Team Roping in Texas

     In 1982,  country singer George Strait and his brother, Buddy, started a small family-run open roping that is now one of the premiere team roping events in the nation. Until a few years ago, Strait still participated in his George Strait Team Roping Classic, but as he approached 60, he decided the sport was too hard on him physically and bowed out.

     Earlier events were held in Kingsville, TX, but they are now in Boerne (sounds like journey), a suburb of San Antonio, at the San Antonio Rose Palace, which Strait owns. This year saw 675 teams competing for $1 million in cash and prizes. All of them competed the first day, Friday, March 13, then the top 50 came back on Saturday the 14th. The two members of the winning team walked away with more than $275,000 in cash, a Chevy  Silverado dually pick-up and a specially-decorated George Strait bumper-pull trailer -- each!

This steer is roped!

     In team roping, a header ropes the steer's horns, while the heeler lassoes his hind legs. The object is to be the fastest, and many teams finished a round in less than five seconds. Seconds are added to a score if only one leg is roped, and a team receives no score if the steer gets away sans rope. Scores for each team’s three rounds are combined to determine winners.

     The Rose Palace holds 4,500 people, but with half of it partitioned off for vendors and a warm-up round pen for the participants, I’d say about half that number of stadium-type seats were available. Most of them were filled with middle-aged and older females who have followed Strait since his first single, “Unwound,” came out in 1981. They know that Strait has had a phenomenal career, out-selling all other country music entertainers with 60 Number One chart-toppers, and outlasting them with 33 years of CDs and tours.  His last concert tour, The Cowboy Rides Away, was in 2013-2014. He's taking 2015 off, then will pick and choose where he wants to perform. Far from gone from the music scene, however, Strait has signed a contract with MCA Records for five more albums. He turns 63 in May.

Strait makes his way around arena.

     Fan club members packed the seats nearest the glassed press box in the Rose Palace, hoping for a glimpse of the King of Country. They came armed with cameras, seat cushions, blankets, homemade gifts for the Strait family, and the hope that Saturday morning, they'll be at the fence to touch The King’s hand as he circles the arena on horseback and high-fives everyone within reach. Yes, many of them brought husbands and boyfriends, and actually watched the team roping, too.

The top ropers line up for fans.

     Although the gates opened at 8 a.m. and the roping started at 10, cars lined up as early as 6 a.m. because the seats are general admission. My friend Annette and I arrived about 7:30 that Friday morning, and there were at least two dozen cars ahead of us. But we got decent seats. We left about 5 p.m., tired and hungry, but the event didn't end until the wee hours of the morning.

     Saturday, we were in line by 7 a.m., but there were twice as many cars ahead of us. Like I said, it's the day the lucky ones get to touch the hand of the King. As for me, I was just happy to be in the presence of so many cowboys, most wearing starched jeans and shirts, boots and hats, and saying, "M'am" whenever they addressed you. We joked about bringing one or two home with us, but it just didn't work out.

     Oh well, Maybe next year.

Road Trip

     I left town Sunday on a road trip to San Antonio with a high school chum. Annette is a rabid  George Strait fan, and we have tickets to his Team Roping Classic in Bourne, Texas, Friday and Saturday. At least, that's our excuse for the trip. Actually, it's as much about getting there and back as it is seeing the event. 

     Sunday night we stayed at a Motel 6 in Port Allen, LA. I know the desk clerk thought I was crazy when I asked her whether there were lids on the toilets, but I hate staying in a place that doesn't have them. Turns out there were more important questions I should have asked. There were no tissues, no toiletries other than soap, and no hair dryer. Neither of us packed one because we thought all motels furnished hair dryers. When I mentioned this to the desk clerk next morning, she said they had one they loaned to guests, but it was out at the moment. One hair dryer for the entire motel? You've got to be kidding! Tom Bodett won't have to leave the light on for me again, that's for sure. 

