Jack was sittin' in the stands at a cuttin' horse sale down in east Texas and struck up a conversation with an owner. The owner didn't look healthy.
Yeah, he said, I brought this colt to a local trainer. He looked the colt over, praised his conformation, agility and breeding. A natural, he said, a diamond in the rough. He agreed to train him. He promised to ride him six days a week. 30 minutes a day for $700 a month including the $200 feed bill. That's $41.66 per hour of training.
Thirty days passed. I sent a check. Sixty days passed. He called. Said he planned to put him on cows soon. And to send a check.
Ninety days...not quite ready for cows, he said. I sent another check. At four months he called, reported that the colt would watch a cow, but has flexing problems, won't crouch and has a stiff back.
By eight months nothing had changed. Except I now owned a $7600 colt. The trainer encouraged me not to give up. Rome wasn't built in a day, he said.
We were anticipating the colt's first horse show in the spring. Spring came. He'd had the colt a full year. When I called to check which show we should pick he recommended that I sell this colt as he would make a good gelding and ranch horse but lacks the class to make a good cutting horse. Just too tall, he said, won't watch a cow and not an athelete.
I asked him with all these back problems and winter weather how much the horse had been rode. Every three days he reported. $83.33 an hour I quickly calculated. Now my $2000 colt has eaten $2400 worth of feed, lost weight and the hourly training fee has doubled.
By then I'd had $10,400 invested. I'm told my barn burner is just a hay burner and then he offers me $2000 for him to use as a turnback horse! After ten years and as many horses and trainers you'd think I'd have learned something."
"Gosh," Jack sympathized.
Yup, replied the owner. But that ain't the end of the tale. I sold him the colt. Three months later my wife and he ran off. The pair of 'em are now on the internet shopping for owners with real barn burners.
By the way, he sold my ex-colt at the Dallas/Ft. Worth Select Sale for $17,000.
The owner sighed then brightened up. But things are gettin' better. I've got a colt at home right now with more potential than Tiger Woods.
He looked at Jack. Do you know a good trainer?
Baxter Black
http://www.equisearch.com/columnists/b_ ... axter3220/
Down home humor...
Down home humor...
"If America Was A Tree, The Left Would Root For The Termites...Greg Gutfeld."
Down home humor...
It's All Trew:
History? It's in the mail
By Delbert Trew
Opinion
web page
Mention the U.S. mail to almost anyone and you will hear a tale about a lost check or smashed package.
Seldom do you hear complimentary remarks about years of faithful, dependable service. How about some true mail tales from the past?
Two stories stand out in the California Gold Rush days. One young miner, exhausted from swinging a pickax and shoveling gravel, became so homesick for a letter from home he started the ******* Express, a mail delivery service. His delivery equipment consisted of a mule, a saddle and a canvas bag.
For three dollars cash, he would add your name to his list. For the same price he would carry your letter over the mountains to San Francisco for posting. After delivering his mail he would spend days going through the general delivery letters searching for names on his list. When satisfied he returned to the gold fields for delivery. He probably made more money than if he had been digging for gold.
High in the mountains of Nevada at another gold strike, a group of investors decided to build a small bank. As fire was always a hazard they built the walls of stone but wanted brick for the front. Freight costs to haul bricks from the valley below were prohibitive. However, an ingenious plan was devised.
An accomplice down in the valley wrapped bricks in brown paper, tied it with twine and mailed the package to the bank in the mountains. The postage was much less than the freight. With two deliveries per week, the brick inventory grew until the bank could be finished. Pity the poor postman who carried the mail.
The ghost town of Eldridge, second settlement in Gray County and the site of the first cemetery in the county, sported a U.S. Post Office in a tent. History tells of the postmaster being paid a commission on the number of stamps sold each month.
At first, the mail was held in a wooden crate but the government insisted on post office boxes. There is still some argument whether the postmaster used hen nests for post office boxes or whether he used post office boxes for hen nests later.
According to Shattuck, Okla., history, in about 1894 T.N. Miller turned over a corner of his store for use as a post office. All mail received was dumped into a washtub. To find if you had mail meant sifting through the tub's contents. When postal authorities discovered the store loafers reading everyone's mail and looking at the papers and magazines, they insisted Miller provide more privacy so he began locking all mail received into a padlocked canvas bag.
To check your mail required a key. Since Miller was often out on deliveries or business he tied the padlock key to the collar of his pet raccoon who stayed around the store most of the time. Now, if the raccoon happened to be down on Rock Creek fishing, the postal patron had to go find the rac**** first to get the key.
This is a true story. It's in a book!
Delbert Trew is a freelance writer and retired rancher
History? It's in the mail
By Delbert Trew
Opinion
web page
Mention the U.S. mail to almost anyone and you will hear a tale about a lost check or smashed package.
