Behind the Grindstone

We have sure been blessed with rain this summer. It’s interesting that all of creation can forecast the weather if we will just pay attention.

They say El Diablo was his father
And he was his father’s child
All restraints had vanished
And he was running wild

Wheat harvest seems to be in full swing and it reminds me of a life altering lesson I learned while I was farming forty some years ago. We had experienced one of those droughty years and the wheat was thin and scraggly and wouldn’t pay to cut.

He said he was ridin’ for the Rimrock
On a range that reached the sky
And hoped he would be there
Until his time to die

At last it’s came upon him
Twilight now failing fast
Fading are the evening colors
Painted bright but not to last

A stranger drove into camp
Walked right up to our fire
Had a tongue that kept on waggeling
Seemed it’d never tire

He was settin’ by the window
A wheelchair as his seat
He was wearin’ his old black hat
And had slippers on his feet

When we look at the story of the birth of Jesus, I have often wondered how Joseph must have felt. I can only imagine what I may have felt had it been me.

In a stable in a manger
The newborn baby cries
And the heavens crack wide open
As the angels split the skies

The bunkhouse was full
‘Cause the trail was snowed in
Things were right tense
And patience ran thin

We were gathered up about daylight
At the local cafe
At what was known as the liars table
Where we gathered every day

Now the boys had got in trouble
In a good natured sort of way
The judge said even though it was all in fun
There was a price to pay

There was a time in times past before the homestead act when the prairie was open range. Some called it free range or free graze, not owned by anyone but controlled and grazed by those tough enough to keep what they claimed.

I believe we all have a tendency to look at the elderly and believe that’s all they have ever been. It’s interesting to hear some of their stories about the lives they have lived.

History has always been an interest of mine. There’s nothing that gains my attention more than the ruins of an old house.

I’ve written quite a lot about Pablo
An old vaquero from back in the day
Livin’ alone he was always happy
When I drop by his way