Of Cow Herds and Politicians

                                                    Dumb, but not Stupid

Of Cow Herds and Politicians

Iron Matrons Arriving

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

 

            If the need is to study the factors that make a great bull, start with EPDs, select from pathfinder cows, and advance to close out data. If great cows and great cow families are the subject of interest, go to Alaska and study great sled dogs or midwestern high schools to find successful girl basketball teams. There are real lessons to be learned.

                                                        ~  Neil Burcham, Professor Emeritus, NMSU

            As the first week of October ended, rains were still falling across southwestern New Mexico.

            Yes, the stewards of the ranges were demonstrating at least a modicum of enthusiasm as if it was hard to get out of the habit of scowling and complaining about endless drought. They have endured such an endless threat of ruin that their faces are cast in a frown. For the moment, this blessing of added moisture can be appreciated.

            Full attention, though, will not be diverted to the frivolity of vacations or charity golf matches. Life goes on as fall works expand and the daily business of living continues.

            Dumb, but not Stupid

            This government has long forgotten its cornerstone.

            In fact, if that cast of characters that live and work in the government center would admit the truth, money is their proxy for a modern cornerstone. Something is dreadfully wrong when a winning ticket into government guarantees wealth. Both parties have failed our form of government and made a mockery of any fiduciary responsibility they swore to uphold.

            Most of us have relegated our votes to the candidates that appear to support our views knowing none of them are independent of thought much less constitutional integrity. Less than one percent could pass a constitutional test.

            Decisions are made on an agenda, party lines, and campaign contributions.

            There is no reason to restate the failures that have been heaped upon this nation and world over the past two years. There is one issue, however, that those of us who live and work in the shadow of the border know enough about that the idiocy of Washington, Santa Fe, and Sacramento cannot discount.

            This border is dangerous and the control of the cartel smuggling corridors is dominated from the southern side.

A question is in order. Why are the border states of Arizona and Texas the predominant invasion targets? Could it be the party affiliations of the other two liberal governors? Could it be the relative completion of effective border wall construction? Could it be the absence of inquisitive investigation and reporting?

            There is one thing for sure. Our national security forces are confounded not by protection and border security, but by endless paper and deceptive administrative busy work. Cowboys from both sides of the border witness and acknowledge that daily.

            We may have the moniker of dumb leveled at us, but … we aren’t stupid.

            Iron Matrons Arriving

            The arrival of conservative Latina political candidates across southern Texas and elsewhere should be catching everybody’s attention.

            The phenomenon of their male counterparts, groups like the Mesilleros of New Mexico’s Mesilla Valley, has been documented in this column, but these Latina Politicas are showing unexpected teeth. They have had enough of the liberal denigration of their faith, their families, and their unborn babies.

            They are on the prod! Europe is exhibiting the same trend.

            The UK’s new prime minister, Liz Truss, has arrived as that country’s chief executive officer. Her message is not one that we just all need to get along, but, rather, we are going to drill, we are going to frack, and if there is any air left to discuss peripheral passion issues maybe they will get ten minutes of back and forth.

            Truss has a long memory, too.

            She remembers the meddling by the 44^th president of the United States in the matter of Britain’s decision to escape the chains of the European Union through Brexit. This brings the two countries to this juncture and the free trade opportunity that was short sheeted by the US as retaliation of the Brits wanting the rest of Europe to take their Euros and get lost. When asked if she would pursue such an agreement with the squinting 46^th American president she politely acknowledged that such discourse was not on the table.

            Then there is the newly elected family advocate and president of Hungary, Katalin Novak. As the former Minister of Family Policy of that country, she interrupted the national disgrace of having more abortions than healthy babies born into her culture. Called a fascist by the likes of Judy Woodruff for not bowing to the east for the club sport of killing babies, she arrives as a modest, effective communicator for decency. Her presence dovetails seamlessly with that country’s prime minister who leads a government that adheres to the principle that the Hungarian system will rely on majority decisions not private campaign marching orders.

            Then there is the firebrand and Italy’s first female prime minister, Giorgia Meloni.

Her speeches don’t need translation to comprehend her subject matter and intensity. She doesn’t need a teleprompter to make sure her staff’s coerced intent is covered, either.

            Being called by the left as the next Mussolini only elevates the interest by patriots tired of progressive, supernational entities. With an interesting penchant for quoting Chesterson, her political planks are straight forward. The deck has been stacked too long against the normal citizen. Next, Italian conservatives did not fight against communism only to replace it with an international regime, and her government is going to defer to the freedom, identity, and sovereignty of the people.

            The most interesting in the bunch, though, may be the rising stardom of the mayor of Madrid, Spain, Isabel Diaz Ayuso. Her claim to fame came when the whole world was shutting down and demanding the same of others during the Covid wars. Operating under the premise the role of government is to oversee and not exploit its citizenry she refused to shut her city down. The outcome was that Madrid’s unemployment declined another 25% and its economy now exceeds that of Spain by over 1.5% annual growth. When this Iron Lady now speaks, people listen. She’s hot and it isn’t just her looks. Entrepreneurialism and innovation are on fire in Madrid.

It will be very interesting watching the other ladies of this ring. Our world has for too long been judging the prevailing leaders by the wrong set of values.

There is a strong sense that the intellect of Neil Burcham should form the theme of this discussion’s epilogue. The response would probably remind the world that there are great female families that give rise to great performers, but, alas, … there are also those that too closely resemble the culls that should have been shipped long ago.

 

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico.

A Case for Artificial Intelligence

 

Sweet Memories

A Case for Artificial Intelligence

We miss you … 1954-1962

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

 

            This business of judging the best of all time must have been a societal discussion forever.

            It invariably brings into focus the past because all comparisons exist solely on events that have come before. The universe of sports is a most common venue for such comparisons. Maybe it is the model to judge most comparisons, but gone are the days of conditional innocence. Box scores and heroic performances are competing with politics and wokeness for center stage.

