SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE WESTERNER


The Dust Police

by Larry Gabriel

Normally, the season of brisk nights, cool days and long shadows was Harry’s favorite time of year, but the corn harvest was not good this year.

Despite the comfort of his combine cab and a welcome day of sunshine, harvest was not fun. The yield was poor and the condition not much better due to prolonged drought.

Harry estimated the corn would bring in about twice the costs of harvesting it, but only half his total production costs. “That’s better than nothing,” he thought to himself as he watched a shiny, new, black Suburban pull up to the end of his field.

Even before two men in suits got out, Harry knew the visitors were city boys. They parked on the down-wind side of where the combine would come out. After the combine stopped and the dust settled, Harry climbed down from the cab to greet them.

“What can I do for you boys,” he asked.

“Well sir, we are from the federal government,” one said.

“What’s your business out here?” Harry replied.

“We are here to check out your dust,” the short one said. “We are with the United States Environmental Protection Agency,” the tall one added.

“What’s wrong with my dust,” Harry asked.

“Well sir, there is simply too much of it. A properly functioning combine should not emit as much dust as is coming from yours. We could see it for two miles and we are here to take some measurements to determine exactly how much above the permitted amount you are emitting,” the little one explained.

Harry raised the brim of his hat up and scratched his forehead with three dirty fingers and shook his head in disbelief. After a moment he said, “Now look here boys. You seem to be a little confused about the reality of things. You do know, don’t you, that combines don’t make dirt? They just blow around what God put on the crop. I don’t make dirt. I just move it around for a living.”

“Be that as it may sir, you are polluting the air we all breathe and it’s illegal,” the small guy said.

“So what’s your point,” Harry asked.

“The point is that you could receive a citation and possibly be forced to pay a fine if our readings support our observations,” the taller one explained.

“OK. Tell me this. Would you be willing to issue the same citation to any piece of equipment making a similar dust cloud in this county,” asked Harry.

“Absolutely, you just point him out and I will write him up right now,” the little one said.

“I’m mighty glad to hear that. Give that ticket to your partner here because I saw you fellows coming for three miles down that dirt road kicking up a cloud of dust while producing absolutely nothing. I will feel much better about my ticket, knowing that at least it was for something. I help produce the food you boys eat and, even if I stir a little dust, it’s worth doing,” Harry said.

Harry got on his combine, turned its tail into the nose of that shiny new vehicle and put the thresher and header in gear. The boys in the dirty tan Suburban left.

Not all stories worth telling are true.

Larry is the South Dakota Secretary of Agriculture


The siren’s song of the West

By Julie Carter

It is a song not audible and yet it pierces the heart of men in every walk of life.

Like the music of the mythological being, the siren's song of the West pulls, tugs and creates within men an unexplainable desire.

It calls them to a way of life in place where renewed hope springs eternal and they believe for a better life in a less cluttered world.

The sirens of Greek mythology lived on a rocky island in the middle of the sea and sang melodies so beautiful that sailors passing by could not resist getting closer to them.

Following the sound of the music, the sailors would steer their boats towards them or jump in the water to get closer - both ending in disaster on the rocks.

Horace Greeley, has been credited for popularizing, 150 years ago, the idea of "Go West, young man, and grow up with the country." Today, the West is still a magnet to men and women of all ages.

A study of Western culture revealed three out of five men and nearly half of women would like to be cowboys for at least a day. Many have opted for complete lifestyle changes.

In droves, they have packed up their lives and moved to the West, finding a place in the open spaces much like the 100 years of homesteaders.

The 2000 census showed eight of the ten fastest growing states are in the West, led by Nevada.

Two weeks ago, 1,200 Michigan residents stood in long lines eager to head for Wyoming's rugged, cold terrain answering a call to a job fair.

The sheer numbers dictate that not everybody can be a cowboy. But a good number will take on the trappings of the trade, buy a 40-acre ranchette, and put a rocking chair on the wrap-around porch to watch the sun set over a small barn that houses two horses, a 4-wheeler and a couple of llamas.

It is a new West and is clearly an amalgamation of the many phases of an evolving genre.

While the West does not own the cowboy, it is the cowboy that epitomizes the West in the minds of those that seek him.

Some men are born to ride and some men were born to sit in traffic. Some come to live in the West as it is now with a more modern version of the cowboy wearing sponsorship tags on his shirt and making a few hundred thousand dollars a year riding bulls or roping calves in the rodeos.

It is a West where cattle are still king and four door pickups and aluminum trailers ferry the cowboy crew miles across ranches, counties and states - a West where ranchers hang on to an ever-changing way of life necessitating better practices in order to stay on the land.

There are those who come to feed their soul from the history created by those who came west to grow with a new country.

These were men who rode hard, shot straight and died young. Their ghosts walk the boardwalks of old towns in western territories and call to a breed of modern man who find themselves living a century past their time.

While the siren of the West may not lure man to disaster, the man that heeds the call will find today's cowboy life is not in the clothes he wears or the substance of his dreams.

To this day I have not ever seen the visiting pilgrim come to the ranch, dressed out in his version of cowboy clothes, begging the boss to let him drive the feed pickup.

Now there is a sign of a complete lack of understanding about how the West is really won in this new millennium.

© Julie Carter 2006