered Mollie high into the air. She became detached from the bull’s tail, fell to the ground, and laid motionless some twenty feet away; her back pressed awkwardly against the side of a water trough. 

My heart sank. Was she dead? Was she hurt?  Would she recover? As if to answer, Mollie sprang up, shook herself, and sprinted back across the paddock to re-engage the bull. 

The collies had been able to outrun the bull prior to his rejoining the herd.  Now the bull with collies in pursuit turned unhappily toward the breached fence. The dogs, arcing from side to side, tailed the trundling, ghost-like, massive beast, urging him always onward. The bull thundered by my parked pickup, wheeled around the corner of the dilapidated corrugated aluminum barn and hurried across the crushed limestone ranch road. Now in full gallop with an occasional desultory kick at the pursuing dogs, as if to save face, the bull headed straight for the downed fence line. From the rear of the chase, I watched the bull jump through the yawning breach and hasten off into the pasture of the neighboring ranch.

Shortly thereafter I arrived at the boundary fence. Like two sentries Bandit and Mollie paced back and forth in front of the opening, still gazing in the direction of the retreating marauder. I collapsed to my knees, and sucked in vast quantities of air. I threw my arms around the furry necks of the collies and hugged them fiercely. I buried my face in their silky coats. Bandit and Mollie had accomplished what only minutes before had seemed impossible.

From deep within these untrained collies had come an instinct to separate the foreign bull from the herd and drive him to the broken fence line. The dogs, ferocious only moments before, had abruptly reverted to their gentle mode. Their eyes shone brightly and their tongues dangled haphazardly. Bandit and Mollie seemed to comprehend the magnitude of their accomplishment, appearing alive in a way I had never before witnessed. 

Still too winded to speak, I continued to embrace my dogs.  I scratched their ears and hugged their necks, feeling the softness of their soft fur against my cheeks and the warmth of their bodies.  I felt raspy tongues licking my face.  Pride swelled within me. I felt exultant, as one whose burdens had been miraculously lifted. Bandit and Mollie, my two brave Border Collies, had provided a gift, no doubt as valued in the giving as in the receiving. 

Now looking back at this, the first herding effort of the dogs and me, I chuckle over my own incompetence. I am thankfully aware of improvements since then, especially in my own stock handling ability.

Our capacity to herd together, in a larger sense, mirrors the development of the interdependent relationship between human and dog. From the earliest times, dogs, with their keen sense of hearing and smell, warned their human companions of lurking predators. Still today dogs provide protection for their families. As mankind learned to domesticate animals, dogs provided the ability to drive them into pens and off high rocky slopes, tasks that man on his own could not accomplish. Human hunting benefitted from dogs capturing game and from retrieving felled animals from inaccessible places, such as from lakes and streams.

Mankind’s discovery of fire to cook his meat increased its nutritional value a well as its tastiness, with the leftover morsels going to the helpful dog. Whether the dog-human relationship is based on utilitarian purposes or solely on companionship, a special emotional bond has developed between human and dog unrivaled by other human-animal bonds— a special relationship well known to every dog lover. A dog’s empathy toward a human’s emotional needs and the constancy of his affection remain the principal reasons for having a dog.

Eventually my breathing on that eventful day became more normal, and I was able to speak to my dogs.  I cupped their warm, damp muzzles in my hands.  The dogs intently stared up at me with their eyes still gleaming. They seemed expectant, awaiting my voice. With my first words, I uttered the time honored, parsimonious Border Collie congratulation and stand down command.

”That’ll do Bandit.”

“That’ll do Mollie.”

Like Walking On Toast

Drought, Life On The Ranch, ranching, Retirement September 10, 2013 Leave a comment

A saying exists among Texas Hill Country ranchers that we live in a permanent drought only interrupted by periodic flash floods. Well if so, then bring on the flash floods! To no surprise for those in the region, we are suffering one of the worst droughts of all time. The 2011 drought that actually began during the last quarter of 2010 remains severe and shows no sign of abating. Many ranchers by now have sold off their herds.  In will take a couple of growing seasons for the grass to reestablish enough to support grazing. Others have maintained their cattle and hold onto them with the tenacity of a koala to a Eucalyptus tree.

Recently I heard an experienced rancher describe what it’s like when he walks across his parched pasture as, “like walking on toast.” As bad as this is, it’s even worse when walking silently over only dessicated dirt.