            It is safe to say that a whole generation is on the edge of disgust of what professional sports has become. Many in that group have largely stopped watching.

            Country and western music is no different. Five two steps, at least one swing, two waltzes, and a ballad in succession made the whole thing popular and few seem to realize that. Light shows, twits, C’rap, and too few waltzes are chasing us from its active listening audience.

            Maybe the masses don’t care, but out in the fringe country, in the rural enclaves, good music like local sports is heralded. When and where it appears it remains a beacon. Texas dancehall music is proof of that. When Ian Tyson started selling out dances at Elko a year in advance, something also was afoot. So was the interesting draw of a Western swing band, the Time Jumpers. Formed in 1998 by a group of Nashville studio musicians who gathered after the shows they play honest to goodness western music. Ray Price’s last albums, too, proved that good country music remained important to the genre.

            It was with that continuing backdrop that Sweet Memories (the Music of Ray Price and the Cherokee Cowboys), the newest Vince Gill and Paul Franklin compilation was so welcome. Playing music that you can dance to is the heart of country music. Playing those old songs will make a believer out of the uninformed, and they will bring those who love them to their feet and fill the dance floor.

            The past can be brought to life, and … that is a good thing.

            A Case for Artificial Intelligence

            The individual is the cornerstone of the idea of the greatest of all time.

            Choose any successful endeavor and it started with the work of an individual. The heretofore mention of politics and wokeness must be in irregular juxtaposition to any comparison of success. It would seem that an individual cannot prevail in either hence genius is absent.

            The arrival of this idea of artificial intelligence (AI), however, poses a completely undiscovered set of circumstances. Most of us have only started learning about it. We hear the various pros and cons, but a Dutch study from the Jeroen Bosch Hospital has an eye-opening outcome. It pitted two versions of an AI bot against doctors’ assessment of patients in an emergency room. In 87% of the cases, doctors had the correct diagnosis compared to a similar 87% outcome from one version of the AI. The other version, however, outperformed both with an amazing 97% correct diagnoses.

            In the chaos of an emergency room, maybe an AI diagnostic system has great potential, but that only begs another question. Can AI be called upon to perform similar tasks elsewhere?

            In his participation in the creation of the Constitution, Ben Franklin had some very insightful views of what American government would become. For one thing, he was not optimistic about the likelihood that any body of leaders could or would remain loyal to the premise of the American model. He didn’t trust mankind to remain inviolate in its commitment to standards of conduct and objectivity. He even suggested anarchy as the best form of government, but he knew his version of anarchy wouldn’t be understood. His suggestion became anecdotal only.

            Another largely hidden gem of his view was how the moral standing of society should be managed. He thought such an important role should come from the people. As such, the House of Representatives should become the moral voice of record.

            As we should all now know, though, it wasn’t the citizen who was tagged as the bastion of right or wrong. It was the Supreme Court, and its charge was altered to judge constitutionality of laws rather than serve as the caretaker of moral standards. Moral standards were therefore addressed implicitly rather than expressly in the participation of the citizenry.

            As our nation has learned, the Supreme Court has long demonstrated Franklin’s fear of how thoughts and actions of leaders can become corrupted. One could argue that a major contributor to our decline has come from the inability of judges to remain disciplined to judge and not to legislate. Maybe another way to describe that is the Supreme Court was never the correct body to be assigned to manage the sanctity of the Constitution in the first place.

            What if, however, the Framers could have overseen the data packaged and inputted into a permanent archive that matched their unique perspective of what was intended in the first place. A perspective of AI is that it holds inviolate the pool of data that it oversees. The outcome may well be that rather than being governed by an ever-increasing bank of case law and regulations, all laws would be judged only by originality of the Constitution.

            If it could keep human corruption out of the picture, maybe it is a grand concept.

            We miss you … 1954-1962

            Americans have lost contact with originality, and there is a desperate need to reacquire it. Families of two generations ago probably came as close to that concept as any in history.

Many of us believe the best days of American history were in the later ‘50s and into the early ‘60s. Every aspect of life was different from today. Yes, the scribes and the bleacher bums will offer rebuttals, but the visions of Franklin were largely in place. WE can remember when schools were governed by a wickedly straight principal and one secretary. Sure, there were bad guys, but locally elected sheriffs were a force to be reckoned with, too. School boards would often lock the door to hammer out decisions that were deemed unanimous and they would act united regardless of the hostility that may have existed in the debate. Private business was the mainstay. There was no such thing as big box stores. Towns were vibrant and proud. Churches were full, and boys going off to the military were honored at home without NGO pledges.

            Life wasn’t perfect, but standards were heralded.

            It was a good time, and on Saturday nights there was even a dance somewhere. You may have to drive to get to it, but it was a celebrated in our own version of reset with five two steps, at least one swing, and two waltzes which were played in some fashion of succession.

            You’ve got to wonder what AI would think of that.

 

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Ask your dance partner to the middle of the kitchen floor and dance to Sweet Memories”.

The Past The Blessing Life

 The Past

The Blessing

Life

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

The song, the Boys of Fall always takes me back.

The lyrics capturing the smell of fresh cut grass, butterflies, call (it) in the air,

sweat and blood, talking trash and I’ve got your back all have significance the football

field. Being from last century Silver City the smell of fresh cut grass was one of the first

things we noticed. Not all of us had yards, much less fresh cut grass to smell.

In those days, Pumas and Adidas hadn’t arrived and the day we picked up our

equipment we converged on the box that once held a washing machine and dug through

the shoes that had been worn by a hundred boys before us. If we found a decent pair that

fit, we grabbed them and retreated before more competition arrived.

Helmets and shoulder pads were no different.

When two-a-days started, we thought the heat at 5900’ was intense, but that

would pale to the first games played in El Paso where the difference in heat was

suffocating. Before that, though, it was a week at Camp Thunderbird and those awful

trails over the hills. Meals were together in the cafeteria and our parents were invited to

eat supper with us the last night of the stay.

