August 9, 2001

Grandfather Noelke attended the first convention of the Texas Sheep and Goat Raisers Association in 1915 at Del Rio. Del Rio was a fitting place for him to be joining sheepmen. His chance to own land came from herding his ewes on the free range between Devil's River and the Pecos River valley above Del Rio.

No trace remains of how he reached the first convention. He lived by then in the ranch's present location. If he took grandmother along and his three children, a good guess is a horse and buggy. I do know my 90-odd year-old cousin ranching down on the river drove him to later conventions in San Antonio after the advent of the automobile.

Optimists already warned the last convention might be near. Doomsayers fretted it was not only the last convention, but dangerous to attend in case the Customs office decided to deport us along with our old ewes going to Mexico. The collection of dues had changed from an automatic deduction on wool sales to a per-head levy copied from the hollow horn organization. It is set up to work on an honor system, and the memory returns how accurate the old system of collecting ad valorem taxes worked on the rendition of livestock. We were lighter stocked in Irion County then than we ever have been before or since.

In spite of having to cut across country on farm to market roads part of the way to reach Interstate 10, I was able to make the 160-mile drive to Kerrville without too much discomfort. Big thing on my mind was 330 head of solidmouth ewes I needed to sell stacked up in a 1000-acre pasture of dry stubble down on the highway. The only result from two weeks of advertising and stopping complete strangers on the road to make an offer was from a guy in Illinois who wanted to remind me of jump-starting my pickup one time at a truck stop in Central Texas. Made me feel worse, as I had to admit the old pickup was still hard to start.

Timing, I knew, had to be right at the convention to score. I left early, hoping to meet a prospect before the committee on marketing of lambs and wool read the annual eulogy to producers. I was so keyed up I stopped by the bus station in Junction to see if the ticket agent knew of a buyer for 330 solidmouth ewes. He acted like he didn't know how to tooth a sheep. Lots of those Junction cowboys used to raise good Angora goats, but I guess he wasn't part of the crew that sorted off the old nannies.

At the hotel, only one man in a white Panama hat dressed as a herder. He was quite cordial until I asked if he wanted to buy my ewes. His face filled in disbelief at such a preposterous idea. Then I remembered he had, among many of the world's treasures, a racing stable of fine-blooded running horses. We both kept clearing our throats. I was sure he was glad, as I was, when his wife called him over to the desk.

By nightfall, I thought of going home. After working the reception held by chemical companies, I was so downcast I accepted an invitation to eat at the Dairy Queen next door. A trainee took our orders, guided by a girl a year or so older. I had never eaten at Dairy Queen. Took several attempts to order a hamburger and lemonade from a kid inexperienced at coding "Belt Busters" and "Double Belt Busters."

By the time the girl punched the right keys, my companions were already unwrapping a big bun full of cold meat and cheeses and an anemic-looking taco. Just as I sat down, an old boy at the next table licked the lid of his salad dressing cup. At the same moment, the teacher slid my order on the table, punctuated by: "Anything else?"

I said, "Yes, am I going to have to lick the lid on this mustard cup like that fellow over there?" Adding I sure didn't like straight mustard. She snapped back that her job was to train employees, not customers. Before I explained that this was my first time to eat in a Dairy Queen, she wheeled and returned to schooling the kid on the computer.

At this writing, I am back at the ranch waiting for a truck to ship the ewes to Mexico via the Angelo market. Eight head watered before we penned the herd this morning. However, they have been drenched for stomach worms enough times with straight San Angelo water to be accustomed to the smell. So when they hit town they'll take on a water fill. I did my best to prolong their lives for two more years, but the curse of the weather and diminishing demand laid way for the killing block

August 9, 2001