I made the decision two years ago to thin my cattle herd but to keep most. I had a herd of really good, young heifers and like a crazed gambler in Las Vegas, I felt my luck was sure to change any day. Two years later, I fear my doubling down was a sucker’s bet. The drought requires feeding hay–hay hard to impossible to grow and expensive to buy. The choice becomes really how one loses money; sell your herd and buy it back high, or keep your herd and buy costly hay. It’s a Hobsen’s choice to be sure.

Needless to say, I obsessively fret over my not very enticing options. I pride myself on being a good steward of the land, but when push comes to shove, I will look after my livestock first. My real choice at this point is whether to sell off the herd and wait for the land to recover, or fight on with the grass I have bought and stored in the barn.

We are now into September, around these parts the second heaviest rain month of the year. Nevertheless, the average September rainfall is a bit below 2.5 inches, hardly enough to impact this fierce drought. With wanting eyes, we ranchers look to the Gulf for a tropical storm to head our direction and rain heavily down upon us. The earlier predicted robust hurricane season has already flopped. Now our chances for a tropical storm diminish by the day like a chocolate cake at a convention of sumo wrestlers. But Hill Country denizens remain steadfastly hopeful, perhaps how the Comanche desperately hoped for a miracle to turn back the relentless western expansion of the white man.DSC_1196

Periodic thunderstorms head our way. To date they are like a stripteaser and only tempt us. Mostly the rains that come are limited and not the long, drenching rains that are much needed to replenish our tanks, streams, and  wells.

As I longingly search the sky, I despair not knowing what to do with my herd. I only know that I need to make a decision in the near future. Will my attachment for the herd prevail, or will my desire for good stewardship for the land win out- I know not. I am sad and conflicted. Tune in…

Mutt or Evolutionary Icon?

Uncategorized September 5, 2013 Comments: 2

In previous posts I have mentioned a little brown dog of questionable lineage who adopted us a year ago. We call him “Little Jack”.

I should have known something was special about Jack when after finding him a home, my wife Trudy proceeded to enter a major funk. I actually had to call the man who took Jack and cajole him to return him. You see, Jack has this special ability to insinuate himself into the lives of humans. He is ultimately “pettable” and about as sweet and affectionate as any dog I have known.

The other day I witnessed another even more unusual characteristic. Jack climbed a tree! I mean he went straight up a tree to the second crook in hot pursuit of a squirrel. He was a good 15 feet off the ground. Imagine the surprise the squirrel must have had when he looked over his little brown shoulder and found a dog climbing almost as effectively as he.

Based on Jack’s appearance , we have wondered if he had  Catahoula in his background. Catahoula is a Louisiana bred dog used for hunting varmints.  To my knowledge, Catahoula is the only breed of dogs that climbs trees. Little Jack uses his claws in a highly effective, almost prehensile way that allows him to grip the tree (and my belly when he he tries to climb up- ouch).

Okay, here is my thought on Jack. Man and dog have been inseparable and symbiotic since the caves. What an advantage to have a dog scout for varmints, chase them and catch them but not eat them, and then bring them to his human for a meal. Jack has done this. However, I should mention that Trudy declined to cook the squirrel, making the excuse that she was fresh out of good squirrel recipes.

So my question is, “Is Jack a mutt or is he an evolutionary icon?”. Wouldn’t a meat finding extender for a human be quite a find? Wouldn’t this benefit humans in a similar way to how herding dogs have benefitted raising livestock? And Jack’s calm temperament and effect on people are undeniable (my wife is the perfect example). Jack and probably many other dogs have the ability to bring about a sense of pleasure and peacefulness.

So I will let you decide, mutt or evolutionary icon or maybe something else. I ImageWould welcome your thoughts.

My Writing Process

Carrying the Black Bag, Carrying The Black Bag: A Neurologist's Bedside Tales, Creative Writing, Inspiring Patient Stories, Medicine and Humanism, The Writing Process August 2, 2013 1 Comment

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One frequently asked question  readers have since publishing Carrying The Black Bag is about my writing process and any efforts utilized to foster creativity. I’ve decided to add some thoughts here on my blog to answer my readers more fully:

Yes, some authors do goofy things to stimulate their creativity. i’ve known some and read about others. The superstitious may choose to sit only in a specific chair or drink only one brand of tea. Others play up-tempo music or stirring classical works. Admittedly, I’ve been known to don a cap (my Greek fisherman’s cap’s my favorite) to prime the creative juices. But the goal for each author, no matter what the idiosyncrasy, is to achieve a creative fervor whereby the characters take command of the story and  fingers simply race to keep pace with surging thoughts.