The first game in early September was high drama and we got to wear our jerseys

to school on game day and the pep rally. Upper classmen had first choice and the

numbers became ours alone. Indeed, we felt like kings of the school as we walked the

halls to class in scattered groups.

At home in those years, we played in that grand old ball field on the campus of

Western New Mexico University, James Stadium. The smell of fresh cut grass greeted us

as the pieces of the current team gathered for warmups on the south end of the field. In

unison, the voices echoed across the field as the crowd studied the current year’s field of

athletes.

The memories are many.

Regrettably, most of those teammates are scattered and lost from communication.

The memory that lingers most vividly is the walk across the field on the last night, the

last game, and the last time we would be together as Fighting Colts. There was dread of

reaching the bus to drive across town to the new high school to shower and then walk out

onto the gym floor together for that last game dance. She was at my side holding my hand

as we walked. We were surrounded by near silent friends that had grown to be brothers

sweating blood and talking trash.

Indeed, we were the Boys of Fall, and, to this day … that past was much better

than we gave it credit for at the time.

The Past

In a recent return to California, the immensity of agriculture created by American

ingenuity and guts was again witnessed. It was surprising how it affected me. I had never

witnessed the winter vegetable country of Yuma and the south end of the Imperial Valley.

My experience was north in the Central Valley, but the look and the general cleanliness

were all the same.

Big time, American agriculture!

Free and independent men walked the earth at the time when those first grand

water projects were conceptualized and built. Since that time, the population of western

states and particularly California has exploded and grown exponentially. Those same

projects have sustained that growth and increasingly are denigrated as the strife

associated with the mob and its climate change church has been allowed to prevail. The

realization that growth is no longer predicated by upward push, but, rather, downward

suppression has long been the trend of secular and career-based leadership. It’s

everywhere, and there is one thing that emerges and runs parallel to the chuzpah of all

forms of past achievement.

The past was much better than we gave it credit for at the time.

The Blessing

Debating whether to talk about my experience, a statistic has been discovered that

has consequences beyond any personal case. It needs discussion and Dr. Timothy

Fernandes of the UC San Diego Hospital, and pulmonary hypertension team is part of the

reason. His bovine lecture sealed the deal.

Yes, this renowned human pulmonologist gave a bovine lesson!

The attendees included our team PA, Angela Baptista, our nurse for the day,

Kirsten, and seven or eight surgeons following Dr. Fernandez around on his grand rounds

observing and learning the lifesaving procedure medical science knows as Pulmonary

Thromboendarterectomy. His lecture began with the reminder that the patient was a

rancher from southern New Mexico and cows and humans only have a small number of

common diseases. The ailment of discussion was what cattle suffer at high altitudes in

northern New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming, and Montana.

That ailment is high-altitude sickness, and it is manifested by blood clots plugging

the lungs and the inability to support oxygen levels in the blood. He informed the group

that I had a severe case of high-altitude sickness, but in the human form and termed

pulmonary hypertension. In the form I had, it cannot be treated medicinally and that is

why the trail led to UC San Diego. That gifted team of surgeons and staff have developed

the expertise, the surgical processes, and the tools for removing the blockage and

restoring heart and lung health.

If the surgery is successful, the cure is immediate.

The statistic mentioned is an estimated 100,000 Americans die annually from the

disease. Too many cases are not diagnosed, and opportunities for solution are even less.

Untreated it is a death sentence. The victims’ heart shuts down trying to pump blood

through the lungs, and the death certificates indicate heart failure as the cause.

The journey began in Las Cruces, but the acceptance by the National Jewish Lung

Hospital for the diagnosis and referral in Denver was the game changer. A good friend

from Iraan, Texas is credited with opening the door to Jewish National through the

successful treatment of very serious lung issues within his own family. The angel of

mercy, however, came in the form of Dr. Patricia George of National Jewish who

diagnosed the form of pulmonary hypertension and then used her influence for getting

our case in front of the acceptance committee at UC San Diego. Without Dr. George, this

story would have ended much differently.

Finally, contacted by an ambassador from San Diego, we were invited to come for

a preoperative review starting the week of April 24. That ended with surgery on April 28

and an abbreviated departure schedule for May 6.

When I awoke up from an induced coma on Monday, May 1, Dr. Victor Pretorius,

the cardiothoracic surgeon who did the surgery, was shortly in my hazy field of view. He

announced to me that I would be discharged on the following Friday if my progress

remained consistent and that I would shortly be standing up. My pessimism about

accomplishing that was met with a stern reminder from Dr. Pretorius that I would also be

walking the following day.

He followed that comment by looking me in the eye and pronouncing, you are

cured (and my bed was needed for sick patients waiting in line!).

I became patient number 4789 to survive and be placed on this team’s register of

successful procedures (at the time of writing this article another 35 patients had been

treated). The magnitude of that is humbling. If the number of deaths annually is 100,000

that equates to 1,500,000 American deaths since the start of the program, and, there have

only been 4789 patients saved by the end of the day April 28. Consider what that implies.

This is a dreaded disease that suffers from the shortfall of diagnosis with even less chance

of cure.

Many times, during the fall of 2022 I was told I needed to go somewhere else

other than the avenues we were pursuing. Mayo Clinic was one of the suggestions

repeatedly. The fact became that the days before my surgery a cadre of Mayo Clinic

surgeons were following Drrs. Fernandez and Poch around on their grand rounds

observing the protocol and the surgery. The Tuesday after the surgery a surgeon from

Cedars-Sinai was with Dr. Fernandes when he came in to check on me. The last time I

saw Dr. Fernandes that group of Pacific Rim surgeons were following him as the

ambassador to the teaching hospital mission of the UC San Diego Hospital. In their game

of life, that team is actively sharing its knowledge and their calling. Theirs’ is a mission

of hope and life.