Seldom do you hear complimentary remarks about years of faithful, dependable service. How about some true mail tales from the past?
Two stories stand out in the California Gold Rush days. One young miner, exhausted from swinging a pickax and shoveling gravel, became so homesick for a letter from home he started the ******* Express, a mail delivery service. His delivery equipment consisted of a mule, a saddle and a canvas bag.
For three dollars cash, he would add your name to his list. For the same price he would carry your letter over the mountains to San Francisco for posting. After delivering his mail he would spend days going through the general delivery letters searching for names on his list. When satisfied he returned to the gold fields for delivery. He probably made more money than if he had been digging for gold.
High in the mountains of Nevada at another gold strike, a group of investors decided to build a small bank. As fire was always a hazard they built the walls of stone but wanted brick for the front. Freight costs to haul bricks from the valley below were prohibitive. However, an ingenious plan was devised.
An accomplice down in the valley wrapped bricks in brown paper, tied it with twine and mailed the package to the bank in the mountains. The postage was much less than the freight. With two deliveries per week, the brick inventory grew until the bank could be finished. Pity the poor postman who carried the mail.
The ghost town of Eldridge, second settlement in Gray County and the site of the first cemetery in the county, sported a U.S. Post Office in a tent. History tells of the postmaster being paid a commission on the number of stamps sold each month.
At first, the mail was held in a wooden crate but the government insisted on post office boxes. There is still some argument whether the postmaster used hen nests for post office boxes or whether he used post office boxes for hen nests later.
According to Shattuck, Okla., history, in about 1894 T.N. Miller turned over a corner of his store for use as a post office. All mail received was dumped into a washtub. To find if you had mail meant sifting through the tub's contents. When postal authorities discovered the store loafers reading everyone's mail and looking at the papers and magazines, they insisted Miller provide more privacy so he began locking all mail received into a padlocked canvas bag.
To check your mail required a key. Since Miller was often out on deliveries or business he tied the padlock key to the collar of his pet raccoon who stayed around the store most of the time. Now, if the raccoon happened to be down on Rock Creek fishing, the postal patron had to go find the rac**** first to get the key.
This is a true story. It's in a book!
Delbert Trew is a freelance writer and retired rancher
"If America Was A Tree, The Left Would Root For The Termites...Greg Gutfeld."
Down home humor...
It's All Trew: Borrowing can turn friends to enemies
web page
A recent coffee shop session lasted two hours as the "Blow & Slurp" bunch recalled sad tales about borrowing and loaning various items down through the years.
At the end we agreed that more friends and neighbors were lost, more feelings hurt and more enemies made over borrowing or loaning things than all other causes added together.
One man recalled a neighbor too tight to own a horse and saddle, who borrowed his neighbor's to pen his small herd of cattle. He was not an experienced rider and fell off the horse, experiencing serious injury. He sued the horse owner and won his case. The two old neighbors never spoke to each other again during the remainder of their lives.
I once loaned a neighbor a tractor-mounted brush cutter after he assured me he would return it in an hour. I found it days later hidden in tall weeds and broken beyond repair. He claimed he returned it like promised and that someone else must have borrowed the piece. Years later, his son told me his father hit a heavy iron stake and lied.
Borrowing something and not returning is another sad story. Many times I have had to drive to the borrower's house, search his premises in order to recover my loaned items. I always forgave but I never forgot. My father used to say, "There is no cure for don't care."
Borrowing can work the opposite way also. One of our favorite neighbors south of Perryton who was an excellent mechanic and welder seldom borrowed anything. When he did borrow an item, it came back home in better shape than when it left. Dad would grin and say, "See if John will borrow that plow over there. It sure needs some tender loving care."
We all agreed that a man should never loan out his chainsaw, pocket knife, weed-eater, broadcast binder, a good cutting horse or his wife. Each of these items are of a delicate nature with too many adjustments that could go wrong. We also agreed that any man who asked to borrow these items wasn't worth his salt and don't worry about hurting his feelings.
My favorite story about borrowing took place at Perryton in about 1960. I was working as a carpenter for a local building contractor who chewed plug tobacco. After each coffee break the man would pull out his plug, cut off a chew and place it in his cheek. One employee who always seemed to be watching nearby would say, "Can I borrow a chew Mr. Morgan? I left my plug at home this morning." He always received his chew and said thanks.
One morning we were all watching when the tobacco plug appeared. It was very small after Mr. Morgan cut off his part and as usual the employee asked to "borrow" a chew. Mr. Morgan pushed the remainder of the plug onto a sixteen penny nail, then stood up, unzipped his carpenter overalls and urinated on the tobacco. The borrower's eyes were big as saucers when Mr. Morgan said, "That's how I keep it moist." The man never asked to borrow a chew again.