For me I appreciate sitting before my word processor with a clear mind, a comfortable chair, and an exciting idea. I usually outline the story before beginning it. This isn’t an absolute but generally I find outlining helpful. I try and determine what the chapter requires for plot or subplot and then with trepidation shove off into the unknown.

Nothing inspires fear more in writers than a blank page or screen. Once immersed in the story, my pace inevitably picks up. Usually after the first draft I simply hate it. I often think what I have written is not fit for bathroom walls. It is not until  many more drafts later that I begin to like it even a little bit.  I then put it “in the can” for awhile. Usually after a week or so, I am able to spot additional flaws and weaknesses. I then adjust the story, much like adjusting a recipe to taste, substituting stronger verbs, adding apt similes/metaphors, and creating further descriptions.

The next stop for me on this literary journey is my writing group. Our group of five writers has met for many years and by now has developed a sense of trust. While we possess vastly different styles and genres, the feedback never fails to benefit my story. Soon thereafter I make the additional changes. After a final read through with minor edits I may write THE END. If the writing project is particularly important I may ask a beta reader for his/her thoughts. These are extremely valuable folks who must like your writing and be anxious to share their precious skills.

The question among writers that repeatedly comes up is whether the spouse should act as an informal editor or serve as an alpha reader. The usual response and one to which I hardily agree is NO, absolutely NOT! Having said that, almost every author I know or have read about uses (abuses) their spouse in this way, so long as he/she is halfway literate. I fully recognize this marital extortion is totally unfair to my spouse. In general the writer’s wife or husband feels torn between being supportive and being honest. To this I say, “tough.” No one ever said marriage would be easy!

So yes, Trudy regularly reads my stories. I ask her to do this when I am simply written out or else in need of a fresh eye. She also is good at word choice and grammar. Sorry Trudy. Such editorial services I’m sure must have been hidden in the fine print of the marriage contract.

My inspiration often springs from my surroundings and experiences. I love to tell stories. I love to watch people and animals and try to figure out what makes them do what they do. I love seeing people in extraordinary circumstances do extraordinary acts (this is the watermark underneath my patient stories  in Carrying The Black Bag). These stories show real people demonstrating courage and perseverance that, in some instances, they never knew they possessed. They tell us something good about the nature of our humanity.

Animal behavior also strikes me as overlooked for the substantial insights it provides for human behavior. I love animals. Maybe that is why in college I majored in Zoology. It wasn’t simply because it was a good Pre-Med major, and Chemistry, the other option, held for me no allure.

Much has been written on the creative process. I’m convinced creativity steals into the picture and cannot be forced. When it hits me, it does so unexpectedly much like a pigeon dropping. A rested mind, a beautiful scene, and a tickling of intellectual stimulation all enhance my potential for creativity.

Since the writing process per se is language-based, it is is strongly left brain. However, sudden insights like solving a problem or flashes of intuition come from the right brain. This  ability to perceive a solution requiring synthesis is right hemispheric and cannot be arrived at verbally. To write well, both sides of the brain need to work together. To paraphrase and alter the old Greek saying, we need a strong left hemisphere and a strong right hemisphere. That is, the brain must process verbal material, but also be able to discern some broader interpretation in order to tell a good story.

I believe this to be true, and try to put this into practice. And now so much for superstition or goofy acts. Now where was it I laid my Greek fisherman’s hat.

Thoughts On Love

Medicine and Humanism, Neurology, On Love July 17, 2013 Comments: 2

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about love. And when I say this, I mean with its many facets. Strangely this began when our daughter Katie and her dog Olive visited last weekend. Olive does not appear as your typical dog. Olive looks like a dog put together by a committee. As best we can determine, she has German shepherd and either Corgi or Basset hound in her background. Olive is a very sweet and a good natured dog but one that elicits gasps and startled comments, such as “Oh my gosh, what is it?”

Olive has the face and head of a German shepherd but possesses a low slung body with front paws that angle outward at nearly 45 degrees. Now how exactly a German shepherd and a short-statured hound got together, I don’t know. My guess is the German shepherd mother got drunk one Saturday night and fell into a ditch- then along came Daddy.

