Right and left
Morning
The Feels
There is
something magical that comes with the cool of the morning. It is even more so
when it is before sunup, nothing is stirring, and the sounds still belong to
the night.
If there
were a thousand mornings stacked end to end, it would never get old. If a
person is the least inclined, that is exactly the time you learn to love the
ranch. That is when you walk to the corral in silence. Every sense is focused.
The horse left up to jingle greets you with a soft nicker. As a kid, your
grandad catches him, throws a saddle on, and quickly you follow catching
stirrups and adjusting reins. Nothing is said as the gate is thrown open and
off you go into the darkness noting the eastern horizon has grown lighter since
you left the house. From experience, you know where the horses are likely to
be. They know the drill and their intent is to foil the well-rehearsed plot. Resistance
is a mandatory condition of the arrangement.
The warmth from the horse becomes
more welcome and reassuring. His footfalls are quiet, too. Everything is as
light as a feather. Without thinking, you have entered into a rare and real life
drama.
If you get to a point you can
see lights from the Mangus station, the horses must be in the bottom to your
front right there in the dark. Finally, they break and are running in the same
instant. The jingle horse’s ears are up and he is wired to fall in with them.
You hold him until he clears the creek and then you let him go. Forty four hooves are pounding and the induced wind hits you square in the face. The
sensation emerges as not just freedom, but immensity of freedom.
Quickly, everybody is running
flat out. Not touching any leather except where you sit you and the old horse
meld together. You lean closer against his neck and seek the perfect balance he
is offering. His mane strokes your face, and he, too, is young, and strong, and
vital again.
YESSS!
For a moment in space without
time, the ride is wide open and nobody is pulling any slack, but, as the lead
horse enters the corral, the procession pulls to an abrupt stop. As the rider
and the jingle horse clears the gate, Grandpa would be closing it. The dust
would then start to settle and everybody would be finding a place around the stanchion
where the oats would be spread on a deck worn smooth by daily use.
The saddle was pulled and the jingle
horse was turned loose. His work for the day was completed.
The walk to the house and
breakfast was then time for talk. Grandpa would include you in the discussion
of what the morning would bring. Silence was no longer a prerequisite, and the
eastern horizon was blazing yellow and red. The day had begun.
The feel … could simply not be
more alive.
The Feels
It was predicted to be 105°
today.
We’ve been moving a pasture and
the heat is not making anything easy. The drill has been to pen a bunch of
cattle in the late afternoon and then early the next morning brand the slick
calves missed or not yet born in the first work. In this way, we can avoid the
stress of the most intense heat and we can make sure we turn back any tight
bagged cows before we cross them.
The Feels coming out of these early
mornings have made it enjoyable.
It was when I saw that phrasing
in print that I was reminded that there is a big world out there that has
little ideal of the life we live. The plot surrounded the House minority leader,
yes, she who hails from San Francisco and vows to be Speaker once again. It
could have been in any number of issues that were referenced, but the one that
stands out most prevalent this week is the debacle that immigration has become.
The author suggested her actions are constantly motivated by The Feels she is selling. It was
compared to her propensity to sell a new car smell without regard to the car,
the flat tires, or the odometer readings over time.
It is the new car smell that
really matters to her and her followers-in-law.
In the extravaganza of the
immigration debate, the matter of border protection is simple prerequisite
phraseology to her. It means that when she finally rights every gringo,
colonial, male wrong in her world and elevates every down trodden soul to their
rightful place at the tax payers table, she will finally be happy, well … probably
not.
For sure, she opts for open borders
where everybody can come into this land of cornucopia where our Constitution
guarantees them abundant living replete with a permanent new car smell botella
of essence.
The problem is those of us who
confront throes of 105° days want the damn drugs stopped. We want sex
trafficking stopped. We want the tracks of illegals including terrorists gone
from our pastures and our front yards, and, most of all, we are sick to death
of the exportation of benefits that have kept the Frontera Mexicana from imploding
at our expense.
Morning
There remains something magical
about the witching hour. My elders taught me that. At 3:30 AM, the night sounds
still prevail, and the coming chaos of day is not yet on the eastern horizon.
It is there sanity is glimpsed.
Conversation is not required,
or, for that matter, any sound. There will be horses to feed, but they won’t be
jingled. In that, I am saddened, but we will ride. We will check the tight
bagged cows, too. Not everybody is eligible to be crossed to new pastures.
Stephen
L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Viva God fearing, free, and
independent Americans!”
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