The Economy's Stranglehold: Tariffs, Chicken Eggs, and a $5,000 Engine Lesson

Ain’t the economy somethin’? Prices just keep climbin’, but it seems like the quality’s slidin’ downhill faster than a greased pig at the county fair. Pullin’ up to the pump, you’d best brace yourself ‘cause you never know what damage it’s gonna do to your wallet. And don’t even get me started on them chickens—layin’ them golden eggs that just keep gettin’ pricier. I ain’t never been a fan of them birds, and now they’re peckin’ at my pocketbook too.

And trucks? Forget about it. I can’t even dream of a new one. My ol’ Ford Escape gave me fits last year—darn engine started hiccupin’, and on comes that pesky check engine light. Hauled it into more’n one service department, and not a single one of them mechanics could figure out what in tarnation was wrong. Finally, I stopped by AutoZone, and wouldn’t ya know it, their handy-dandy gadget told me exactly what the problem was. Armed with that knowledge, I toted it over to the Ford dealer.

Sure enough, AutoZone’s tool was right, but here’s the kicker: the engine needed replacin’. Now, we’d had that car five years with a 30,000-mile warranty, and wouldn’t ya know, the extended warranty ran out three months back. And Ford? Oh, they mighta sent us a postcard ‘bout it—maybe—but they couldn’t confirm it. “Well, we think ya mighta got somethin’ in the mail, but who knows?” And on top of that, the car only had 29,927 miles on it. Twenty-nine stinkin’ miles shy of the warranty’s limit. Their verdict? “You’re lookin’ at over $8,000 to replace that engine.”

Well, I ain’t made of money, so I pleaded with ‘em. “Feller, I’m just a half-broke retired guy, can’t we work somethin’ out?” And, well, they did... kinda. I walked outta there nearly $5,000 lighter. Whoop-dee-doo, huh?

And it don’t end there. Water pressure at the house dropped the other day, so I called up the home warranty folks I’d been usin’. They sent a guy out who didn’t know squat. Turned in some big ol’ diagnosis to replace the Pressure Relief Valve for somewhere between $1,500 and $1,700. Told me the warranty folks would hafta decide if they’d pay for it. Well, I ain’t no dummy—I could see that answer comin’ a mile away. So I went to Lowe’s, got me a $13 pressure gauge, and wouldn’t ya know, in five minutes flat, I had the flow back to where it oughta be.

Seems like everywhere ya turn, the economy’s throwin’ punches. Guess I’ll saddle up my ol’ horse, ride to the campsite, and poke at the fire with a stick. Might roast me another chicken if I can scrape together the coin—sure can’t afford much else these days.

Have a Good Week, Ya'll!

Straight Fs, Sobriety, and Six Shots: My Not-So-Serious Life

If y’all notice, I’ve taken up writin’ like the country boy I always been—part farmer, part cowboy, and maybe just a dab of pure ornery...OK, maybe more'n just a dab. Figured it’d do good for my great-grandkids’ great-grandkids to know ol’ great-great-great-grandpa wasn’t exactly a genius. Bless my heart, I tried to be serious, but that dog just wouldn’t hunt. Heck, I even gave preachin’ a go for six years. Learned to mimic them good ol’ fire-and-brimstone Baptist radio preachers with their thunderin’ voices, but I just couldn’t find the passion for it. Once I left the nest, well, that country boy in me busted loose like a calf outta the corral.

I went off to college, but shoot, I’d rather be shootin’ pool than sittin’ in some lecture hall. Don’t know if you know it or not, but them highfalutin university folks ain’t too fond of an empty seat in their classrooms. I got the boot after a semester of straight Fs, and they showed me the door right quick. Took me 30 years to figure out maybe they had a point. Around 45, I got it through my thick skull and went back to college, earned my degree at 48 with a shiny 3.9 GPA. But not before dealin’ with them Fs—funny how they stick with ya, huh?

Now, I ain’t no stranger to tough times. Spent 18 years drinkin’ like a fish, but I’ve been sober for 40 now 2 different sobrietys a breakin' the 18 years. Even so, I never could take life too serious. It’s all been one big joke to me—‘course not all jokes end with folks laughin’. Back when I was a West Texas cop, I got a wild idea one cold night, ‘round 20 degrees out. Spotted a big ol’ dead rattlesnake someone’d run over in the road. Figured, “Why not have a little fun with this?” Tossed that snake in the back of my pickup, headed to the station, and found my buddy—poor feller who’s scared stiff of snakes.