Katie and Olive

Katie and Olive

Another reason for my recent fixation on love is that I have been reviewing chapters from my unpublished nonfiction book (tentatively entitled The Man Who Played Pinochle With Dogs). One chapter describes an elderly lady with a massive stroke who EMS brought to our emergency room. Initially we didn’t even know her name but determined from the CT-scan that the brain hemorrhage  gave her a very low chance of survival. The  woman physically was in very poor shape and not much to look at. Her hair was stringy and yellowish, finger nails grimy, skin fissured and aged, and she looked malnourished. I must admit at that point, we looked at her more as an old lady with failing physiology and decrepit body than as an individual with particular wants and loves. In our defense we had nothing else to go on.

The next day Ned, her octogenarian husband, with mincing steps walked into our medical intensive care unit and filled us in on her background. Ned not only gave us factual information about her health, but also absolutely changed the way we thought about this woman. We learned that both husband and wife had spent their lives as migrant workers. The had met as children at the end of a long cotton row and later started a common law marriage. Neither could have been described as anything but common in appearance. They had little in the way of worldly possessions and possessed little education. They had no children that might have cemented their relationship. Despite this  rocky foundation on which to build a relationship, their love had thrived.

It soon became clear to us just how much in love they had been. They never had been apart in all their years together. They worked hard, looked out for one another, and moved about together following the crops. The husband was absolutely devoted to his wife, a woman in the story whom I refer to as Maggie.

Whether it was Olive’s speculated upon parents or this pair of octogenarians, love always seems to play a central role for all of us in our lives. Whether it was simple lust as I suspect with Olive’s parents or a deeper, longer, and more meaningful love as with my memorable couple that love provides tremendous importance for our lives.

As I review my medical stories, how often I find an underlying theme about some aspect of love. It enters in the form of caregiver sacrifice, spousal love, love of a parent for a child, or love among unlikely and inherently unlovable people. Love often becomes the engine of transformation in my creative nonfiction stories. The stories also underscore the affection doctors and nurses develop for the people they care for.

Medicine is a calling like no other. I am fortunate to have experienced not only an education in medicine but having medicine provide for me a greater understanding of human nature, human strivings, and human fallibilities. Thank you Maggie, thank you Ned for helping me to understand a bit more about love.

Hutton’s Calves Take A Trip To Town–And Then Back Again

Uncategorized July 3, 2013 1 Comment

This morning with the help of my ranch hand, Francisco, and my long suffering wife, Trudy,  I loaded seven calves into the cattle trailer. They were big enough and ready to head off. I might have known something was awry, when the loading turned out to be easy, really too easy. It went without a single  calf bolting or hitch in the procedure of any kind. It was almost as if the calves hurried into the trailer in order to take their morning ride.

On arriving at the auction barn in Fredericksburg, I immediately became suspicious when no line of trucks with trailers existed waiting to unload their stock. It was then that I spotted a small but all too informative sign posted in the window of the auction house- “No sales on July 2 or 3”.

Silly me, I had failed to remember the auction barn closes on holidays such as Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years. It had never occurred to me that it would close for sales during the week of the 4th of July. Isn’t anyone going to eat steaks, hamburgers, or beef ribs, I fumed. Regrettably I was forced to point the nose of “the Old Goat”, my gas guzzling V-10 1999 Dodge pickup, homeward for the return trip.

I don’t think “cow” very well, but I would like to believe the calves enjoyed their outing. I know the ride along dogs enjoyed it, as Bella and Jack gave me numerous wet and raspy licks both on the way into town and on the way back to the ranch. With my face thoroughly washed and abraded, I unloaded the calves into the front pasture. They trundled out, looked blankly around, then kicked up their heels, and ran straight  in the direction of the herd. They appeared no worse for wear and had experienced a remarkably cool ride into town for a July morning in Texas.

My error today was certainly not my most painful as a rancher. For instance it does not compare to when I was pitched from a horse and broke my arm and jammed my neck, or in a second instance when i blew out a disc in my back trying to man-haul a stump out of the creek bed after a flood (in my defense, my tractor was broken and what else could I do?).

Now those two mistakes hurt! Mind you, I never in 30 years got injured swinging a reflex hammer at someone’s knee as a neurologist. Since retiring and becoming a rancher I have broken two bones, torn ligaments, blown out my back, and worst of all suffered numerous instances of major loss of face.