      Monday night we stayed in Sealy, TX, because I was too tired to drive any further. We had spent some time at the Texas Welcome Center on I-10, which threw us into the midst of rush-hour traffic in Houston, and it was raining, to boot.  It took us an hour to get through that city, so we headed for the first decent place we could find to stay the night. Yes, there were hair dryers in the rooms, but the soap was so cheap it crumbled each time I tried to swipe it across my body. By the time I got to my toes, it was scattered all over the tub.

      For the past three days, we have been shopping our way through Texas Hill Country. Before checking into our motel in Bourne Tuesday afternoon, we ate and shopped in Gruene. Like several towns in the area, Gruene was settled by a German family, but is now a tourist town of shops and restaurants. Its biggest attraction is Gruene Hall, an old-time dance hall where many entertainers played when they were nobodies...like George Strait, Merle Haggard and Lyle Lovett. We were two tired puppies Tuesday night.

     Wednesday we went to Bandera, which bills itself as the Cowboy Capital of the World, although I have no idea why. We went into The Cowboy Store looking to buy a couple of long, lanky ones, but found only clothing and boots. The proprietor said if we wanted to find a cowboy, we should go to the 11th Street Cowboy Bar that night, because it was steak night and the place would be crawling with them (cowboys, not steaks). However, this entailed buying a steak at the local butcher's and taking it to the bar to grill ourselves, so we declined. 

     From Bandera we continued to Camp Verde, where the U.S. Army once experimented with camels for transportation. After lunch there, we stopped long enough in Fredericksburg to buy Christmas ornaments and wine, vowing to return for another shopping session Sunday. Our final destination before heading back to Bourne was Luckenbach, the town made famous in song by Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson. There's nothing much there except a general store and outdoor music venue, but everyone loves to have his photo made under the Post Office sign. 

     Today, we went into San Antonio to see the Alamo, and dropped some more money along the River Walk. I just hope we don't run out of money before we run out of Texas.

Escape Artist

J.J., Betsy & Molly

       When I saw the white van pull up to my back gate, I knew what had happened.

“Did J.J. get out again?” I asked the driver, my neighbor, Phillip.

J. J. is the donkey that used to belong to Phillip’s mother-in-law, Cathy, who lived next door to me.When Cathy died in August 2013, I looked after J.J., Betsy the goat and Molly, Cathy’s aged horse, until Phillip and Misty could get a place with a pasture. I took the donkey and the horse home Mother’s Day weekend. Molly died a few weeks ago, and ever since then, the lonesome donkey keeps pulling a Houdini act and disappearing. I like to think he’s looking for some equine company.

“Yes, he’s down the road again. I called you but got no answer, so I came on. You said I could borrow the trailer anytime.”

“Sure, no problem,” I replied, brushing Mallory, my walking horse, as I talked. “Haven’t you fixed that fence yet?”

“All but a couple of places, but there are a bunch of briars in those places. He keeps going through them. I’ve got to cut the briars down so I can run the barbed wire there.”

This was the second time in three days Phillip had to use my trailer to get J.J. home. He had wandered so far down the road that it was easier to trailer him home than to walk him home. Donkeys really can be stubborn.

“Why don’t you just bring him here for a few days, until you can get the fence repaired,” I suggested.

Phillip’s face lit up like a kid with cotton candy. “Really?” he said. “That would be great.”

So that’s what he did Friday. I came back to the house after brushing Mallory, and received a call from Phillip a short while later. He was at the back, having just delivered J.J.

“You should see him,” Phillip saId. “He brayed four or five times, ran up and down the fence, and the other horses ran with him,” he said. “They’re all kicking up and having a great time. By the way, are your mares in heat?”

“Not that I know of,” I replied. “They usually don’t go into heat until warmer weather. Why? Is he trying to mount one of them?”

“Yeah, the little pony,” he said. “She’s about his size, and seems to be backing up to him.”

“Nibbles? Well, that’s okay,” I told him. “We may just have us a little mule baby next year.”

This morning when I went out to feed them, J.J. and Nibbles were lying side by side in the pasture, soaking up the sunshine. I texted Misty and suggested they take Nibbles home when they come for J.J. She has been looking for a companion for the donkey.  If they like having Nibbles, and decide to keep her, we can talk about a price later. It will be reasonable, because I’ll have one less mouth to feed and less horse poop to muck. 

