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.

ON THE ROAD

Third day,
Hey there,
Sporty, black roadster speeding by,
Running the trot line?
I have a heavy foot,
Raw elbows,
Aching back,
Sore cheeks and
Swollen feet.
Rush on ahead little buddy,
Sweep the trail for me.

MY TIME

Professional confines,
Muzzled too long,
I've listend,
And listened,
And listened,
To "experts,"
Mostly men,
Who said little worth hearing.
After sixty years of hatching,
It's my time.
I am woman.
Hear my voice.
May it travel far.

LOOK OUT

Oklahoman headed to ocean,
Sea in nostrils,
Truck Stop Mama,
Gas,
Bathrooms,
$10 showers,
Parking well lit,
Sleep in car,
Good to go


Addendum:
All blogs since 8/8/11 were cosmic downloads during two solo, spring drives to North Carolina. The series continues with my ocean visits and return drives.

LET IT RIP

At 62, I am a mother of three and a grandmother of six. I am a member of the silent majority who has been silent far too long. It is my turn to be heard.

As a college student, medical student and young mother and physician, I was too busy to find my voice, let alone speak it. Besides, in my training as a pathologist and later as a psychiatrist, I was schooled to censor all verbiage, lest it offend or rain down legal wrath upon my head.

In social circles, I often heard others pontificating drivel, I remained quiet. I felt any comment I made would fall on deaf ears or summon an attack, and I wasn't willing to waste my energy.

In 1997, with children grown and grandchildren on the horizon, I lived off the grid and, with hammer in hand, I built my own home. On a very cold January day, I was sitting in bed quilting, attempting to stay warm. Suddenly, a short essay came to mind, and words began to gush through me and onto paper. It was as if the cosmic computer button had pressed print.

My motto became, "Let it rip," and I did. Over the following years, I wrote three books on holistic healing, art and women's history.

Making the usual rounds of query letters to agents and publishers, I accumulated a stack of rejection letters. It seems I needed to be well known, or known by the right people, to be published.

Mustering my courage and resolve, I decided if artists could buy their own canvas, I could buy my own paper. In 2006, with the help of two professional stay-at-home mothers, I self-published.

In 2008, I released another adult nonfiction and six children's books. My readers have been few, and the literary world has yet to fall at my feet.

Disheartened, I have pondered the question, "Why write?" Finally, the proverbial light bulb went off, and I realized it is not so important that I am read. What is important is that I write.

For years, I have admired such artists as Georgia O'Keeffe and Grandma Moses. In their tenacity and perseverance, they held true to their inner visions, and I must do the same. There is freedom in anonymity. When no one is looking, I can really let it rip.