Lucky for me (or not), his squad car was parked right by mine. Grabbed his keys, coiled that snake up real nice in the passenger floorboard, and waited for detail meetin’ to wrap up. Oh, I was grinnin’ ear to ear, waitin’ to see the fireworks. Soon as detail ended, my buddy hopped in his car, flipped on the interior light, and started fiddlin’ with his paperwork. Then it happened—BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM! Six shots fired! He emptied that six-shooter into the already-dead snake, plus a good bit of the floorboard for good measure. When he figured out I was the mastermind behind it, well, let’s just say he called me words I reckon Webster’s ain’t published yet.

That night, I thought, “Boy, better not get yourself in a fix where you’re acountin’ on him to back you up!” Next mornin’, Chief called me in, laughin’ so hard he was nearly cryin’. Then he managed to get out, “Oh, and by the way, that’s two weeks off without pay!” Yep, seemed like a good idea at the time!

Have a Good Week, Ya'll!

Baths, Buckets, and Lessons Learned: Memories of Life on the Farm

Well, lemme tell ya somethin' here, partner. Back in the days before I was even knee-high to a grasshopper, my folks got by just fine with a good ol’ windmill and a sturdy oak bucket for all our water needs—drinkin’, cookin’, and cleanin' up. When I was ’round four years old, I recall we still had that windmill spinnin’, but now we’d gotten fancy with a hand pump to pull the water up. I reckon it felt like a big upgrade back then.

Come my seventh year, Daddy decided to tear down that old windmill, and in its place, he put in one of them newfangled electric pumps right in the well. To top it off, he ran pipes straight into the kitchen so we could have water right inside the house. Lord, I tell ya, we thought we’d gone and made it to town livin’! Only catch was, we didn’t have no hot water heater yet, so for warm water, we’d fire up the stove. It took a while to heat enough water to fill up that ol’ number 2 washtub for a bath. Once we had the water hot, the whole family took turns bathin’ in it, same water, one after another, right there on the kitchen floor. Yep, that’s how it was—so, baths were reserved for Wednesday nights before prayer meetin’, Saturdays for town visits, and Sunday church. And I gotta admit, we were a little *ripe* between washes.

Now, let me share somethin’ funny about that ol’ #2 washtub. Back then, me and Mama would get our baths first, and by the time it was Daddy’s turn, the water had cooled off a bit but was still good to go. Daddy would climb into that tub, sittin’ right in the middle of the kitchen floor, which had a door opening onto the porch. Now, folks who came visitin’ always went to the back door, which we kept wide open with just a screen door to keep the critters out. Well, wouldn’t ya know, one fine day, right in the middle of Daddy latherin’ himself up, one of them right-righteous ladies from the church showed up. She came to the screen door fixin’ to knock, but when she saw Daddy sittin’ there in his altogether, her eyes just about popped outta her head! She let out a holler, turned tail, and ran faster than a fox in a henhouse, yellin’, “I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING, I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING!” From that day forward, anytime she came by, she’d start shoutin’ her arrival long before she got near the door. Lesson learned, I reckon!

By the time I was nine, the farm got to be a tough haul. We packed up and hightailed it out to California, where Daddy took up a job as head ginner at one of the cotton gins his buddy managed. Let me tell ya, he made more money in three months of ginnin’ than he did in a whole year on the farm! But Daddy was a man of the land—his heart belonged to that Oklahoma dirt—so when ginnin’ season wrapped up, we headed back to the farm.

Now, with that California money, Daddy went and built us a proper bathroom onto the house. We got ourselves a lavatory, a shiny new hot water heater, and even a big ol’ porcelain tub—way bigger than that number 2 tub! Boy, I was happier than a pig in mud. I could take baths every day, and sometimes twice. Then came the day I laid eyes on my first shower, and, well, that was it for me! When I got hitched, my wife couldn’t believe it—I’d take a shower every morning, every night, and sometimes sneak in a third if the mood struck me. And you know what? I still do.

Ashes of the Prairie, Echoes of the Heart

The old cowhand stands, his battered hat pressed to his chest, silhouetted against the flames that stretch like an angry sunset across the once-peaceful prairie. His voice is low and weathered, cracking like the dry grass underfoot.

“Well, ain’t this a sight to behold? This land—this was my chapel, my livelihood, my home. The prairie... so endless, so alive. Now, she’s a red sea of fury, devouring all in her path. I reckon every blade of grass out there knows the end’s come callin’.  