There is no greater gift.

The question now is what the Boys of Fall and American Agriculture have to do

with pulmonary hypertension. The answer is there is vacuum in life that is filled

variously. It can be filled with human achievement or human failure. It can be projected

with commitment or despair. It can be measured by achievement, or it can be rendered

mute by surrendering to this woke nonsense of doom.

Life is a team game.

If you are lucky, you get chosen to be on the good side, but the key is to present yourself

for the chance to compete for success. The combination of the experiences hereinabove

has contributed to what and who this rancher from southern New Mexico is.

Each has left a mark, and, over time, they have merged into one thing for sure …

God has blessed us.

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico.

Academy of Projections

 

Wood Smoke

Academy of Projections

Canales

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

  

            Simplicity has been a prevailing theme these days.

            Included in this have been late night video searches for meal preparations from the early 1800s. Several iterations are in the books. The best examples have been silent with nothing more than a mike picking up background noises, but the preparer of the meals, a lady dressed in period clothing, says nothing. It is a reminder that visual learning is a most powerful influence on us.

            She is very skilled at her craft.

            The focus of her preparation has been a big open-hearth fireplace. It is equipped with a pot crane and her cooking paraphernalia is extensive. The combination of cast iron, copper, pewter, and pottery are nearby to complement each task. Unexpected efficiency is the outcome.

            Salt, butter, eggs, cornmeal, molasses, cream and milk are standards. To a lesser extent, sugar, flour, coffee, and pepper appear and are incorporated in the process. In one segment, the lady churns butter in a vertical churn completing the process by washing the finished butter as she shaped it into a pad with a pair hand carved wooden spatulas.

            The use of these standards prompted memories of modern days yet long ago. Our churn was a square glass jar with a metal churn that was screwed into the top of the jar and cranked by hand horizontally. Even as little kids we were skilled at making butter including announcing the progress and expected time of completion of each batch. We could wash, salt, and pad the finished butter into pads, too.

            In early years, milk came from our maternal grandparents. In later years, the fresh milk came from a neighbor who still milked a cow. From that milk, cream was skimmed for the purpose of making butter and or cooking. Just like the lady in the video, fresh cream was always on hand (but her cream was stored in a cool cellar or a spring house rather than a refrigerator).

            The ingredients for her meals were either grown or harvested by the family. In one segment beets were boiled along with beef as the main course. In another, red cabbage and potatoes were combined with homemade sausage. In each, something sweet was added and it was made around a combination of cornmeal and molasses-based recipes.

            If there was a word of consistency in the extended story lines, simplicity could be used. If there was a word that came to mind observing the kitchen and the lady at work, either silence or solitude might fill the bill. To observe that process and that of today’s kitchen with cell phones ringing, televisions blaring, and the chaos of constant chatter the difference is stark.

            Complication runs the real risk of diminishing all quality of life. It detracts from substance.

            Academy of Projections

            Dr. Peter McCullough has introduced a concept that is old and yet new again. In fact, it may well be a trait of the human condition that has brought civilizations to their various knees and ground the ability of governments to function to a standstill.

            The idea is not McCullough’s by any means, but rather comes to us from Jonathan Swift’s third book of Gulliver’s Travels in 1726 and the Island of Lagado.

On this island, Gulliver finds unsupervised and countless inhabitants scurrying around basically performing pointless experiments that benefit no one. The array of such experiments is quite astounding. There is an attempt to transform calcine ice (roasting ice) into gun powder. There was another experiment to reduce human excrement to its original form (food from which it was formed) to be recycled back into the system as a conservation ploy. There was yet another experiment whereby a bellows with an ivory muzzle was inserted into the anuses of dogs only to observe the dogs were dying when air was pumped vigorously from the bellows. They kept killing dogs trying to reverse engineer the process to figure out what was going on.

            All in all, the collection of work from these Academy of Projectors was combining to register a zero on the greater of scale of importance to humankind notwithstanding it gave the scurriers something to fill their days and stimulate their minds thus their argument could be made that it was important work.

McCullough, of course, is implying that historical insight wasn’t too far off the mark from today’s issues. Stated in yet another way (and implicit in the $31 trillion dollar debt this government has incurred) there is a whole interconnected and gargantuan academy of self-stylized projectors across our landscape.

Alas, Lagado has been rediscovered for what it is and what it has always been. There is no basis for it being important or sustainable.

Canales

Indeed, simplicity has become more than a prevailing theme.

            The system of canales in the yard of my maternal great grandmother becomes the case in point. She was a truly amazing and inventive human being.

            Her yard along with its gardens and orchards was amazing.

            There were two orchards. The one up by the cottonwood planked barn was north from the house. Most if not all of those heritage pome varieties of fruit are now gone along with their genetics. There was another orchard south from her bedroom with its screened porch. That orchard was planted on a slope and had to be hard to water (it, too, was dominated by apple and pear varieties because of their ability to avoid freeze losses).

            Almost all those trees are also gone.

            The garden as I knew it was north of the house adjacent to the first orchard, but there are references to yet another garden east from the house that was not there by the time I came along. Unlike the orchards, there is more memory of what came out of the garden, though, than memory of the garden itself. Everyday on her table was something that came out of that garden whether it was canned or fresh.

            The yard was an oasis. It was an escape from the harsh reality of the sun, the rocks, the dirt, and the difficulty of creation from frontier life. It was watered by an ingenious system of canales, little concrete ditches where, given every chance, we chased fish and rode our stick horses. She adjusted her sets and her grass (in a world where nobody had grass), lilac bushes, cherry trees, and her rose bushes were maintained.

            Now, it’s our turn. As our generation ages, the role of eldership is being forced upon us similarly to important influences just like her. There is a common theme, too. Given a choice, we’d opt for the diligent simplicity of that time and place.