Delbert Trew is a freelance writer and retired rancher
web page
A recent coffee shop session lasted two hours as the "Blow & Slurp" bunch recalled sad tales about borrowing and loaning various items down through the years.
At the end we agreed that more friends and neighbors were lost, more feelings hurt and more enemies made over borrowing or loaning things than all other causes added together.
One man recalled a neighbor too tight to own a horse and saddle, who borrowed his neighbor's to pen his small herd of cattle. He was not an experienced rider and fell off the horse, experiencing serious injury. He sued the horse owner and won his case. The two old neighbors never spoke to each other again during the remainder of their lives.
I once loaned a neighbor a tractor-mounted brush cutter after he assured me he would return it in an hour. I found it days later hidden in tall weeds and broken beyond repair. He claimed he returned it like promised and that someone else must have borrowed the piece. Years later, his son told me his father hit a heavy iron stake and lied.
Borrowing something and not returning is another sad story. Many times I have had to drive to the borrower's house, search his premises in order to recover my loaned items. I always forgave but I never forgot. My father used to say, "There is no cure for don't care."
Borrowing can work the opposite way also. One of our favorite neighbors south of Perryton who was an excellent mechanic and welder seldom borrowed anything. When he did borrow an item, it came back home in better shape than when it left. Dad would grin and say, "See if John will borrow that plow over there. It sure needs some tender loving care."
We all agreed that a man should never loan out his chainsaw, pocket knife, weed-eater, broadcast binder, a good cutting horse or his wife. Each of these items are of a delicate nature with too many adjustments that could go wrong. We also agreed that any man who asked to borrow these items wasn't worth his salt and don't worry about hurting his feelings.
My favorite story about borrowing took place at Perryton in about 1960. I was working as a carpenter for a local building contractor who chewed plug tobacco. After each coffee break the man would pull out his plug, cut off a chew and place it in his cheek. One employee who always seemed to be watching nearby would say, "Can I borrow a chew Mr. Morgan? I left my plug at home this morning." He always received his chew and said thanks.
One morning we were all watching when the tobacco plug appeared. It was very small after Mr. Morgan cut off his part and as usual the employee asked to "borrow" a chew. Mr. Morgan pushed the remainder of the plug onto a sixteen penny nail, then stood up, unzipped his carpenter overalls and urinated on the tobacco. The borrower's eyes were big as saucers when Mr. Morgan said, "That's how I keep it moist." The man never asked to borrow a chew again.
Delbert Trew is a freelance writer and retired rancher
"If America Was A Tree, The Left Would Root For The Termites...Greg Gutfeld."
Down home humor...
Be prepared for anything when buying bulls
By BAXTER BLACK
baxterblack.com
Opinion
web page
The lure to own something of historical significance is strong. Benjamin Franklin's signature, an arrowhead, Dale Evan's Chapstick.
This connection to tradition is part of the popularity of raising buffalo, I think. However, putting bison on display on your farm is more complicated than parking an antique tractor in your shed.
Kenny was having a clearance sale: four buffalo cows and one bull. A country gentleman with 20 acres called and a deal was made. The gentleman assured Kenny he knew what he was doing. His wife and he already had two llamas and an emu, and he had seen "Dances With Wolves."
He showed up at Kenny's place in a brand new Chevy 3/4-ton pickup and a 20-foot stock trailer that didn't have a scratch or speck of manure on it. Kenny's buffalo hauling trailer looked more like an armored car or the bed of a dump truck. He looked at the 3/4-inch pipe and tin foil sides of the gentlemen's rig and decided to keep his mouth shut.
It took the gentleman 30 minutes and 40 acres to get backed up to the loading chute. He walked back wearing his brand new black cowboy hat, boots, and a buffalo head bolo tie and carrying a bullwhip.
"What do I do?" he asked.
"Sit in the pickup 'til I get 'em loaded," said Kenny
The cows complied but the bull was being difficult. Finally Kenny got him up to where he was sniffing the trailer floor when the gentleman poked his head around the corner, spooking the bull and causing Kenny to dive for cover.
After re-instructing the gentleman to stay in the truck, Kenny snapped a long lead rope to a chain that hung from a ring in the bull's nose. He then ran the lead rope around a pipe in the trailer, took a dally on a corral post and worked the bull back up the chute right to the trailer again. Once again, in a effort to help, the gentleman peered around the corner, scaring the bull, who pulled back so hard the snap broke. The lead rope whipped around, the broken snap cracked across the gentleman and broke his arm.
"What do I do?" asked the gentleman.
"Stay in the truck!"
The third time was the charm. The bull loaded with a little help from a plastic bag and a fence stay. He circled and banged inside his cage while the gentleman counted out the cash with his good arm. Suddenly the bull charged the tailgate, got a horn under one horizontal bar and ripped three of them loose. The welds popped like snaps on a shirt. He stuck his head out.