This ol' land—she gave me everything. A place to lay my weary bones at the day's end, the scent of wildflowers carried on a stubborn wind, the quiet symphony of crickets beneath a watchful moon. Lord, I didn’t just work this land; I poured my soul into it, bit by bit, day after day. And now she’s burnin’, screamin’ to the heavens with a voice louder than thunder, sayin’... ‘No more.’  

Maybe it’s my fault. Took too much, gave too little. Or maybe it’s fate, nature’s way of remindin’ us that nothin' we claim is truly ours. But damn it all, it don’t make it easier to stand here and watch her die.  

The cattle’ll scatter, the barn’s bound to go up, and the wild’ll be barren long after the flames die down. But you know what scares me most? It ain’t the loss of land, nor the hard years ahead. It’s the stillness after the flames—that deafening silence when the fire's done takin’ and leaves you with nothin’ but ash and regret.  

I guess... I guess I’ll find a way, same as always. The prairie burns today, but I’ll saddle up tomorrow, pick through the ruin and see what’s left worth savin’. That’s what us cowhands do—we endure. And maybe, just maybe, the prairie will forgive me one day and let me start anew.”

He wipes his brow, dusts the soot from his trousers, and turns to face the fire once more. The wind howls, carrying embers into the starless sky.

How long’s it gonna take for folks to finally reckon with the land, the environment, to cherish her and treat her like the lifeblood she is?

Have a Good Week, Ya'll

Let’s be mindful of our earth and its well-being!

 

Mulberries, Chicken Mess, and That Skunky Ol’ Lesson

Reckon last week I was yammerin’ about why chicken makes my stomach churn somethin’ fierce. But, shoot, I forgot one mighty important piece o’ that story. Y’see, we had near ‘bout 200 chickens struttin’ around at any given time, which meant the ground was plum full of chicken mess. Add to that, we had these mulberry trees droppin’ their fruit like they owned the place. One day, the missus noticed I never went barefoot and asked why. I told her plain and simple, “Habit, darlin’. If I’d gone barefoot as a young’un, my feet would be stained mulberry purple and chicken brown for life!”

Speakin’ of stains that stick with ya, let me tell ya ‘bout the time me and my ol’ buddy got a wild hair to become big game trackers. We were just scrappy pre-teens, thought we was somethin’ special. Went and got us some double-ought traps—three, four apiece. Soon as the first snow dusted the ground, we lit out for the nearest tree-row. This particular row was hunkered down by a country road with a ditch ‘bout five feet below it.

We spied a well-worn critter track leadin’ right to a hole in the earth. Naturally, we figured, “This here’s the spot.” Set one o’ them traps in the track and secured the chain’s ring over a stob stickin’ out the ground. Didn’t know at the time that stob wasn’t worth a plugged nickel. After settin’ a couple more practice traps, we called it a day.

Next mornin’, we met bright and early to check our traps. Lo and behold, we’d caught somethin’ in that first one! But wouldn’t ya know it—the ring had slipped off the stob, and whatever it was had dragged the trap halfway into its hidey-hole. Now, in our infinite wisdom, we reckoned this critter musta backed itself in, draggin’ the trap along. “No problem,” we said. “We’ll just pull the chain and pop it when it shows itself.”

Well, famous last words! My buddy tugged that chain, and up comes this black-and-white critter with its tail high in the air. Yep, you guessed it—a skunk, lookin’ fit to spray. I took my shot, but that skunk got off his shot first. Direct hit—right in my buddy’s face! And, well, I didn’t come away smellin’ like roses neither.

Took a good week ‘fore my buddy could set foot in school again, and I was out for a few days myself. The stink faded some, but that skunk left its mark on me for life. To this day, my smeller don’t quite work right around skunks. And lemme tell ya, that ain’t necessarily a blessing!

Have a Good Week, Ya'll!

Today Is My Seventeenth Year: The Unyielding March of Sobriety

March 12, 2018 - March 12, 2025

Well, lemme tell ya, son, life ain't been no easy road. Twenty-three long years I spent buildin' a life on the sturdy ground of sobriety. Through the sunny days and the stormy nights, I kept myself steady. Then one day, that ol' serpent came a-callin'. In a lonely hotel room, the sweet, temptin' call of a drink filled the silence. Like a fool, I gave in and danced to its tune.

For nine more years, I wandered lost in that dark maze, the taste of freedom replaced by the bitter clink of a glass. But here I am, standin' tall 17 years later. Seventeen long years of scratchin' and clawin' my way back, fightin' every single day to stay steady.