But if she does turn up pregnant, that baby is mine!

Snow Days

       

        As I sit at my computer today, watching the snow turn my woods into a winter wonderland, I’m reminded of snow days past.

The earliest one that I remember was in the late 1950s. It stands out simply because it occurred in late March or early April, and the day before, I had been sitting on my porch steps in a short-sleeved shirt. That’s Alabama for you.

The next one I recall was in January 1977. In a framed montage on my office wall I have a picture from that one. It shows my late husband, Jack, wrapped in his Navy pea coat, wearing a denim cap and the scarf my first sister-in-law made for him, and striped pants. He’s holding onto a rope attached to what appears to be a garbage can lid upon which my five-year-old daughter, Heather, is seated. She, too is bundled in a hooded coat. I love that father-daughter picture.

How could I forget the Storm of the Century, in 1993, that shut down the entire Birmingham metropolitan area, and then some, for several days? We were without power for at least five of those days, so we had no heat. There were four of us by then, and we slept on quilts in the living room of our Homewood house. Every couple of hours Jack got up and add more wood to the fire in the fireplace. That fireplace had no damper, so most of the heat was escaping through the chimney. Next morning, Jack took a thermometer outside, and discovered only a few degrees difference between our living room and our front yard.

I think that was the same snow that threatened to devour my Yorkshire terrier, T.J. He was so small, and the snow so deep and soft, that he almost disappeared into it every time he went out to wee-wee. I have a video to back that up.

During a big snow a couple of years ago, I messed up a really good cookie sheet using it as a sled. My Ashville driveway is steep, and I just knew I was going to wind up hitting a tree or my pond. As usual, I only stayed outside for half an hour. I love snow best when viewing it from inside the house. 

It’s snowing heavily now, but with the ground so damp, who knows how long it will stick? I’m prepared, though. My propane tank was filled Monday. My horses are wearing blankets and I turned on their stall heat lamps. I bought extra hay yesterday. I also bought gasoline for my portable generator. That generator is the best insurance I’ve ever purchased against a power outage, because there hasn’t been one in the year and a half that I’ve had it. But I bought gasoline, just in case.

There are plenty of leftovers in the fridge, including come crock-pot barbecued ribs and some red beans and rice. I went by Ashville Drugs a little while ago and picked up a prescription. I also went into the Pig for some limes so I won’t get snowed in without a margarita. Somehow, despite the dropping temperature, ice cream managed to find its way into my cart, too.

       Snow or no snow, it’s all the same to me. I’ll be watching through the windows in my office. I’ve got deadlines to meet. So go ahead, Mother Nature, bring it on. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

View from my from porch.

Other Than That, Mrs. Lincoln, How Did You Enjoy The Play?

        Drinking my morning coffee, I watched the mist settle over Lake Martin at Wind Creek State Park.  A small fishing boat glided silently out of the mist. With a fisherman standing at the front, it reminded me of a carving on the prow of an ancient Viking ship.

It was the first full weekend of February, one of the last sunny days before this Siberian storm settled over the Eastern half of the country. Scratching my tick bites, I reflected on the events of the previous day. It had been perfect weather for trail riding. But neither my pony, Jazzy, nor my friend, Betty, were perfect for the treacherous trails we encountered. It had been 16 years since Betty had been on a horse. I doubt that Jazzy had ever been trail riding with other horses. We thought we could whip both into shape with two half-hour spins through my own woods during the week. It took a trip to the emergency room to see the flaws in our thinking.

My OutbackTrail Riders club had scheduled a day ride at Wind Creek, but like many in the club, I have a horse trailer with living quarters and decided to make a weekend of it. Betty came up from Tallahassee, Florida, to join me. 

We left around 1 p.m. Friday so we could set up camp before dark. We easily found the horse camping section that the trail club secretary had mentioned in the newsletter and several emails. We noticed right off, however, that there was only one other horse camper there, the sites weren’t pull-throughs, and there wasn’t much room to park the horses. I had to back my 22-foot gooseneck into position, something I hate, but with Betty directing, I managed. We put up a picket line on uneven ground between two trees, and tied the horses to it.