 

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “In similar fashion, Frank DuBois is owed a debt of gratitude by many folks. Call him and tell him so.”

Thanks, Steve

State of … Stampede

 

Chronic and self-serving

State of … Stampede

Managing Numbers

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

 

            A fool is a fool regardless of his persuasion.

                                                            ~ Texas Jack Hays

 

There is a ranch within the neighborhood that is destocking.

            The word has been there isn’t enough grass to support what cows that have been on it. More to the point, the foreman told me it had just not rained over this way. Not to belittle anybody in how drought can be managed, the end game is clear. If there isn’t enough feed to carry the cowherd, removal of the cows is the order.

            Nobody making a ranch pay its way can view it any differently. No reasonable manager would blindly allow the deterioration of the range. Any honorable steward would not purposely force destruction on the very thing that can assure sustainability.

            Any actions contrary to such critical decision making is selfish and unacceptable. If the offense is chronic and self-serving, it can become criminal.

            Chronic and self-serving

            The recent morning when 1500 illegals were counted through the gate in El Paso found this old rancher looking south into downtown from the fifth floor of Providence Memorial hospital. The mood was somber even if the attempt at humor was made to lighten the business at hand.

            The rumor mill was in high gear as to what had happened on the Rio Grande through the night was cussed and discussed. The nurses were talking as much as anybody. One claimed a friend living close to the river had witnessed an illegal walk down her street attempting to open every parked car door. Another stated that at midnight the Border Patrol had opened the gates on the river and allowed the hordes of illegals free access to sovereign United States territory. Yet other conversations referenced in horror the homeless on the streets and seeking the warmth of the airport terminal.

            Regardless of the color of the speaker, these American citizens were incredulous of what was taking place in their city. For the moment, bleeding red was a shared trait.

A more pertinent question should have been why that fellow sleeping variously between Washington and houses in Delaware is purposely disregarding his oath of office and the dictates of Article IV Section 4 of the Constitution clearly stating (The United States) “shall protect each of [the states] against invasion,”.

            The question now, though, is to whom shall the body Of The States to Each Other go to on Application of the (nonfunctioning) Legislature, or of the (rogue) Executive when neither can be rousted to protect against this invasion? This is the stuff of historic and willful destruction of our land.

            It is the ultimate, unforgiveable offense of chronic and self-serving partisanship that has long been out and out criminal.

            State of … Stampede

            If you are paying attention, the official gate count of admitting illegals from 41 countries by this administration is right at 4.9 million individuals (that does not include get-aways). This week’s announcement of 1,000,000 plus legal alien admissions brings the total to nearly 6,000,000 souls. That is an astonishing number for an exercise that would have required an individual ranch to do a full blown NEPA study for opening the first gate to give this stampede the start signal.

            Further, there was no habitat or prey studies to come close to suggesting the range could assimilate and sustain those numbers. To even make comparisons of what that implies, consider the fact that this All History Stampede equates to the combined populations of Wyoming, Vermont, Alaska, North Dakota, South Dakota, Delaware, and Rhode Island. If it followed that example, that equates to 14 senators (the House was capped at 435 nut collectors by the Permanent Apportionment Act of 1929).

            As a single state, the combined population of the new State of Stampede would fit into the array of states at 22 (about the same size as Minnesota) which would suggest that 28 sovereign American states would have smaller populations than this assault on our finite resources.

            This boils down to a basic manifestation starting with the fact those characters in Washington have placed us on the edge of oblivion.

            Managing Numbers

            The anecdotal conversations among the legal residents of El Paso continued.

            The illegals were met variously including lines of buses accepting all comers. It was obvious somebody was giving them food, clothing, and telephones. Many just walked away into the dark without a single average citizen knowing a thing about what was to transpire following their safe arrival to Goal, that safe place that is being afforded by American taxpayers as if this is an all-comers game of tag. The visual is undeniable.

            Come One, Come All!

          Think about how bizarre, egotistical, and hypocritical that actually is. There was never a legislative mandate to admit a new state the size of Minnesota into the Union. There was no legal appropriation of the cost of accepting and handling this mob. The rogue president and the asleep at the wheel legislators are pathetically and criminally guilty of what, Treason? Sedition? Arrogance?

            The justification for this is lost upon border residents that don’t need a framed interpretation or a partisan talking point. This is horrifying. This is the fully involved inferno burning our Union down.

            A point of order becomes what happens to these people as they scatter out across the country. We can’t hire them. A normal business would be taken to task by this government if illegals are hired without drivers’ licenses, social security cards, green cards or work visas. There must be some accommodation being extended to give them basic things that a person must have to exist, but we are not privy to the deals or the infrastructure apparatus that is expediting their journeys, their arrivals, and their delivery to the border.

            You can’t run a ranch like that and survive … you can’t run a country like that, either.

 

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico.

Thanksgiving, 2022

 The Condition

Thanksgiving, 2022

Upbeat

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

Listening to the radio this morning would make you think the celebration at hand is Christmas and not Thanksgiving.

Hearing Santa Baby one more time might just put a bunch of Westerners over the top. If there was a direct line to any modern disk jockey, a request for Gene Autry would be the better ticket. A straight dose of Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer would be preferably to the risk of the other.

The Condition

There is hate and discontent everywhere these days.

For starters, we have a fellow who has spent some $11M jetting back and forth from Washington to his seaside hacienda. He has made it abundantly clear he doesn’t have much use for the majority of us hinterlanders with our propensity to make independent choices.

So much for uniting the country.

There was an article yesterday where rural Illinois wants to separate itself from the fruit cakes and steel jungles of Chicago. To a citizen west of the 100th Meridian, that was a shock until the realization hits home that this is a rural versus urban division. Then it all makes sense. It also makes the count something like seven cursory discussions of divorcing those centers of liberal stupidity from rural America.

