Julie Carter
Noticing things and thinking about them are sure signs of trouble for me. But, here I was, thinking again.
Four of my good cowgirl friends and I can tally up seven daughters between us. They are all beautiful, grown up, educated and living lives of their own. All but one of them are married and have families.
And ya know, not a darn one of them is married to a cowboy. Is it me, or does that make a very loud statement?
Could it be that when they were small children, we drug them across most of the Wes-tern states every summer, all summer, to hot, dirty rodeos? We hid them from the elements under playpens turned upside down on a blanket next to the rodeo rig.
If they had a summer birthday, it was always marked by a melting birthday cake at a rodeo somewhere. My eldest thought Buena Vista, Colo., celebrated her birthday with her annually.
She sometimes laments that when her friends were old enough to cruise Main, she was still cruising I-25 in the rodeo rig with her sister, the blue heeler dog, a cooler of cold Cokes, lemon pepper chicken and potato salad tucked in the camper.
"Mom, could I sit this one out?" she'd ask. "Like, could the neighbors watch me this weekend?"
Perhaps the warning was in watching their mother pack 80-pound chilled-down baby calves up and down the stairs to the basement where the "infirmary for frozen calves" was set up next to the heat that looked not so fun or rewarding.
On the other hand, maybe it was the gentle way (sarcasm here) their father spoke to their mother when they were cutting cattle in the alley.
Expletives deleted, the gist of the conversation would infer that if there was a blind man around, he'd do a better job of running the cutting gate.
Explaining to him that yelling at her didn't make her a better hand never seemed to stop the flow of useful suggestions offered in the heat of a runaway herd situation.
The delightful irony was when, in his anger, he sent her back to the house but forgot they only had one pickup on that side of the pasture. He had an 8-mile walk home. I'm sure it gave him time to reflect on the error of his ways.
Perhaps the daughters heeded the warning when observing the long hours of on-demand assistance that began benignly in courtship.
It was then he explained that the ring on her hand bought him a gate opener for life. He just made sure she was out opening the gate when he discussed that part of the contract.
These bright girls watched their mothers haul water, chop ice, change tires and feed cowboy crews after, before, and during the cattle work. They followed in her tracks on long days of gathering cattle in the brush during a drizzling rain that fell from the sky and off the trees, too.
They helped nurse wire cuts on horses, feed dogie calves, clean stalls and an assortment of other places that required hauling manure.
They learned to ride and could punch cows with the best of them. They knew when to get out of the way and how to recognize a wreck in the making, usually involving their dad.
They learned a work ethic that no school could teach and daily saw the best and the worst of life, death and hardship.
Smart girls who didn't marry cowboys. Now what was the question?
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