Saturday morning, I started making phone calls to determine where riders were supposed to meet. It turned out that we were in the wrong camp site. The club secretary had sent out old information, and everyone but me knew it. Others were in the overflow section, which had a big field for picket lines and temporary fencing, and camp sites that you could pull into. We missed the fish fry and fellowship of Friday night because of this misinformation. 

We were but a short distance from the others, but the park wouldn’t let us ride the roads, so we were to meet them on the trail. I’m directionally challenged, especially in unknown woods, so a nice day rider came and got us. However, his trailer was smaller than what my horses are used to, so it took 30 minutes to load them.

Fortunately, no one was ready to ride out at the usual 9:30, because they had stayed up late partying the night before. We rode out about 10:30, and I could see almost immediately that the trail would be a challenge for Jazzy and Betty. Both were huffing and puffing in just a few minutes of hill climbing. We stopped to rest several times, but I was still worried about Jazzy. She was sweating profusely. I had planned on turning back at lunch, but thought it might be sooner. 

Shortly after lunch we encountered problems. Trees were down in several places, forcing us to climb incredibly steep hills to get around the debris. Then Jazzy got her hind legs caught in some vines, bucked, and Betty came off. She landed with a thud, the breath knocked out of her. A rider radioed friends who were fishing, and they came into the slew at the bottom of the hill and picked her up in their boat. When I got back to camp, a park ranger came by to tell me I owed more money, also the result of misinformation, then offered to call an ambulance. We readily agreed.

Fortunately, the emergency room x-rays showed nothing broken or cracked, and my friend got a prescription for pain killers. After having the Rx filled, we headed back to camp. Even though she urged me to ride the next day, I knew the Saturday day rider wasn’t available to pick me up Sunday and I didn’t trust my GPS skills to find the other riders on the trail. So we stayed in camp. 

We’re planning another trip, once my tick bites heal, the swelling in Betty’s knee goes down and she gets over the pneumonia, which I suspect was a direct result of bruised ribs not allowing her to breathe deeply. Jazzy needs more trail practice, too, and so does Betty. Hers may have to wait until she has that knee operation. Jazzy’s will have to wait until warmer weather.
         All in all, it was still a good weekend.

Making Memories

I had a treehouse built for my grandsons recently. It has a sleeping loft for camping out. The loft was as much for me as for my grandsons, because I’ve always been enchanted with the idea of sleeping on a second floor.

Gabe and I have slept in it twice already.The first time was over Thanksgiving weekend. The treehouse, which is actually a playhouse built on stilts between two trees, wasn’t quite finished then. So we had to put a tarp over an open wall section. We ran an extension cord through a window to operate a small heater.

The ladder to the loft hadn’t been built, but the workmen had left a step-ladder. It was rather unstable, and I fell a few rungs from the bottom. Gabe became very concerned and insisted that I sleep on the main level because he was afraid that I would fall when I got up to use the camping potty during the night. He and his friend, Walker, slept in the loft, and I slept down below. The window we ran the cord through wouldn’t stay closed, and we all nearly froze to death. Despite a two-inch exercise mat under my sleeping bag, the wooden floor beneath me felt like bricks. None of us slept much, but we had fun. Oh, and the boys got up to pee twice during the night, while I didn’t go at all.

Last weekend, I had Matias, who is almost three, Thursday night and Friday. We had a tea party in the treehouse. We sat at a toddler-sized picnic table that had belonged to my 42-year-old daughter when she was about six. We used a pink plastic Fisher-Price tea set that had belonged to Matias’s mom when she wasn’t much older then he is now. Friday afternoon, I swapped the toddler for Gabe, because he and I had riding lessons at my house the next day. So Saturday night, Gabe, Walker and I camped out in the treehouse again. The use of the phrase “camped out” instead of “slept” is intentional.

