A calf is just a small cow, not much bigger than a good-sized dog, but when it hits you in the chest, running full tilt, it hurts like a kick from a pair of size-13 Tony Lamas administered by a man who knows how. Not many extra points are given for catching a 200-pound calf in the chest. Rodeo doesn’t score that way. You don’t have to ride a bull to feel the beef.
A long time ago, I worked with some rodeo types. We made considerable use of the space between sunrise and sunset, shooting western scenery and working cowboys. Life is measured in stories per square inch. Cowboys have a few.
Cows and horses will step on you, bite you, run over you, wedge you against stationary objects and throw you far enough to cause trouble later. Every hit I took during that time left a mark. We took our licks and followed cattle and wagons and drank campfire coffee so strong it would not just curl your toes but your boots too. Sometimes we would use a truck. More often than not, we used a horse. The sky can look like torn peaches at certain times of the morning and if you want to see God, get up early enough to find out where he keeps the good stuff. I recall a particular sunset on a Wednesday that wilted orange and hot down under clabbered clouds that looked like purple mashed potatoes dappled with red biscuits. It hard to forget something that beautiful and even the old cowboys stopped to admire it.
Dogs followed along to get the leftovers of a life on the scabby, prickly pear’d ground south of Dallas near Mexia. We drove cows just to prove we could and to get the evidence on two and a quarter and 35mm film. One night, a guy with too many Lone Stars in him tried to run our old pickup off the road with his Firebird. He lost his enthusiasm when four shots from a 357 into his hood changed his mind. Times were different back then. Lawyers were just starting to get control of the earth. Real people still held the edge.
If you have never seen 400 head of longhorns begin to disgorge their bowels all at once, it is a sight and a smell to behold. If you have never ridden a sweating Palomino as hard as it can run through chest deep prairie at sunrise, it is a feeling to behold. If you have never eaten a cold, 3 inch-thick bologna burger for breakfast, it is not something you want to behold.
There are people in this country who don’t need an attorney and a judge to settle their differences. Two fists will do just fine. It’s simple, and afterwards, they are friends. This is how my grandfather did it. This is how some of these men did it. One cowboy called it “decision making.”
Some people have never been hit in the nose, never been bitten by a large animal, never tasted their own blood. To others, it’s an everyday occurrence. We have carved out existence into homogenized, cul-de-sac’d monotony. Is your day well done or rare? It is your choice.
Your heartbeat is not there to measure time; it is there to measure life. There is a difference.