Folks say it gets easier. Easier? Easier to wake up with the echoes of nightmares fresh in my mind, the phantom burn of a drink scorchin' my throat? Easier to see the bridges almost crossed, the words almost spoken that could've shattered everything?

This is the harsh truth of alcoholism. It don't just fade away. It lingers, like a shadow at the corner of my eye, a whisper in the stillness. It's a constant reminder that one drink, one stumble, is all it takes to tumble back down. Twenty-three years. Seventeen years. These years are my armor. The scars etched deep into my soul are a testament to the fight, the shield I hold against the whispers.

I might've fallen in that dream, but I woke up. And that's my victory. This fight may never end, but I'll keep on fightin', one day, one dream, one battle at a time.

**************************************************************************

Note: In the rooms of AA, we find strength not just in ourselves, but in a power greater than us. This power, for many, is God, understood as each individual sees fit. It's not about religious dogma, but about surrendering the reins we can't grip – the obsession with alcohol, the weight of guilt. By letting go and letting God in, we find a path to peace and a life free from the bottle. It's a powerful step, but not a lonely one. Together, in the fellowship of AA, we help each other on this journey, hand in hand, with a faith in a brighter tomorrow.

Have a Good Week, Ya'll! And THINK BEFORE YOU DRINK!!

Chicken Chaos: A Tale of Too Many Cluckers

Well, let me tell ya, “I HATE CHICKEN.” I saw this bumper sticker once, and boy, did it speak to my soul: “SUPPORT BEEF, RUN OVER A CHICKEN!” You see, growin' up, seemed like we had chicken every single night for supper and then leftover chicken for lunch. We had about 200 chickens on the ground at all times.

Come about 5 in the evenin', Mama'd grab that old wire hook and head outta the kitchen to take down a chicken for the night. She’d bring it in, pluck its feathers, and singe it over a burner on that old cook stove. Let me tell ya, that was the worst smell I ever did smell. Then, when I hit 10, she handed the chicken-killin' duties over to me. 

So there I'd go, with murder on my mind and that wire hook in my hand. “HERE CHICKEN, CHICKEN, CHICKEN,” like I had to call 'em in—there were chickens everywhere! Once I caught one of them boogers, I had to grab it by the neck and twist it real quick to separate head from body. If I did it just right, it was kinda impressive, but if not, I'd end up covered in chicken blood. Job done. 

“You want me to what? Pluck it and singe it?” Well, that sure didn't help my appetite any. When Mama'd get down on the chicken population, she’d sit in the sittin' room, and when old Paul Kellinger came on the radio from Ciudad Acuña right across the river from Del Rio, Texas, sellin' 200 baby chicks, I'd hear her scratchin' that pencil, ordering more. A week later, those dang squawkin' birds would arrive in a brooder box, and we'd pick 'em up at the Frisco Train Depot in Frederick. More dang chickens!

Sundays were a saving grace because she’d put on a roast while we were at church. Now, that was good eatin'. By the time I was 12, I started trotlining on North Fork of Red River for catfish whenever I could. Yep, there ain't no doubt about it—I HATE CHICKEN!

Have a Good Week, Ya'll!

From the Heart of an Okie: Momma, Daddy, and the Journey to My Texan Birth

Well, let me tell you about Momma and Daddy. They lived on a quaint little farm just west of Frederick, Oklahoma when Momma found out she was expectin' me. Now, Momma had a baby girl, Teddye Ann, ten years before me, but sadly, she was born still. Momma's heart ached for a baby so much that despite Doctor Allen's stern warnings, she decided to try again. You see, Momma was a petite woman, barely hittin' five feet tall and never weighin' more than a feather-light 110 pounds. Her deliveries were always a hard struggle for her. When she passed away at the grand age of 97, she weighed less than 90 pounds.

Momma and Daddy decided to give it another go, and she got pregnant again in the early months of 1945. When the time came for me to enter this world, Doctor Allen sent her on an ambulance ride from Frederick all the way to Wichita Falls, Texas for the delivery. Frederick only had a modest rural hospital, while Wichita General was a big deal back then. The doc had a hunch the delivery would need to be a cesarean.

So, early in 1946, I made my grand entrance, stamped a TEXAN right from birth. Well, shoot, I didn't ask for that! I'm an Okie at heart! But there it was, right there on my birth certificate. Now, don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with Texas—I've lived here from the ripe age of 18 to my current wise age of 79—but my heart will always belong to Oklahoma. I might not be able to say, "Oklahoma born, Oklahoma bred, and when I die, I'll be Oklahoma dead," but in my heart, I'll always be an Okie.

