Then Sings My Soul

Thoughts from Vic

Then Sings My Soul

The other scribes

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

            It’s dark outside.

            First, the prospects of another day of the unexpected will be set aside for a cup of coffee with a bit of honey. It won’t be the Redrock variety that tasted of catclaw, but it will be a reasonable substitute promising only natural and unrefined sweetness.

            That’s supposed to healthy, right?

            Lencho says it is and he ought to know. Having fought that dreaded scourge that John Wayne spelled with a capital C, he is an expert on foods that are supposed to support rather than exploit our systems.

As a prayer is offered that he has this thing licked. I hope he is right.

            Then Sings My Soul

            Monday’s rain was unexpected. With a whopping 2.83” dumped out of the gauge at the highway pens, the lesser amounts were only adjuncts to a continuing smile. June just doesn’t usually offer promises like this.

            Within the mix of colors that seems to run together, one of the days was pretty raw. The pair was turned out that had been in the corral for the purpose of digging the wad and tangle of grass and dried mustard from the cow’s mouth so she could eat. The old cow had been on the fight since she was unloaded and any appreciation she may have had for resolving her predicament was spared by again demonstrating her disdain for all humans.

            She ran her benefactor over the fence before she finally saw the open gate and made her hasty exit. Her calf was right on her heals, though, and showed no ill effects of her woes.

            The next dilemma was the power. The storm had kicked the main breaker coming into the ranch and everything was down. That meant no water was being pumped. El Paso Electric was called, and, fully 30 minutes into the process, a living being had still not been contacted and the tedious menu response was suggesting we didn’t exist.

            If the problem is discovered to be on the customer’s side of the service, a service charge of up to $248.62 may be charged with any visit, the recording continued to threaten.

            Ooooh …!

            At the Monterrey pens, a cow with a tight bag was observed. Her calf was there with little doubt it was snakebit. Its rostrum was swollen and it was unable to nurse. So, a run back to headquarters to hook up a gooseneck was in order. Another 24 miles of gravel road was driven before the cow and sick calf were unloaded at the headquarters, the calf shot with Dex and an antibiotic, and the cow run in the chute and milked. The pair was then turned into the pen vacated by the earlier cow and calf. This cow had no intention of running anybody over the fence. She just worried about her calf.

            The power was on! The main well was checked, and the pump had spooled up and was pumping at 290 pounds of pressure.

Thank you, Lord!

            Then, the helicopters were observed. There were two with both of them making slow racetrack loops, hovering, and then one of them sat down on the south side of Massacre. Even from the distance, dust could be observed in the landing. The first thing that came to mind was perhaps the missing person of last month had been located and his body was being removed. Or, on second thought, maybe these were military craft working a joint drug deal with CBP (we live and exist in a border drug corridor). One thing was certain, though.

We will likely never know because we are among the last to ever find out anything.

Thoughts from Vic

That increasingly famous Selma raisin grower and classicist, Victor Davis Hanson, suggests that common dilemma is not isolated to border ranchers.

It is the entire middle class and it isn’t just America.

            His message describes how illegal immigration, the enrichment of cosmopolitan elites, the absolute power of unelected bureaucrats, the singular theme of a myopic media, the fallacy of utopian planning, and the vacuum of real world stimuli for self-appointed academic deities have moved the world to the verge of catastrophic societal eruption. This whole package is about to blow!

            Who can say he is wrong?

            While we are getting our hands dirty just trying to stay afloat, we have no time to even check our backtracks to see what next phase of organized assault is being staged. Our government certainly doesn’t protect us or our interests. On the contrary, we are simply subjects authoritatively managed to fund their legacies. We don’t have enough wealth to effectively protect ourselves.

            The other scribes

            Implicit in the fact that every Democratic presidential nominee since 1984 went to law school resides the other issue.

 Lawyers make their living mocking and scorning those who create wealth. It is a condition of their existence. It is their source of income. It is foundational. Lawyers represent clients who seek clear cut monetary decisions. There must be winners and there must be losers. There cannot be mutual resolutions.

Perhaps, on a micro basis that is fine, but what about on the larger playing field where our nation and our place in a world community exists? When society is viewed as opposing parties with distinct need to declare winners and losers, the citizenry realizes it is relegated to opposing and adverse positions of existence.

The role of lawyers and the increasingly defined rules and regulations of everything is simply too overpowering. When viewed through the eyes of lawyers, there is no solution of workout. It is simply a matter of right or wrong defined by the source of the money supporting the demand.

It is the stuff of conflagration.

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Consider this amazing statistic. Americans makes up 5% of the worlds’ population, but within our borders reside 66% of the worlds’ attorneys!”