"What do I do?" hollered the gentleman.
"They're not mine," said Kenny to the gentleman behind the wheel. "But I believe 'bout every couple minutes I'd slam on the brakes to keep him from makin' the hole bigger."
Kenny watched as the truck and trailer headed down his driveway with the buffalo stickin' out like a trophy on the den wall. Then he heard the screech of brakes and saw the buffalo disappear. Tradition don't come easy.
Baxter Black is a veterinarian and cowboy poet
By BAXTER BLACK
baxterblack.com
Opinion
web page
The lure to own something of historical significance is strong. Benjamin Franklin's signature, an arrowhead, Dale Evan's Chapstick.
This connection to tradition is part of the popularity of raising buffalo, I think. However, putting bison on display on your farm is more complicated than parking an antique tractor in your shed.
Kenny was having a clearance sale: four buffalo cows and one bull. A country gentleman with 20 acres called and a deal was made. The gentleman assured Kenny he knew what he was doing. His wife and he already had two llamas and an emu, and he had seen "Dances With Wolves."
He showed up at Kenny's place in a brand new Chevy 3/4-ton pickup and a 20-foot stock trailer that didn't have a scratch or speck of manure on it. Kenny's buffalo hauling trailer looked more like an armored car or the bed of a dump truck. He looked at the 3/4-inch pipe and tin foil sides of the gentlemen's rig and decided to keep his mouth shut.
It took the gentleman 30 minutes and 40 acres to get backed up to the loading chute. He walked back wearing his brand new black cowboy hat, boots, and a buffalo head bolo tie and carrying a bullwhip.
"What do I do?" he asked.
"Sit in the pickup 'til I get 'em loaded," said Kenny
The cows complied but the bull was being difficult. Finally Kenny got him up to where he was sniffing the trailer floor when the gentleman poked his head around the corner, spooking the bull and causing Kenny to dive for cover.
After re-instructing the gentleman to stay in the truck, Kenny snapped a long lead rope to a chain that hung from a ring in the bull's nose. He then ran the lead rope around a pipe in the trailer, took a dally on a corral post and worked the bull back up the chute right to the trailer again. Once again, in a effort to help, the gentleman peered around the corner, scaring the bull, who pulled back so hard the snap broke. The lead rope whipped around, the broken snap cracked across the gentleman and broke his arm.
"What do I do?" asked the gentleman.
"Stay in the truck!"
The third time was the charm. The bull loaded with a little help from a plastic bag and a fence stay. He circled and banged inside his cage while the gentleman counted out the cash with his good arm. Suddenly the bull charged the tailgate, got a horn under one horizontal bar and ripped three of them loose. The welds popped like snaps on a shirt. He stuck his head out.
"What do I do?" hollered the gentleman.
"They're not mine," said Kenny to the gentleman behind the wheel. "But I believe 'bout every couple minutes I'd slam on the brakes to keep him from makin' the hole bigger."
Kenny watched as the truck and trailer headed down his driveway with the buffalo stickin' out like a trophy on the den wall. Then he heard the screech of brakes and saw the buffalo disappear. Tradition don't come easy.
Baxter Black is a veterinarian and cowboy poet
"If America Was A Tree, The Left Would Root For The Termites...Greg Gutfeld."
Down home humor...
In a transatlantic flight, a plane passes through a severe storm. The turbulence is awful, and things go from bad to worse when one wing is struck by lightning. One woman in particular loses it. Screaming, she stands up in the front of the plane. "I'm too young to die," she wails. Then she yells, "Well, if I'm going to die, I want my last minutes on earth to be memorable!
Is there anyone on this plane who can make me feel like a WOMAN?"
For a moment there is silence. Everyone has forgotten their own peril. They all stare. Eyes riveted, at the desperate woman in the front of the plane.
Then a cowboy named Jack from Carmichael Saskatchewan stands up in the rear of the plane. He is handsome: well built, with dark brown hair and blue eyes.
He starts to walk slowly up the aisle, unbuttoning his shirt. One button at a time.
No one moves.
He removes his shirt. Muscles ripple across his chest.
She gasps...
He whispers...."Iron this -- and then get me a beer."
Is there anyone on this plane who can make me feel like a WOMAN?"
For a moment there is silence. Everyone has forgotten their own peril. They all stare. Eyes riveted, at the desperate woman in the front of the plane.
Then a cowboy named Jack from Carmichael Saskatchewan stands up in the rear of the plane. He is handsome: well built, with dark brown hair and blue eyes.
He starts to walk slowly up the aisle, unbuttoning his shirt. One button at a time.
No one moves.
He removes his shirt. Muscles ripple across his chest.
She gasps...
He whispers...."Iron this -- and then get me a beer."
"If America Was A Tree, The Left Would Root For The Termites...Greg Gutfeld."