I've seen and heard about the tough Dust Bowl years that swept through the land. Momma and Daddy weathered those rough times on our little farm. There's a grit and determination in those Okie farmers and ranchers that I hold dear.

So, here's a shoutout to my fellow Okies, whether it's in our nature or nurture, whether you're from Okie State, Okie U, or any of the other fine universities and colleges of Oklahoma. Whether you're Democrat or Republican, Baptist or Methodist, or hold any other belief, religious or not, to all the men, women, and others of this great Okie land, I say, GO OKLAHOMA!

Have a Good Week, Ya'll!

From Lawton to Joplin: The Train Journey That Sparked a Lifelong Love

When I was just a sprightly young'un of five years, my Momma and Grandma whisked me away on a grand adventure. We boarded that mighty iron horse in Lawton, Oklahoma, bound for Joplin, Missouri, to visit my Aunt. It was the year 1951, and trains were the go-to choice for folks like us who didn't have the means to soar through the skies.

Now, I reckon I didn't have much sense of time back then, but I'd wager it took us a good 8 to 10 hours to reach our destination. As we chugged along, I pressed my nose against the window, mesmerized by the ever-changing tapestry of the countryside. The conductor, a kindly fella, would amble down the aisle, tipping his hat and exchanging pleasantries with my Momma and Grandma.

Then on one trip by, out of the blue, he turned to me and asked if I wanted to ride in the engine. My eyes lit up like fireflies on a summer night. "O WOW! WOULD I??" I hollered. Momma gave her nod of approval, and at the next stop, the conductor took me by the hand and led me to the engine.

There, I met the Engineer and his assistant, two gentlemen as fine as the day is long. For the next 30 miles, I sat in the Engineer's seat, grinning from ear to ear with the Engineer right beside me. "Look at me," I thought, "I'M AN ENGINEER!" We passed several crossroads, and the Engineer showed me how to blow the horn – three times for each crossing, to warn the good folks that we were barreling through. I blew that horn with every ounce of enthusiasm in my little body.

When we reached the next stop, the conductor returned and escorted me back to my seat. Before I knew it, he pulled a shiny silver dollar from his pocket and handed it to me. "When you reach 18," he said, "you come back and ride the train with me, and I'll give you another one of these."

Well, that was it – I was hooked! From that day forward, trains held a special place in my heart. I've been a train lover for life, and that silver dollar still brings back those cherished memories of my very first train ride.

Have a Good Week, Ya'll!

Embracing Serenity: The End of Worry

Well, partner, when ya've done all ya can, there ain't no use frettin' no more. We've all carried our fair share of burdens, sweatin' and strugglin', thinkin' worry might somehow ease life's troubles. But truth is, once our efforts are spent, ain't no point hangin' onto regret or sorrow.

Ain't we labored hard, pourin' our hearts and souls into chasin' dreams across life's uncertain plains? When the day's done and nightfall creeps in, why let doubt and fear take hold of our thoughts?

Worry's like a sneaky thief, stealin' our peace with its shadowy lies. When we've given everything we got, with all our heart and soul, shouldn't we find comfort in the quiet stillness?

We battle and toil, day and night, but life's a fickle beast, from dawn till dusk. When our best is done and destiny's claimed its due, why burden our souls with worry's cruel grip?

So let's embrace the gentle truth, that when we've done all we can, there's no need for pain. In acceptance lies a calm, gentle key, unlockin' life's essence, settin' us free.

Remember, friend, in the quiet of the prairie night, when the stars are shinin' bright, it's peace and acceptance that'll see us through.

Have a Good Week, Ya'll!

Pressure Cooker Tales: Life Lessons from Mama's Old Pot

When I was just a young’un, I recollect Mama’s old pressure cooker, sittin’ there on the stove like a trusty steed. She could rustle up all sorts of grub in that ol' pot. Now, for them folks who ain't acquainted with a pressure cooker, it’s a pot that’s sealed up tighter than a cowboy’s saddle. When ya heat that pot, the liquid inside (most often water) starts to bubble and turn into steam.

As that steam piles up inside the sealed pot, the pressure rises, like a herd of cattle pushin' at the gates. This here high pressure bumps up the boilin’ point of water, lettin’ it reach temperatures hotter than a desert noon.