In order, there have been five counties in New Mexico and two counties in Arizona voicing preference in seceding and joining Texas. At one time, there was even a name associated with these counties for the purposes of a new state. The name was Sacramento. Likewise, inland California has long dreamed of separation from the oppressive strongholds of their political masters. They’ve had enough of the sophisticated hell of coastal and urban enclaves. Next in line, eleven Oregon counties have now voted to leave Portland and northwest Oregon’s stranglehold on that state’s politics and join Idaho in a geographic footprint they are calling Greater Idaho. The new state would keep an access to the sea in addition to regaining its freedom of expression.

The other discussions have been more clandestine to match the image of their backroom locations. One of them came from the very saloon in Montana where Clint Wells was reputed to have fought a famous bouncer and beat him. Somebody in that fine establishment took exception to the appearance of the western Montana border as if was looking down at Idaho as an undeniable profile of the Chief Executive sniffing another little girl’s hair. The conclusion was that the county exhibiting such a schnauz should join Greater Idaho just to clean up that disagreeable profile.

Next comes the simple suggestion of a coin flip. The exact location of this debate was noted only by GPS in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan in deer camp occupied by the original band members of the Yoopers. They were singing the 90th verse of The Second Week of Deer Camp when Walter accused Dieter of taking his beer. In the fist fight that ensued, Beetle came up with the idea of solving problems of this order with a simple coin flip. The greater ceremony derived from this discussion could be held concurrent with the Super Bowl coin flip so the entire world can at least witness the shenanigans that are bound to come from dividing the county into two. Conservatives will live in one and the liberals will be required to pack and head off to cohabitate with their likeminded sisters in the other. Whether it was west of the Mississippi or east of the Mississippi would be decided in the toss.

The final realignment suggestion comes from nearer home.

In that alternative, all political parties would be dissolved and outlawed January 22, 2023. To paraphrase the sage of this conversation, political parties are extraconstitutional (try to find where they are granted standing or authority over the Legislative, Executive, or Judicial Branches). Our country was not envisioned to become a bicameral political party republic whose power came from the highest bidding special interest. As it is now, these two political parties are about to destroy the whole. There is no thanksgiving in that regard.

A departure from their contrived division and negativity is the order.

Upbeat

A return to originalism is the better order. No television and few to none store bought anything have special draw this Thanksgiving Day.

The majority leaders in practice this day are the ranking grandmothers. Both of mine left huge impacts on everyone they touched. So often both are brought up in conversation. More often, their memory and their influences have long been daily reminders. Among all elders, their unconditional love remains the most profound.

I shared with Rena and Karen that our rolls come from the recipe of our grandmothers, the Moss sisters. Amy will bring popcorn balls from the verbal and practiced instructions of one of them as well. Stuffing will be an attempt to mimic a more moist version of same and giblets will be added to the gravy as a matter of respect.

The cranberries will have the same cream cheese topping, served on the same crystal, and spooned with the same little silver fork that has been part of that ritual since before memory of these things even began. The mashed potatoes that will be served will be compared to those of Grandma Wilmeth.  She cooked a few things superbly, and berry cobblers and mashed potatoes were two that were.

The pie crusts are direct replications of those of the days when cream joined butter as central ingredients of nearly everything worth eating. The fillings have changed to the extent that pecan has become a favorite. That isn’t to say, though, that the cream and pumpkin pies, or something with apples doesn’t have a place of honor. Only rhubarb and mincemeat are now missing with the latter a huge loss. The harvest of mincemeat and its special, almost guarded recipe were so special.

At the Wilmeth house the activities would then move to the living room and a game or two of pitch would break out. The room would boom with laughter and conversation. At the Rice’s, the inside activities would move to conversation with pies figuring more prominently as time passed.

At both, though, the outside world was still preferred. A .22, a pickup, and a saddled horse held sway. We were Westerners, and, to this day, a few of us remain tied to that dream.

So, you see … Thanksgiving remains an important event.

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Those holiday events shaped us in more ways than not.”

The Queen talked about God

 Adams and Natural Law

The Queen talked about God

The Cuates

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

 

 

          For too long, the countryside has been treated like a museum, held back by an outdated system that has frustrated economic growth.                  

                                                                             ~ Mark Bridgeman

                The past days have been a mix of old and new.

            We have been working cattle. Seeking later calves, our normal branding cycle has been delayed further into the year from prevailing practices. The weather, particularly the lessening of heat, is one of the benefits for both man and animal.

            A call to my pastor last week announced we wouldn’t be at church. We just needed to get these calves done and the pasture moved before next week’s schedule becomes yet more complicated. So, we gathered and branded in two big work cycles.

            The prevailing language spoken in the branding pens was again Spanish. That is a trend we are all facing as the scarcity of labor worsens. To that point, though, there are age old benefits from working with men (and women) who have learned the craft from those who have come before, who demonstrate a deep-seated work ethic, who remain respectful of the system that has created our heritage, and fundamentally make their spiritual life the guiding factor of life. Old virtues remain best virtues.

            When we broke for lunch, we joined hands, and grace was offered.

            That act of faith is also part of the legacy that Queen Elizabeth left the world. As the Queen who talked about God, something very important has been lost in her passing as the something progressive mobs continue to gain footing.

            Who knew she had a dairy? She had a 200 head Jersey dairy that was largely built around the idea of selling milk and cream for the purpose of making Windsor Ice Cream. The fact that the Queen was often seen walking through the milking parlor and inspecting her stock and her operation should give every agriculturist a different glimpse of her. Nobody vested in a primary production enterprise can be swayed away from matters of natura law and contract with the land. Smelling the sweet smell of cows up close has a way of revealing many things.

            The dairy operation wasn’t her only primary tie to the land. She rode. She hunted. She had a Sussex beef herd. She had 140 breeding sows. She had 1500 laying Lohmann browns. She had a 1000-acre farming operation, and she had a 2000-acre grassland dedicated to primary feedstocks. She was also a trained wartime mechanic who insisted on checking mechanical issues to make sure it wasn’t something simple she could fix. She was more of a steady and practical force of society than most of us ever realized. Politics was not her priority.