It’s also not the most foolish ranching mistake I have committed. Several candidates for this dishonor readily come to mind. Expanding my herd prior to the onset of a major drought might come in at most expensive. I never would have guessed that hay could get that expensive. Personally, I rather like the time when I determined to paint one of my pipe cattle guards red and black in honor of my undergraduate Alma Mater, Texas Tech University. I thought it would look nice and thought just maybe the cows would enjoy it too.

Trudy, despite otherwise having good sense and having utterly failed to talk me out of this folly, got down on her hands and knees and helped me complete the goofy project. I do recall her muttering under her breath most of the time it took to complete. Trudy, I think this would fall under the clause in the marriage contract, “For Better Or Worse”. You’ve got to admit, our marriage hasn’t been dull!

Looking back on it, I’ve made plenty of ranching mistakes. Perhaps it’s inevitable having been a “city boy” most of my life and having lived rural ranch life only for the last 12 years. But that’s the fun of it. I have learned more from my all too frequent mistakes than from the ranch books I have read or the Ranch Day Programs I have attended. It has been fun. Besides as Trudy and I say to one another if taking life too seriously, “No one is going to die from this.” In my previous life, I certainly could never say that.

On Creative Writing

Creative Writing, Retirement July 2, 2013 Leave a comment

Writing is hard. I have drawn this conclusion after working for 10 years, attempting to leave scientific writing behind and redirecting my efforts for a popular audience.

My agent has by now sent my nonfiction memoir of patient stories out for a second pass. While I felt I had a distinguished career in Neurology and won more than my share of accolades from various professional societies, State of Texas, and peers apparently this counts for less than a single appearance on Dr. Oz. Well at least that is what my agent suggested. Oh well… We will see.

In response to the need for a larger “platform” I will enter more writing contests. I reworked a story recently and sent it off to the Bellevue Literary Review Contest. I hope to enter several more over the next months. The cost is small but even if a person wins, no one is going to get rich writing for contests. Hopefully if I hit on something, it will enlarge my platform and improve my chances of getting the NF book in print. Meanwhile I will continue to play around with a novel- the first chapter of which was posted on this blog several days ago. I appreciate the feedback and encouragement I received on this.

While writing is hard, it also is an obsession. To develop characters, establish a plot, and say things in non-cliched ways is a challenge. It is nevertheless fun or else I wouldn’t do it.

Fiction- Your Thoughts Please

Creative Writing June 28, 2013 Comments: 2

Dear Reader,

   Many of you know that I enjoy creative writing. While I wait on my nonfiction book of patient stories, I thought I would try my hand for fun on a fictional piece, tentatively entitled “A Glint In Time”. Below is the first chapter of an adventure/mystery book mostly set in the Hill Country of Texas.

I would appreciate your feedback. Is the chapter attention getting? Does the dialogue sound convincing. Does the story move along at a good pace? Does the story encourage you to read more? Any thoughts you have are welcome.

Warning: This chapter is R-rated!

I hope you enjoy it. 

Chapter 1

 

            February 12, 1989

            Galveston, Texas

 

Leaving the mainland behind, Vic Maletta cruised across the Causeway onto Galveston Island. He glanced at the lights of an active dry dock — one of the few signs at that hour of life in Galveston. In the distance twinkled the lights of ships headed toward the Houston Ship Channel.

All of them bypassing Galveston. Houston Ship Channel destroyed Galveston’s docks and our rich profits- almost as bad for business as those goddamned lawmen, the Texas Rangers.

Earlier that day a confederate had dropped Vic off in downtown Houston near a car rental agency where he had leased a nondescript black Ford sedan. The rental agency had been more anxious to move rentals than ask a bunch of nosey questions. Vic had liked their way of operating. But he had still given a false name, matching driver’s license, and incorrect insurance information. As he drove off the rental lot, Vic thought, this is one vehicle they’ll never be seeing again.

As he had expected, the streets on the island carried little traffic at 2:00 am. Under a heavy sky, Vic drove down Broadway toward his middle-of-the-night rendezvous, but took a circuitous route to reach it. He checked his rearview mirror repeatedly, making sure he was not being followed. Satisfied he had no tail, Vic made his way back up the island and turned on Avenue O in the direction of Kempner Park.

This goes good, big bonus in this for me. Will get out of town, till the heat blows over. Visit the flesh parlors in Amsterdam or maybe Manila. Those girls are hot and offer services can’t get around here.