These days, them modern pressure cookers come with all sorts of safety gizmos like pressure release valves, lockin’ lids, and pressure gauges. These here features keep folks safe by lettin’ them control and monitor the cooker’s pressure. Once the chow's done, ya gotta release that pressure afore crackin’ open the lid. This can be done by lettin’ it cool down naturally, like a settin' sun, or by usin' the pressure release valve for a quicker fix.

Now, do ya ever find yerself talkin’ to yerself? I sure do. I’m usin' this pressure cooker tale to explain why ya might catch me chewin’ the fat with myself. Ya see, my mind’s always churnin’ with thoughts, just like that pressure cooker. Thoughts of all kinds, many concernin’ other folks. When I chat to myself about these matters, it lets me boil down what I want to say and figure out if I truly believe what I’m thinkin’ on sayin’.

I reckon I’m a lot like that ol' pressure cooker. There’s always somethin’ goin' on in my noggin, and if I don’t handle it, the pressure just keeps buildin’ till I’m liable to blow my top like an atom bomb, and someone’s bound to get hurt. So, I choose the natural release method—talkin' out loud to myself, lettin’ the pressure off slow and steady. When I do this, I’m much more likely to speak in a gentler tone.

So if ya see me jabberin’ to myself, don’t be callin' the men in white. It's just me lettin' my thoughts simmer like a pot of beans on the campfire. By the way, if I ain't talkin' to myself I'll probably be awhistlin' under ma breath.🤠

Have a Good Day, Ya'll

A Gentleman's Gamble

In 1967, on a frigid evening in Abilene, Texas, I received a call to a club on Butternut Street about a man brandishing a shotgun. It was Billy Ray, a decorated ex-Vietnam Army Ranger known for his formidable presence and fierce reputation especially fighting with the Police. With backup nowhere in sight, I faced the situation alone.

Arriving at the club in mere minutes, I found Billy Ray standing guard, his shotgun a threatening barrier. Despite orders from my Sergeant to wait for backup, I knew time was of the essence. With nerves of steel, I approached Billy Ray calmly, my gun holstered but ready.

"Billy, you can't do this," I started, my voice steady. "It'll mean another prison stint. Why not prop your shotgun against the building and let me take you in for disturbing the peace (a misdemeanor)?"

To my surprise, Billy Ray complied, placing the shotgun aside and allowing me to pat him down. Relieved, I escorted him to the squad car, where Billy Ray, curious, asked, "Aren't you gonna cuff me?"

"Is it necessary?" I replied, hoping to maintain the fragile trust we had built. Billy Ray sat in the passenger seat, and I stowed the shotgun in the trunk. Once in the car, I moved my weapon from my holster to my belt away from his reach.

As we drove to the station, my Sergeant's voice blared through the radio, "Adams! Did you search him good? He's known to carry a pistol and a knife!" Tension filled the car. I turned my head toward Billy Ray cautiously. In a tense moment, Billy Ray mimicked a gun with his hand, shouting, "BAM." Anger flared in me, but I restrained myself, reminded by my core belief in treating others with respect. Billy immediately began apologizing realizing I had already drawn my weapon. 

At the jail, Billy Ray requested, "Officer Adams, will you cuff my hands behind my back? You've treated me decently but I have a reputation to uphold." Relieved, knowing that to bring anyone into the Jail area uncuffed was a violation of departmental procedure, I cuffed him and led him through the doors. As we entered, Billy Ray launched himself into several officers booking their arrestees. With his hands cuffed behind his back Billy Ray fought the officers with all his might. I stood back and watched in disbelief. "Was this the same docile person I had just brought to jail?"

After the chaos, with Billy Ray covered in cuts and contusions, I asked, "Billy Ray, why did you do that?" Billy Ray's response was simple yet profound: "Officer Adams, I have a reputation to maintain, but you treated me like a man. I respect you for that."

The moral of this story is clear: "Treat a person with respect, and you'll "most" always deal with a respectable person." This principle guided me through a perilous situation and throughout the remainder of my life, highlighting the power of respect and understanding in even the most challenging circumstances. 

Riding into the Twilight: Reflections of a Cowboy at 79

 

Today marks the end of my 79th journey 'round the sun, and the beginning of my 80th ride. My, how time has flown by like a wild stallion across the open plains. The memories of my life are etched vividly in my mind, as if each one were a brand on my soul.