True ethics, spirituality, and natural law were, and she did it without calling attention to herself or her station in life.

Adams and Natural Law

The more time that passes reveals how little we learned about our history.

For example, John Adams was arguably a proxy for the role of Queen Elizabeth in the early days of our Union. He dabbled in many things, but, early on, he was captured in the embraces of agriculture as much as his devotion to Christianity and his evolution into the practice of law in its most basic tenets.

It was Adams who finally interpreted for me what natural law truly is. The explanation lies, in part, in a quote from him.

Self-preservation is the first law of nature, Self-love is the strongest principle in our breasts, and self-preservation (is) not only our unalienable right but our clearest duty, by the law of nature.

Lo and behold, the individual is the strength of this Union, not the government and its legions of mobs. Further, the individual must prevail to preserve this Union.

Not only he who on assault retreats to a wall, or some such straight beyond which he can go no further, before he kills the other, is judged by the law to act upon unavoidable necessity.

This completely flies in the face of our times when the perpetrator has become the protagonist and the victim is relegated to obscurity. Adams wouldn’t agree at all with today’s legal system.

Further, he warned of bureaucracies long before the modern displacement of elected officials by protected and unelected officials. The clue comes from a quote from his representation of John Hancock who had been denied the fundamental right of a trial by jury by an appointed administrator.

My client, Mr. Hancock never consented to it (the process to resolve the charge); he never voted for it himself, and he never voted for any man to make such a law for him.

Ask any federal lands rancher if the implications of that are not fully manifested in today’s governmental land management relationships. As the case continued, Adams became disgusted with the court and the officers of the Crown that were involved. In the end, Adams’ knowledge of law, his persistence and his unwavering persona got the case suspended. If only the unequal states of the West had such an effective advocate through time, the condition of these lands would be much different than they are today.

Managing for political agendas as opposed to natural law has consequences.

The Cuates

Of course, that brings the matter to the emergence of the cuates.

That reference would have been perfectly understood in the branding corral where
Spanish was the language. The image, however, comes from the numerous photos that have emerged that capture the apparent joy that is expressed between the cheesy fellow that spends a few nights most weeks at the people’s house and his buddy, the Queen’s get and the new king (once referencing himself as the human tampon divulged from his love letters to what was then his girlfriend, but now dubbed, the queen consort).

These characters are twins.

They have no interest in inspecting a dairy. Their roles are theoretical. The relationship of land and natural law to them is undefined. Together, there will be even less moral compass as a world vision of disruption and division will rule ever more supreme.

God Save the Queen has serious implications.

 

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “May God help us all.”

 

Running on Empty

 

Incredulity

Running on Empty

Frailty Syndrome

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

 

             That ol’ mule, no … he don’t look so good.

                                                                    ~ Anonymous Mexican horse trader

            Another month of this drought and there aren’t going to be cattle left in parts of the West and the great state of Texas.

            I saw a picture of a rancher sitting in an auction barn and there wasn’t the least need to attach a caption to the image. He just sat there in grief and despondency. The question he had to be asking himself and so many of us are starting to visit with ourselves about in the dark of night is simple. What if it doesn’t rain?

It is becoming a tragedy that words just don’t describe.

Although there is some country greening in our neck of the woods there is also much that simply hasn’t had rain or has had only enough to start grass, but is now burning. Thirty air miles away from out southern boundary in Tommy and Delia’s Tres Hermanas country, they are reporting their ranch has never been so good at this time of the year. Fifteen miles east from them and Dudley is thinking he is observing clouds running on empty much akin to certain pipelines. At the base of Gomez Peak, Hugh had over 7” of accumulated rain by the first of July. The upper end of Sacaton Mesa is reaching that amount as the month ends, too.

We have country that doesn’t yet total 1.5” for the year. Where it rains it rains and where it doesn’t … it doesn’t.

Incredulity

Years ago, when AM radio was played consistently in ranch pickups, a particular New York based host that claimed to wear a New Mexico custom made Davis felt hat (that matched his ego and confirmed he didn’t have a Nana in his past to tell him to take his d*mned hat off in the house) became a performer of interest. His supporting crew made the entire listening experience more interesting and tuning in to his show became a regular occurrence.

There was always some edgy stuff that came out of his mouth, but there was enough humor and sometimes brilliance that his city stupid derailments were largely overlooked. That changed, though, when former Senator Biden from Delaware was interviewed with the host suggesting the senator should run for the presidency.

Oooooh.

The listening allegiance was on the rocks for a bit before the mood shifted back to the things that made Don Imus famous. The wheels completely fell on the rails, though, when Imus bought the ranch in northern New Mexico touting all the good stuff he was doing with children under the pretext of the western theme of COWBOY. There became a caveat, though. He had a subtle tendency to denigrate the real-life characters of the theme in learned New York City fashion. If that wasn’t enough, he announced and dwelt on the fact he was a vegetarian.

Oooooh, magnified.

That was simply a deal breaker, and Imus was turned out forthwith not to be regathered. His subsequent difficulties were known only through bits and fringes of news, but the die was cast. No allegiance was reframed, and lo and behold, his buddy, the senator from Delaware, eventually found himself in the people’s house.

Frailty Syndrome

If the 45^th President of the U.S. displayed the geriatric syndrome that embodies the elevated risk of catastrophic declines of health and function displayed by the conditional 46^th office holder, number 45 would have been impeached yet again and or removed from office based on a unified 25^th Amendment process confirming the expanding incapacitation of him as the commander in chief of these United States of America. We all know that to be a simple truth.

With the recent announcement by number 46 that he has cancer, no more forgiveness of use of words can be accepted. If the president of the United States says he has cancer in a public disclosure, he must demonstrate the fact or suffer the full consequences of his choice of words.