            Soon Vic was approaching the landmark building called the Garten Verein located in a quiet, unassuming part of town. Just to his north lay this historical octagonal and tiered dance pavilion replete with ornate gingerbread. At that hour, its beauty lay deeply shrouded in shadows, but during the day its restored beauty attracted numerous tourists and proved a popular venue for large parties and weddings.

Vic had heard that German businessmen in 1880 had built the Garten Verein. He suspected the Germans had felt socially isolated or else lacked sufficient opportunities to quaff big, fancy mugs of beer. With its elegant name and architecture, Vic assumed it provided them a nice cover to get hammered and opportunities for illegal activities, if those square head, kraut-eaters were ever smart enough to cash in.

One aspect of the place had always irritated Vic, as he was ever loyal to his own. The original criteria for membership in the Garten Verein required prospective members either to be German or German speaking. Had his own ancestors from the boot of Italy arrived on the island during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, they could not have joined. Recalling such Teutonic arrogance did not upset Vic, as even minor irritants often did.  Tonight he had far more serious matters on his mind.

Vic knew that the Garten Verein amazingly had survived the devastating 1900 hurricane, although it had required extensive repair and rebuilding. Its restoration had included adding a new cupola on the roof where a flagpole, lost to the hurricane, had once stood. The Galveston storm had been the worst natural disaster to hit the U.S.A., killing over 6000 persons and devastating the island community. While Maletta was familiar with this storm’s history and admired the gutsiness of the island dwellers, tonight he was not visiting it because of any historical interest, nor could he have given a tinker’s damn about the locals’ struggles.Image

Through thin leather gloves, he stroked his Glock model 29 10mm that lay on the car seat next to him. He stroked it gently and sensitively with his fingertips, as if it were a woman’s sensitive inner thigh. Vic then inserted his hand into the box on the seat beside it that held the silencer. He liked this weapon. It was beautiful, cold, hard, and elegant. Reassured his weapons were nearby, he sensed an inner calm. He knew they were untraceable.

Vic’s confidence also sprang from his prior experience in such capers and from his careful planning. He was generally considered to be the best in the business at his craft. Like the Glock, he was reputed to be cold, deadly, and mercilessly effective.

Vic knew of his growing reputation that stemmed largely from work carried out around the country. Such special jobs had occurred, he knew, only when his boss had agreed to barter his skills to other families.

Only a very limited number of people held knowledge of his capabilities, but he enjoyed his little known but growing reputation. He would never admit publically to being held in such high regard, fearing overconfidence and more importantly, overexposure. Vic, however, did allow himself a brief sense of satisfaction before steeling himself for his riskiest venture yet.

            He picked an isolated spot in Kempner Park to hide the Ford. Vic scanned his location for any late night lovers who spooned on blankets or silly insomniac dog walkers who wandered about. Seeing none, he lowered his head and screwed on the silencer on the LWD gun barrel. The Glock ten-shot autoloader employed plenty of stopping power sufficient to drop any human adversary. He trusted this weapon- the perfect selection of a gun for the important assignment that lay ahead.

Vic had chosen dark clothing; black shirt and slacks, black tennis shoes, and a black baseball hat absent a logo. Vic had bought the items at an out-of-the-way used clothing store in a down-and-out area of Houston. The clothes did not appeal to his personal taste that was substantially more stylish, but for this job nondescript clothing fit the bill. For two weeks he had not shaved, darkening his face and partially obscuring his prominent facial features.

When getting out of the car, he slipped the Glock pistol down the back of his waistband and again scanned the park for unwelcome intruders. He grabbed a thick cloth satchel from the backseat and quietly closed the car door. He then stole farther into the park.

            Vic moved ghost-like through the darkness toward an isolated bandstand that he had identified during his prior surveillance. He had arrived earlier than necessary to assess the area one more time. After a final look around, he satisfied himself that all was quiet and he was entirely alone. He sidled back into his hiding place behind a clump of bushes ten strides from the bandstand and sank into its protective shadows. At critical times like this, he enjoyed absolute mental clarity. He loved this feeling for how good it made him feel, and knew full well that a very different one would later replace this sensation.

He tried his Trijicon night site and found it quite satisfactory. Amazing how this lights up objects. Almost like daylight! Vic heard the sounds of a few night birds and the light wind’s rustling of leaves. He heard nothing that was worrisome or out of order.

