GOD BLESS COWGIRLS

Not too long ago, I visited my nephew, Rick, and his two daughters, Evelyn, age 7, and Mary, age 2, on their cattle ranch.

During calving season, Rick keeps the expectant cows near the house, where they can be seen from the yard.

As we prepared for an outing, Rick spied a baby calf. Promptly, he straddled a 4-wheeler, put Mary on behind him and off they went into the herd.

From the yard, Evelyn and I watched.

Rick captured the calf, hoisted it onto a set of scales mounted behind the vehicle and recorded its weight and its mother's ear-tag number. Then, he tagged the calf's ear with its own number.

(The tags and record keeping process details the breeding line of the calf's mother, its sire and is followed by the calf's developmental history.)

Afterward, the four of us piled into Rick's truck and headed out. While driving, Rick put on a Garth Brook's CD, That Girl is a Cowboy, and Mary and Evelyn sang along. They particularly punched home the phrase, "Sometimes the best cowboys aren't cowboys at all."

On our return to the ranch, Rick spied another new calf. From the back seat, Mary piped up about needing to tag the calf. Then, she started talking about "balls."

I was puzzled.

Then, Rick said, "Mary, what do we do with rubber bands?"

Mary promptly replied, "Put them around the calf's balls."

I was stunned and delighted.

(Rick later explained that the calf's testicles would fall off in about 10 days, changing the critter from a bull to a steer.)

Everyone dismounted the truck, and Mary and Rick rode off to weigh and tag the calf. However, on another 4-wheeler, Evelyn and I followed in hot pursuit.

You haven't lived until you have ridden behind a 7-year-old driver. She knew no fear. I was looking for something to hold on to, but Evelyn insisted that I hold on to her, because it made her feel better.

Soon, Evelyn discovered that I didn't like driving over cow piles, so she delighted in hitting every wet one. Finally, Evelyn rolled the machine to a stop, turned around and looked at me and said, "You have something on your cheek." She immediately flicked it off with her hand and matter-of-factly said, "cow manure."

At this juncture, Evelyn demonstrated, for my edification, the proper etiquette of spitting. She leaned out over the machine and spit on the ground.

Then, Evelyn proceeded to show me how to blow my nose. Resuming her same posture for spitting, she held one nostril with her finger and honked out through the other. Then, she reversed sides.

I was appropriately impressed.

Evelyn then revved up the engine and took off at high speed to find more, fresh, cow piles.

Rick later told me that Evelyn has ridden horses for years and, in the local 4-H Club, she practiced barrel racing and tying goats, which I suspect is a prelude to calf roping.

To say the least, Evelyn and Mary are cowgirls to be reckoned with, and woe be to any cowboy who attempts to stand in their way.

EDITING

Over the last fifteen years, my writing has been subjected to the scrutiny of a number of human editors. From them, I learned much.

Now, I am edited by a computer. Often, my computer program is my best friend. Other times, it makes me laugh. Its lack of a brain creates a nonsensical sentence or two. However, I am sure the sentence is well punctuated.

My program is very picky about my repeating a word. I frequently over-ride its suggestions. The repetition clarifies my point.

This electronic gadget also chastises me for my long sentences. I have become used to it. The program will have to get over it. My name goes at the top or bottom of the page.

I often enjoy a country spin on things. My rural vernacular is also subjected to my electronic editors scorn. Sometimes I spiff it up a little and, other times, I don't.

Well, for the moment, I have run out of words. So, I will check with my editor and see how I fared on this piece.

BREACH MENDED

I went to the Grand Ole Opry, once,
After the Gaylords raped it.
Half-the-time I paid for,
I listened to semi-harmonic humans,
Sing "Cracker Barrel" commercials.
I swore I'd never eat there again.
Alas, on this trip,
My resolve vaporized.
I was hungry.
They promised good country cooking,
And it was.
Atlantic haddock grilled to perfection,
With fried apples, cornbread and a veggie.
So much for my proclamations,
Hunger levels the playing field.

FINALLY

Two lanes,
Moving good,
Hallelujah,
Amen,
Pass the biscuits,
Some jelly too.