His history of health issues started long ago. During the campaign, his wife defended him at one point reminding us of the fact he has had two strokes. Those apparently happened in 1988 when it can be discovered he suffered repeated brain bleeds. There is absolutely no public information regarding how this president’s health remains impacted from those events.

A medical professional, a resident of Delaware, who has had personal contact with the president worries that two conditions of past head trauma (might or might not be the noted strokes) have lingering impact on the president’s ability to buffer impulses. Especially if women are present in private settings, he is known to erupt with bizarre and or profane urges to shock or offend. He is obnoxiously crude.

His past suffering of asthma is a condition many people share, but his was bad enough to be exempted from military service. With increasing age, asthma remains a dangerous and debilitating inflammatory disease.

To those who have witnessed serious paths of dementia, the gated walk, the lapses into helplessness, and the loss of continuity of thought are all too worrisome. There are no walk backs from the throes of this horrid decline and the physical demonstrations of same are evident.

Why does this fellow insist on wearing sunglasses? As far as searches go, his supporters suggest he cares for his eye health and wants to protect them from the sun. That might be true, but on a world stage with many other world leaders unprotected for obligatory group photos, there is the American president doing his rendition of some South or Central American jefe. It isn’t becoming.

More objective responses suggest the eye condition of this president is subconjunctival hemorrhage whereby very small blood vessels on the outer surface of the eye rupture, allowing blood to pool beneath the surface. Blood thinning medications can cause such bleeding, but so too, can the overuse of pills associated with the personal, erectile problem suffered by some men.

The secrets remain, the scribes and defender mobs will cover his and the agenda tracks, and the truth will not be forthcoming.

 

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Turns out that mule was blind.”

 

 

The Chairs

The Bell

The Well Cup

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

  

            The Shelley family reunion picnic last weekend on Mogollon Creek gave us a chance to smell rain and be reminded what the color of green is.

            Both were welcome and served as a reminder the idea of a reunion means more than the convergence of family and friends. The gathering brought us back to our roots.

            It was a good day. If we had been asked what it all meant as we departed, the outcome would have been the years we spent with the original influences of our youth … were much better than the times we now live.

            Another recent discussion emphasized that very thing.

            A point was made. If you had to choose with whom to have a meaningful conversation, the preference would be the person who lived through tough times relying on his own wits and finding some way to prevail. Those that came before us when this was a new land without structure became the prevailing subjects. They got the nod and our attention.

            They had no idea how tough they were.

            There were no safety nets. There was no social security, Medicare, unfunded liability pensions, vacations, mandated fuel blends, rural electricity, pizza, farm to market roads, ride shares, television, telephones, or airplanes. Those things came much later.

            What could be counted upon was a much-shortened list.

            Bibles were worn and tagged. Penmanship was stressed and some could be judged as artform. To those lucky households that had musical inclinations, perhaps pianos, guitars, or violins were part of family interactions, but, even before that, self-reliance was a condition of existence.

            Simplicity was the norm.

            The Chairs

There are two chairs that could have been added to the display of the antique recliner couch displayed at that recent picnic. One still resides above the creek below the picnic area in the single room log cabin that was constructed within the year of the family’s arrival in 1884. It probably was considered a real luxury when it was brought into the room and placed there in the northwest corner. What catches your attention is the depression worn into the leading edge of its right arm. It was there, the patriarch cracked walnuts in his few hours of leisure. A depression was ground into it.

            The other chair now resides in the New Mexico Farm and Ranch Museum.

            It represents the extent of furnishings brought from Texas in that overland trip. By day, it served as the springboard in the wagon driven by the matron of the family. At night, it was handed down to be placed near the campfire where a meal was prepared. Before bedtime, each of the four children was called in succession by their mother for a moment of importance. It was a reminder that home now existed within the family unit rather than a physical dwelling they no longer occupied.

 

            She would hold each and rock them soothing fears of that big open. It was not a day in the country, either. It was an immense, lonely, and even dangerous place. Her children remembered, though, and each of them probably told their descendants of those times. One of those children, one of the two girls, chronicled her memories and other things of those times in cursive script that resides to this day in a special place. She wrote it for her children, her grandchildren, and those that were to come even later.

            It was important to her, and has become even more to those of us for whom it was intended.

            The Well Cup

            A Range Magazine story years later offered another glimpse of her.

            Her well cup was hung there on the windmill tower off the porch from her kitchen in the house under the mesa. Everything had been there long before our earliest memories. The plain tin cup hung on a chain and was used to drink water drawn from the well in a bucket. The well was hand dug and the water was cold whether it was in the middle of winter or the heat of a Gila River summer.

            Generations of family along with all the assortment of cowboys, farm workers, friends and visitors knew it and partook of it with gusto before entering the house. Nobody worried about sharing it and catching something. The sun and the fresh air were no doubt a worthy combination for sanitizing.

            We didn’t dwell on that sort of thing.

            The simplicity of the cup and how it was shared is striking in today’s world. It became a symbol of curiosity to the youth, a respite from hard labor and the grind to those who came in hot from work, and a magnet of conversation to family and friends who stood around and talked.  Memories of groups of people there are still vivid.

            Try to find such a comparison today.

            The Bell

            At the Will Shelley home just down the road from Shady Bend, there was a big bell just out the kitchen door (Will was one of the two little boys rocked by his mother in that chair in the overland trip from Texas).

            We were always told it was there for warning in the event of an Indian raid. It was the story given to every little child, and it sure made an impression on us. There hadn’t been an Indian raid since 1885, but there were still folks who had experienced it firsthand. The better story would be the bell was mounted to call the family together from time to time. That is a better, lasting story.

Memories from each of the objects are condensed into simplistic images. They are formed around the people who became as much part of the landscape as the images.

Their descendants came from many places to be home last Saturday.

 

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “We became and extension of those people which makes each image even more symbolic.”