The night air was heavy and dank. Nearby flowers provided a pleasing scent. All his senses tingled and stood at full alert. The night was chilly, more so because of the dampness than from the temperature. Vic waited and thought, replaying his plan over and over in his mind. He knew his scheme was a good one- very simple and virtually foolproof.

As Vic waited, his mind began to wander. He began to envisage a recurring sexual fantasy that had replayed repeatedly in his mind ever since his youth. The familiar scenario was compelling, motivating, and terribly arousing. It was as intense for Vic as any of his basic drives of thirst or hunger, only much less socially acceptable. As always in his fantasy Vic maintained absolute control of his conquest. The infliction of emotional or physical pain had always recruited such pleasure in Vic and with it an intensely gratifying sexual release.

            Around 3 am the boisterous voices of two men interrupted his erotic imagination. He shook his head and re-focused his attention from his nearly overpowering fantasy to the important job that lay ahead of him. Vic could sense the men moved down the pathway toward him. He recognized the gruff, deep baritone voice of his boss. As they approached nearer, Vic heard both men slurring their speech. He suspected that shortly before they must have left one of the local all-night bars. He soon spotted his boss who was wearing a dark raincoat and broad hat. His boss swerved slightly, as he maneuvered down the meandering pathway. Vic also viewed a shorter-striding man. This one, he thought, was undoubtedly the object of his vindictive interest.

            “Those damned feds on me like stink on shit. This here’s the one spot can’t track me with their goddamned directional listening devices,” said the Boss brusquely.

            “Sure is dark here. Doubt I could even find my dick to take a piss,” said the other man laughingly in a higher pitched voice. “You sure, this’s a good place to talk?”

            “Not a safer place on the island for a private talk, Joey.” Vic knew that Joey was not the name selected by the man’s parents. Joey was not even the name listed on his employment forms deep within a filing cabinet in the Department of Public Safety at the State Capital in Austin. Instead it served, as an alias for an undercover Texas Ranger. Joey had been snooping around the family businesses for over nine months, trying to insinuate himself into the family. Some less wary members of the family had used him on small jobs and might have revealed some family secrets.

A paid snitch on the Galveston police force had eventually spilled Joey’s true identity and by so doing, sealed his fate. On hearing of Joey’s treachery, Vic’s boss had determined the Ranger needed to disappear, and quite permanently. “No witnesses make for real short trials,” the Boss had said to Vic with a malevolent sounding chuckle basting his surly voice. “ Besides, he knows too much.” And that is where Vic came in.

“I trust you to do this hit,” the Boss had said to Vic. “Can count on you– do it right and keep it damned quiet. No blowback from this and no goddamned publicity.” The words still echoed in Vic’s ears. High praise, Vic knew coming from the Boss, but also high expectations for an especially tough job.

For several years Vic had served as the enforcer for the family. This allowed him to carry out important hits and also to run special projects, Vic developed skills at persuading goodie -two-shoes, god-fearing politicians to see it the Boss’ way. Nevertheless, Vic had never before popped a cop of any stripe. Killing a Ranger made him hesitate, but an order from the Boss must be followed. Cop or not, he would disappear. Vic knew the assignment was important. This blot on the family would never have the chance to rat it out. The family was everything to Vic, and he shouldered his responsibility with pride.

            “Hey Joey, before discussing our deal, got a flask here with some really good Scotch. Gonna pour drinks to our new business. Put us in the mood to discuss our future plans.”

Vic recognized his signal to leave his secluded spot. On cushioned rubber shoes, he stole out from behind the clump of bushes and skulked toward the bandstand. By their pre-arranged plan, he knew his boss would have Joey facing away from his approach.

“Here’s to you Joey.”

“And to our partnership,” slurred the mark.

Vic could see Joey had focused on the pouring of the expensive Scotch. Vic saw his boss subtly cut his eyes toward him and give an almost imperceptible nod of his head. Vic could easily make out the shorter man with his back to him. After placing a silver colored cup to his mouth, the man arched his neck backward. This positioned the stiff’s head at the perfect angle, Vic thought. He raised the Glock, aimed it from less than two feet at the man’s head, and slowly squeezed the trigger. He heard the muffled pop, as the gun discharged. He felt the recoil and thought of it as the gun’s ejaculation.

The exceptionally good Scotch never reached the Ranger’s stomach. Before it could burn his mouth, descend down his throat, warm his stomach, or lubricate any social interaction, a bullet from the silenced Glock exploded violently into his head, shredding his brain and ending his life.

