(no subject)
October 8, 1998
Fellow at a party in San Angelo the other night reviewed growing up at a line camp on the huge Matador Ranch up north. He touched on the cowboys and the cooks he knew. Admitted that he got such an overdose of cowboying as a kid, he left the ranch for good once he was out of high school.
Like I told him, had the boys around Mertzon in 1940 so much as had a chance to cut wood or haul the water for the Matador chuckwagon, we'd have given any four fingers off either hand for the privilege.
Next day, I read about a group of pathologists exhuming the remains of six sailors buried in the permafrost in Greenland — or maybe it was the Northwest Territory of Canada. The purpose is to study the tissue of these six victims of the influenza epidemic of 1918. The Matador story was still fresh from the night before. I began to wonder if pathologists would be interested in studying live cowboys before the last one was gone. I knew a few old boys some time ago who used to sell blood. Perhaps there were still some around who would sell tissue.
To my knowledge no one but wives or sweethearts had ever even tried to find out the cause of the cowboy disease. In lots of instances, the ladies' interest was pretty shortterm, coming to a swift conclusion from a traveling salesman hitting the country in a new car, or a county agent moving to town with a steady income. Maybe a panel of scientists could launch a study and learn why a waddie wasn't able to be content working on the ground instead of being up in the air riding an animal that has a hard time placing tenth in an intelligence test of 10 species.
I pulled the file of all the I-9 forms collected since the law was passed in November of 1986. All except three or four were day workers. Many were passport Mexicans. First, I sorted the forms according to the seasons of the workers' births. Thirty-two were born in the winter, mainly in December. Of the 24 born in the summer, way over half listed July as their birth date. I found spring to be only one man more than the 12 who were born in the fall. So of the 81 hands I worked, 40 percent had been born in the winter months.
I looked in the astrology charts in the newspaper for a clue, but the only thing I found revelant was a short note saying: "Babies born in the cold months may confuse perspiration with their own blood." Under July, the only applicable message was: "Watch for theatrical heat strokes in babies born this month."
Next, I stacked the ones who promised to come the following week and failed to appear. Five of the eight were between 30 and 40 years of age. Half of them drew advances from five to 10 dollars to buy gasoline to come to work Monday. At least 10 to my best memory in a younger grouping had to take their wives to the doctor in Del Rio.
Here my system broke down. But those I-9 forms held lots of memories. I remembered three cases of boys who became lost in the horse trap. I recalled one gentleman costumed in black hat and silver band who tried to shift the blame, because his broken stirrup leather buckle rubbed a sore on his horse. I recalled vividly of watching old Cindy, the kid horse, make equestrian history by staying under the most inept rider to ever put foot to stirrup. I found one of those reminder stick-um notes on a form of one hand: "Next time there is a fire as big as the one that burned down the bunkhouse, throw all the extra saddles in the blaze at the highest point."
After one more big selloff from the drouth in August, my brother called one morning to ask whether I was going back in the sheep business once it began raining again. Sheep, as you may know, require lots of labor. The question was a shock. Our great grandfather was a sheepman. All the land patents under the family name traced back to woolies. I couldn't answer him. I don't have any idea how I'd buy bulls and cow feed without my old ewes to foot the bills.
The I-9 forms are still out on the dining room table. I brought the stick-um note under careful scrutiny. I wonder when it'll be changed to read: "Throw your rigging in the fire the next time there is one big as the one that burned down the bunkhouse."
Fellow at a party in San Angelo the other night reviewed growing up at a line camp on the huge Matador Ranch up north. He touched on the cowboys and the cooks he knew. Admitted that he got such an overdose of cowboying as a kid, he left the ranch for good once he was out of high school.
Like I told him, had the boys around Mertzon in 1940 so much as had a chance to cut wood or haul the water for the Matador chuckwagon, we'd have given any four fingers off either hand for the privilege.
Next day, I read about a group of pathologists exhuming the remains of six sailors buried in the permafrost in Greenland — or maybe it was the Northwest Territory of Canada. The purpose is to study the tissue of these six victims of the influenza epidemic of 1918. The Matador story was still fresh from the night before. I began to wonder if pathologists would be interested in studying live cowboys before the last one was gone. I knew a few old boys some time ago who used to sell blood. Perhaps there were still some around who would sell tissue.
To my knowledge no one but wives or sweethearts had ever even tried to find out the cause of the cowboy disease. In lots of instances, the ladies' interest was pretty shortterm, coming to a swift conclusion from a traveling salesman hitting the country in a new car, or a county agent moving to town with a steady income. Maybe a panel of scientists could launch a study and learn why a waddie wasn't able to be content working on the ground instead of being up in the air riding an animal that has a hard time placing tenth in an intelligence test of 10 species.
I pulled the file of all the I-9 forms collected since the law was passed in November of 1986. All except three or four were day workers. Many were passport Mexicans. First, I sorted the forms according to the seasons of the workers' births. Thirty-two were born in the winter, mainly in December. Of the 24 born in the summer, way over half listed July as their birth date. I found spring to be only one man more than the 12 who were born in the fall. So of the 81 hands I worked, 40 percent had been born in the winter months.
I looked in the astrology charts in the newspaper for a clue, but the only thing I found revelant was a short note saying: "Babies born in the cold months may confuse perspiration with their own blood." Under July, the only applicable message was: "Watch for theatrical heat strokes in babies born this month."
Next, I stacked the ones who promised to come the following week and failed to appear. Five of the eight were between 30 and 40 years of age. Half of them drew advances from five to 10 dollars to buy gasoline to come to work Monday. At least 10 to my best memory in a younger grouping had to take their wives to the doctor in Del Rio.
Here my system broke down. But those I-9 forms held lots of memories. I remembered three cases of boys who became lost in the horse trap. I recalled one gentleman costumed in black hat and silver band who tried to shift the blame, because his broken stirrup leather buckle rubbed a sore on his horse. I recalled vividly of watching old Cindy, the kid horse, make equestrian history by staying under the most inept rider to ever put foot to stirrup. I found one of those reminder stick-um notes on a form of one hand: "Next time there is a fire as big as the one that burned down the bunkhouse, throw all the extra saddles in the blaze at the highest point."
After one more big selloff from the drouth in August, my brother called one morning to ask whether I was going back in the sheep business once it began raining again. Sheep, as you may know, require lots of labor. The question was a shock. Our great grandfather was a sheepman. All the land patents under the family name traced back to woolies. I couldn't answer him. I don't have any idea how I'd buy bulls and cow feed without my old ewes to foot the bills.
The I-9 forms are still out on the dining room table. I brought the stick-um note under careful scrutiny. I wonder when it'll be changed to read: "Throw your rigging in the fire the next time there is one big as the one that burned down the bunkhouse."
posted by George Noelke at 9:30 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home