I recall every mile traveled, every person I've ever known, and even the smallest events from my earliest years to now. It's the mistakes, though, that seem to stand out above all else. Sure, I've had my share of successes, but even they were often tainted by too much ego and pride. Spent too much time flappin' my gums about myself instead of listenin' to others.

Yet, there's a certain grace that comes with old age. It offers the time to reflect and reconsider how one acts. It's in these waning years that I find a deeper appreciation for life and the chance to live more thoughtfully. The 80's, they're like the 8 seconds in a rodeo event; it's not about how you stay on, but how you get off that's important.

As I embark on this new chapter, I find myself ending the ride much more gracefully than I began. The twilight of my years gives me the chance to be more considerate, more understanding, and more at peace with the world and myself.

So here's to the next ride, with all its unknowns and adventures. I'll saddle up, let the reins go loose, and embrace whatever comes my way, knowing that each day is a gift and every moment a chance to make things right.

Why Do I Take To Writin' As An Old Cowboy?

Well now, why do I take to writin' as an old cowboy? Lemme paint ya a picture. A young’un, growin’ up on a farm, with the wide-open prairie as my playground, and the wind whisperin’ sweet nothin’s in my ear. My partner in crime, a trusty ol' steed named Nina, and I would gallop 'cross the fields, kickin' up dust and dreams. My buddy Tex and I, thick as thieves, we were. We’d fancy ourselves as Roy Rogers, Tex Ritter, or Gene Autry, and we’d round up cattle, go on wild drives, and ride like the blazin’ north wind to our imagined outposts.

We dreamt of rodeos, parades, and cattle drives, and sure enough, those dreams soon turned real. We spoke the lingo like it was second nature, with that Southern drawl flavored by the Oklahoma-Texas borderlands. There’s somethin’ ‘bout those wide-open spaces, long hours in the saddle, the brotherhood, and the fierce independence that makes a life worth livin'. Each day carried a thousand untold stories, and my scribbler's soul aimed to capture 'em all.

So, why do I, now an old cowboy, pick up a pen instead of the reins? Ain’t much different, truth be told. Writin' is like saddlein' up and lettin' my wild thoughts take the reins. Every word I jot down’s got the trot of a horse, the creak of leather, and the scent of the prairie. It’s a way to honor those sun-drenched days, the laughter under a starry sky, and the songs around the campfire. My tales are my herd call, my letters from the trail, keepin’ those adventures alive as long as there’s ink and paper. Writin’ lets me preserve the unbroken spirit of the cowboy, who never truly grows old, for his heart still races with every memory and tale spun anew. 🌵🐎

Kindred Spirits: The Coyote and the Cowboy

Ah, the open fields, the rolling hills, the wide, untamed wilderness that stretched out before me for miles upon miles... those were the places where my soul felt most alive. For the first 34 of my 79 years on this earth, I wandered through the countryside, soaking in the sounds of nature, listening to the rustle of leaves in the wind, the call of the birds, and the quiet rustling of the wildlife around me. It was a simple, honest life—one I'd trade all the riches in the world to have back.

But now, I find myself among the hustle and bustle of the city, a place where concrete jungles replace the forests, and the cacophony of traffic drowns out the sweet symphony of nature. I live in a suburb, near a large lake, and though the lake offers a semblance of solace, it's not the same. Not by a long shot.

Every so often, as I drive to and from home, I catch sight of a coyote—wild and free in spirit, but confined within the perimeters of that lake, surrounded by the creeping encroachment of residential neighborhoods. I've seen him weave between houses, dash across streets in a desperate quest for food, dodging traffic like a fugitive on the run. And each time, I can't help but shed a tear for that noble creature—stripped of his freedom, his independence, reduced to a shadow of his true, wild self. 

I understand his plight all too well. Trapped in the city, I too feel the weight of confinement, the loss of the boundless freedom I once reveled in. I share his claustrophobia, his longing to roam unrestricted, to breathe the fresh, open air of the unspoiled wilderness. Those fields fed not just my body, but my spirit.

Ah, the coyote, a kindred soul in this urban jungle. His struggle echoes my own, reminds me of a past that now feels like a distant dream—fading, but never forgotten. I hear his lonely cry, feel his anguish, and it stirs something deep within me. For every tree felled, every acre paved over, a part of me mourns, yearning for the days when the horizon seemed endless, and the only boundaries were those set by the land itself. Here, amid the steel and stone, I am an old cowboy, lost in a wilderness made by man, reminiscing the tender embrace of nature's wild heart. 