            Moving with cat-like reflexes, Vic pulled a large towel from the satchel. He encircled the snoop’s head with it. After removing a second towel and a spray bottle, he pushed the dead man’s head into the satchel. Vic then tied it in place with a piece of cotton rope.

Vic then grabbed the second towel and a bottle of cleanser. He wiped down the area of any spray that might have resulted from the shot. Vic had specially selected hollow point ammo He knew it would do maximal damage inside the Ranger’s head but would not exit from the skull.

This made the cleanup faster and the forensics more difficult. The Boss would never have told the Ranger where he was taking him that night. This meant the bandstand would never be connected with the Ranger’s disappearance.

            Vic nodded to his boss and then strode rapidly down the pathway toward his parked Ford. Without turning on its headlights, he then drove the car over the curb and snaked it back down the winding pathway to the bandstand. Vic and his boss then lifted the lifeless body and deposited it into the car’s large trunk. Vic dropped the cleanser bottle and cleanup towel on top the body.

Vic silently closed the trunk lid. His boss who just then gestured for him to leave, holding his index finger to his lips in the universal sign of silence. Vic got into the car and deftly proceeded back down the pathway and soundlessly slid over the curb into the street.

He then turned down Avenue O and made a turn onto 27th in the direction of the docks. After driving for several blocks, Vic turned on the car lights. Vic knew a boat waited at the dock onto which the rental car and its contents would be loaded for a one-way, nonstop trip far out into the Gulf of Mexico. He whipped out his cell phone and punched in a memorized number.

            “Package on the way.” With the cryptic message delivered to his associate, Vic flipped shut his cell phone and allowed himself a few moments to revel in his success.

            Payback for you high and mighty Rangers for messin’ with our business. Good riddance. Vic also had sensed he was becoming sexually aroused in addition to the heart-pumping exhilaration that accompanied his tension-filled job.

            Minutes later the Ford crossed over a series of railroad tracks and arrived at a darkened dock. He drove up a ramp onto the waiting ship. Seeing the Ford being secured by his confederate, he finally began to relax. Vic waited until the ship had cast off and was headed out into the bay. After it had disappeared into the misty darkness and only then did  he exhale a deep, purging sigh of relief.

Vic ambled off the dock and quickly located the car he had stashed earlier. At this point the tension was beginning to roll off him like water from a rain slicker. Vic sensed his adrenalin high ebbing, but in its place he felt an increasing sexual urgency. He pushed at his engorged penis to relieve the uncomfortable pressure it exerted against his unforgiving pant leg. Strange, he thought, how popping someone or even screwing up someone’s life always made for such great hard-ons. He thought, probably most guys didn’t get ‘em, but he couldn’t have cared less about what other guys experienced.

            Never too late to call one of the girls from the Center. Think I’ll hold an impromptu middle-of-the-night talent evaluation. For the first time that night, Vic heartily laughed out loud.

Something Old And Something New

Life On The Ranch, ranching, Texas History, Uncategorized June 15, 2013 Comments: 2

This week has been “ranch camp” for our grandchildren, Ramsey and Graham. They look forward each year to coming to the ranch where they have far fewer restrictions and new outdoor activities. This year they rode and bathed horses, bought and practiced magic tricks, explored the ranches, caught insects, ate around a campfire, and swam. With the clearing of our new second ranch over the last year, interesting items have been revealed. In addition to finding prohibition glass whiskey bottles and a bone yard created by a mountain lion (spotted a couple of times) other interesting objects include arrowheads, spear points, and scrapers.  We  carried out a dig looking for additional artifacts. We were joined by Tom and Linda Norris’ grandchildren from Lubbock and Grand Rapids.

Ramsey and Sydney digging for arrowheads

Ramsey and Sydney digging for arrowheads

The dig lasted about as long as did the attention span of 6 to 13-year old children. We explored what we believe is an Indian mound. Indeed we found a few points and a lot of flint knappings. The area (the location of which shall remain hidden) looks promising for future digs.

As I watched the dig unfold, I was reminded how ancient were the points and spear heads perhaps going back hundreds if not thousands of years. These  artifacts stand in juxtaposition to our young and promising  grandchildren who dug, raked, and strained the dirt. Youth meets remnants of an ancient civilization.

As the old saying goes, God makes up for growing older by giving us grandchildren. What a joy they are to Trudy and me.

Points found at Hidden Falls Ranch

Points found at Hidden Falls Ranch