I cut a hole in the wall beneath a window at floor level, using a drill bit meant for cutting doorknob holes. We ran the heavy-duty extension cord through that and I had the heater blowing on me all night, but it didn’t do much good. I had purchased a new sleeping bag for Gabe and a self-inflating mat to go under my sleeping bag for padding. The latter didn’t inflate, so once again I felt like I was sleeping on concrete.

The boys were determined to stay up all night playing games on my iPad, but they didn’t quite make it. They got up to pee twice, but went out on the porch and used the yard as their toilet. The zipper in my sleeping bag was broken, but I had an extra blanket over the bag, so I wasn’t cold. The boys wound up sleeping together in Gabe’s new sleeping bag because Walker’s wasn’t warm enough. They also had a wool blanket over them, so they were toasty. 

The bottom line, though, is that we still didn’t get much sleep. But that wasn’t the object. We were making memories. We do that a lot. I’ve found that it doesn’t take much to make memories with your grandchildren. Sometimes, it requires a little creativity, but mainly it requires your time. When all is said and done, that’s what they really want anyway. And I believe that spending time together will outlive, or at least outweigh, the memories of  what we actually do.

Always Late

It's a big problem that often makes me feel very small.

        "I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date. No time to say hello, goodbye, I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!" 

The White Rabbit in Walt Disney’s 1951 animated film, “Alice In Wonderland,” had nothing on me. Some critics say he was normally punctual, and that’s why he was so upset, and that ultimately he arrived at his appointment on time to announce the king and queen. Unlike the rabbit, I’m rarely punctual, and probably would be late meeting the queen herself! Although I wouldn’t  have to worry about her taking off my head, as the rabbit did, I’m sure some of my friends have wanted to do that for her at times.

Whether it’s a doctor’s appointment, professional meeting, church or an interview, I rarely arrive on time. I don’t know why, except that I don’t like to be early and have to sit and wait. Never mind that I keep others waiting due to my being late. Country singer Lefty Frizzell had a hit with a song called, “Always Late,” referring to his girlfriend’s kisses. If I had a boyfriend, I’d probably be late with those too. 

I used to be as much as half an hour late, but I have whittled that down to five or ten minutes. In fact, it’s almost always five or ten minutes. Why, I don’t know, nor do I know why I can’t shave off another five or ten minutes.

I have always been like this. As a teen, I would keep friends waiting in front of department stores or movie theaters. I’d be late for dates, keeping the guy waiting while I took the curlers out of my hair. In college, I was often late with term papers and other assignments, and that habit cost me grade points several times. You’d think once would have taught me a lesson, especially when an English professor said I would have gotten that rare “A” on a freshman term paper had I not turned it in two days late. Even today, I’m sometimes late with a writing assignment. 

My husband used to say that I had no concept of time. I believe he was right. I’ve tried plotting my schedule, working backward from my appointment time. I’ll allow a certain amount of time to get there, which is almost always wrong, because no matter how many times I travel a route, I can’t recall exactly how long it takes. So I’ll plan to leave home at 9 a.m. That means I need to have my shower and start dressing at 8 or 8:15. So I need to eat breakfast at 7:30. It takes me several minutes to wake up, so I have to allow half an hour to drink my coffee. So, I’d need to get up round 7. Oops, almost forgot, I need to feed my horses, llamas, goat and barn cats, so let’s back that arise-and-shine time to 6:30.

Sounds like a good plan, right? Problem is, I can’t seem to stick to it. I’ll watch the morning news while drinking my coffee, then it’s 7:45. After my coffee, I have to have my morning date with the porcelain throne. I keep magazines in my throne room, so there goes another half hour. Then I rush out to feed my critters, rush back in to shower, and decide to check my email. Big mistake. Before I know it, I’ve spent an hour at the computer. And so it goes.

I have come to the conclusion that the primary culprits are procrastination, too much on my plate and the fact that I‘m easily distracted. But knowing the causes and effecting a cure are two different matters.

Enough about my tardiness. I’ve got to pick up my grandson in a couple of hours. I’m sure I won’t be late for that. All I have to do is finish this post, work out at the gym, come home and shower, dress and put on makeup, stop by Publix on the way....hmmm, I’m seeing a pattern here.