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.

WASHING DISHES

My daughter and her husband, both excellent chefs, invited me for Thanksgiving dinner. On my arrival, much to my delight, three of my grandchildren, ages 4-to-9, surrounded me as I sat on the couch. They talked non-stop. Each one had multiple tales to tell. I partook of their loving bounty.

As all three of my children know, I am not much in the cooking department. However, following the meal, I am great in the clean-up crew. In dish washing, I believe in a sink of hot, soapy water, another of rinse water and a dish towel. Today, my seven-year-old granddaughter, Azriela, pulled up a stool and helped me.

As we worked and talked together, I thought nostalgically of my childhood, the holidays and large family gatherings, with their accompanying meals and dirty dishes.

I fondly remember those times, standing around the kitchen sink, washing and drying the dishes with my Grandmother Ollie, my aunts and my mother. It was the time the women chatted and caught up on the family news.

Women commune together as they work in the kitchen, the quintessential hearth. There, they return to their primal essence, the giver of life and sustenance.

JOIN THE PARTY

I am a survivor of satanic abuse. As a child, Halloween was a time of horrific cult rituals. Twenty-five years ago, my repressed memories exploded into my consciousness.

Until the past two years, Halloween has created angst in my life. Last night, I wanted to turn off my lights and pretend I wasn't home. However, four of my grandchildren had other ideas. After school, with parents in tow, they arrived on my doorstep in full costume. I enjoyed their anticipation of their upcoming candy hall and relented.

After the children were on their merry way, I drove to the grocery store and purchased a large bag of assorted candies. My attitude had changed, and I looked forward to seeing the children in their regalia.

Soon, my doorbell was ringing. Often, accompanied by parents, there were small, timid children, of Spanish, Asian or African descent. I relished their diversity and the obvious effort the parents had expended for the event.

Making a big haul, the pre-teens were having a whooping, good time. They had yet to be jaundiced by puberty.

After the last reveler had vacated my street, I was smiling. The children's joy was catching. I was glad I had joined the party.

RESTRAINT OF TONGUE AND PEN

Over the years, I have learned everything I think does not require my expression. If I do not practice restraint of tongue and pen, I will have to apologize for my ill-tempered words. I certainly had a close call last week.

Earlier in the year, I had seen a depressed, young man and received many phone calls from his distraught mother. Her son kept two therapy appointments. As we approached his issues, he became a phantom patient. He missed his three subsequent visits and followed none of my recommendations. Occasionally, he would call for an appointment. When I returned his call, he did not answer and his message machine was full.

I had not seen him for six months. Last week, he called, left a message and urgently requested/demanded that I write a letter on his behalf and fax it to his attorney. First, I always see the patient immediately prior to preparing a letter for the court. Second, I'm like a Missouri mule. A patient can politely ask me for a favor, and I will usually accommodate them. However, I refuse to respond to a demand.

Weary of being treated like a free Psychiatric 7-11, I promptly returned the call. To my surprise, I could leave a message. I reminded him that he had missed several appointments, and I was not a get-out-of-jail-free card. Yes, I was a little over the top, but he was the end of a long line of entitled young men, who have paraded through my office and mistook me for their mother.

A few hours later, after a long day of seeing patients, I received a voice message from the young man's mother. She was irate and unkind. As it often happens, the young "adults," problems stem from overly indulgent caregivers.

I was exhausted, infuriated and hurt. I wanted to call her back and tell her what I thought, but I refrained. I knew I needed to sleep on the situation.

The following morning, I composed a rational, professional letter for the mother and itemized the series of events that led up to previous day. I was grateful that I used restraint of tongue and pen, because I did not want to apologize to her or her recalcitrant offspring.

THE PASSING GAME

She's hot to trot,
Sniffing up my back side,
Go on Fast Mama,
Teen lounging in back,
On cell phone,
Thank you God
For the silence

ROCKING CHAIR PERCH

Family on boardwalk,
Heading to the beach,
Father charges first,
Little sister follows,
Bouncing toddler next,
Mother calmly bringing up the rear,
Hatted, tote bagged,
Carrying all three ducklings' necessities

MERRIMENT

On the beach,
Six children
Digging,
Running,
Laughing,
Squealing,
Building castles and
Greeting the surf.

Oops,
Mom patrol,
"Settle down,
You're having too much fun."

ON THE BEACH

Abandoned, yellow, plastic starfish smiling,
Passed on to waving toddler.
Pampered child crying,
Enjoying being inconsolable

Bikini body show,
Strutting wares,
Muscled surfboard daddies,
Looking cool

Nippy, at eighty-three,
A true beauty queen

No perfect shells for me,
But shards tumbled smooth,
In dancing patterns, and
Glistening hues of ruby-red,
Gold-to-brown, gray and white

MIDDLE CHILD

My daughter,
Navajo woman,
Finished high school,
Works hard,
Then goes home to her Hispanic husband,
Wonderful parents,
To their four children,
Who are bright and beautiful,
With black hair,
Black-brown eyes,
Bilingual,
Full of life,
Next generation's blossoms

MY ELDEST

A son,
Not speaking to me - again.
Have seen his two children once, in five years,
I'm being punished for writing about my childhood and "his grandparents."
Says it couldn't have happened, and
I'm the crazy one.
How would he know?
He wasn't there,
In those dark corridors of my life.
Says his grandparents were there when I wasn't.
Where was I?
Getting my brains out of hock

Such is life.
He lives in a bubble.
May it never burst.
But, if it does,
I'll be there,
Still loving him.

A BEAUTIFUL EVENING

My youngest son,
Handsome,
Gay,
Has fun playing drag queen,
Went to gay bar,
First time to see him perform,
Along with other lovelies,
Participated in the fun,
Tipped the dancers,
Introduced as Nicole's mother,
By my son's drag-queen mother,
Preparing to leave,
My son was obviously pleased by my presence.
Many others, with unfamiliar faces, hugged me.
The club owner, with tears in his eyes, thanked me for coming.
Then, I knew I had mothered and approved of them all.