Over the Next Hill: The Cowboy’s Unending Quest for New Horizons

Beyond The Next Hill

The sun is setting low, casting a golden hue over the sprawling plains. The old cowboy, weathered and wise, sits atop his trusted horse, gazing out at the horizon. He speaks aloud, more to himself than to anyone else, as the cool evening breeze whispers through the tall prairie grass.

“Well now, ain't it somethin'. Spent a lifetime wanderin' these here lands, ridin' under skies as vast as dreams themselves. And yet, every time I come upon a new hill, can't help but wonder what's on the other side.

Seen my fair share of trails, each one with its own stories to tell. But that hill there, it's got a promise of somethin' new, somethin' unexplored. Might be a lush valley, where the rivers run crystal clear and the pastures stretch green as far as the eye can see. Or maybe it's a rugged canyon, carved deep by time and the relentless wind, a place where only the bravest dare to tread.

Life's a lot like that, ain't it? Full of hills and valleys, twists and turns. Each one holdin' its own secrets, its own challenges. But it's the not knowin' that keeps a man's spirit alive, keeps the fire burnin' in his soul. Over that hill, there could be new friends, new adventures, or just another quiet spot to rest these tired bones.

Ain't no tellin' what's out there, but that's the beauty of it. The journey, the discovery. With each step, we carve out a piece of our own story. So I'll keep ridin', keep searchin'. 'Cause as long as there's a hill to climb, there's a dream to be found.

Here's to the open road, the endless sky, and the promise of tomorrow. Over that hill, there's a world just waitin' to be discovered. And this old cowboy, well, he ain't done ridin' just yet.”

A Test of a Cowhand's Spirit

"Well, shucks, looks like someone took a swing at the fence, didn't they? Ain't nothin' more frustrating than seein' yer herd scattered like tumbleweeds in a nor'easter. Years of hard work, sweat, and cuss words, all gone to the wind.

This ol' land, it's seen its share of trouble. Droughts, floods, and now this. But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Gotta round 'em up, patch up that fence, and get back to the grind.

Some folks might say it's a setback, but I see it as a challenge. A chance to prove that a cowhand's spirit can weather any storm. So, here's to new fences, mended hearts, and a whole lot of grit. 'Cause that's what keeps us goin', day in and day out."

The old cowboy's voice, weathered by years of wind and sun, carried a sense of both resignation and defiance. He had seen his share of hardships, from the scorching heat of summer to the biting cold of winter. But this latest challenge, this deliberate act of sabotage, was a new low.

He recalled the countless hours spent stringing that wire, the blisters on his hands, the sweat dripping down his brow. And now, in the blink of an eye, it was undone. A symbol of his hard work, his perseverance, his very identity, had been shattered.

Yet, as he surveyed the scattered herd, a flicker of determination ignited in his eyes. He knew the task ahead would be arduous, but he was ready to face it. He would gather his cattle, one by one, and repair the fence, piece by piece. This was not a setback, but a test of his mettle.

He would rise to the challenge, just as he had countless times before. For a true cowhand, the spirit of resilience runs deeper than any physical challenge. It's a spirit forged in the harsh realities of rural life, a spirit that refuses to be broken.

 

If I Knew Then What I Know Now...Under The Same Circumstances Would It Really Make Any Difference

If I knew then what I know now... the weight of that phrase, it hangs heavy in the air, doesn't it? Like a phantom limb, a constant, aching reminder of paths not taken, chances squandered.

They say hindsight is 20/20. A cruel, ironic joke, really. Because knowing, truly knowing, the outcome, the consequences… does it truly alter the course of events?

Imagine, if you will, a chessboard. Each move, a calculated risk, a gamble on the opponent's response. Now, imagine knowing the opponent's every move in advance. Would you play differently? Perhaps. But would you win?

Not necessarily.

For within that knowledge lies a paradox. The very act of playing differently, of deviating from your intended path, alters the very fabric of the game. You become a different player, reacting to a different set of circumstances, a butterfly flapping its wings and causing a tempest.

And what of the human element? The thrill of the unknown, the gamble, the very essence of being human – would those not be lost? The joy of discovery, the sting of defeat, the lessons learned through struggle… these are the threads that weave the tapestry of our lives.

So, if I knew then what I know now… would I truly change anything?

Perhaps not.

For the journey, with all its twists and turns, its triumphs and its tragedies, is what defines us. It is in the face of uncertainty, in the embrace of the unknown, that we truly grow, that we truly become ourselves.

Happy New Year

with my hopes that all our decisions will be the best in 2025