OldTroubador's Blog - page 13

Spent a lot of time on the phone with my sister today. Dad had to go to the ER, first time in a while. It seems some new medicine he was put on made him sick all last night and he was suffering from dehydration, in addition to high anxiety levels, which happens to him everytime he starts ailing. He gets tired easily anymore - last month he and Mom drove to Gettysburg, only 3-1/2 hours, and it wore him out.
Dad called me this afternoon. He left out, or forgot, the part about vomiting all night. It took him five minutes to think of the word 'adrenal gland' (okay, two words). He used 'antibiotic' and 'antidepresssant' interchangeably. He never mentioned that his blood work up showed almost all his levels running off the bottom of the charts. He sounded shaky, unsure.....scared. And my sister and I both have come to the conclusion that he is just tired of trying, tired of fighting. The only reason he hangs on is because of Mom.
Mom is not much better. Last year at Christmas, when I was there to visit, I saw her put the box of aluminum foil in the refrigerator. When I made a joke about it, she looked like a child whose hand had just been slapped for a misbehavior. And since then, it has just gotten worse - leaving the stove on after the food has been taken off, forgetting appointments, fighting with Dad because she can't remember and has to take out her frustrations. The rest of the time, she sounds like Pollyanna, saying it will all work out.
We are scared that at some point, Mom will drive to the store and forget how to get home. And Dad, well, I found out that his eyesight is not as good as it was - he makes up for it by driving a little faster than he used to. The day is coming when neither of them should be behind the wheel; we just can't take that step to eliminate the tiny bit of freedom they still have, even though we should.
So my sister and I talked at length this afternoon. I am going to have to convince Dad and Mom that my sis needs to see the doctor with them whenever they go. She is going to talk to a lawyer about getting medical power of attorney for each of them. And she is also talking to home care providers.
Our family has a history of letting the elders stay at home until they are called away. And neither of us can countenance putting Mom or Dad in a home, no matter how nice the facilities are. It's just the way we are.
We are going to try to ease M&D into a home care provider a little at a time - maybe someone to cook once or twice a week to start with. Get them used to the idea.
It just takes some getting used to. They were always the providers, the strong ones, the decision makers. But the time has come to reverse the roles - to do for them as they have done for us for the last 50 years. But Goddamn, it hurts to see one's heroes falter, lose a step.
If I may, keep my folks in your thoughts. My sister too - I will carry the worrying, but she is going to have to deal with the day to day. The biggest burden will be hers.
Thank you for letting me unload on y'all.

It is the month of September. There are two anniversaries for me in this month; one I shared with you last year and one I will share with you now. This second anniversary is much happier than the one I wrote about last time.
I started drinking at sixteen years of age (that was 1978 for those keeping score) at a party my sophomore year in high school. I didn’t do much with it really for another year, but my junior year in high school saw a marked increase in my alcohol consumption. Just about every other weekend saw me going to a beer bash somewhere. By the time I hit my senior year, I was an accomplished weekend alcoholic – getting drunk for most of the weekend and then spending a good bit of the school week trying to figure out with my friends what exactly we did. Friday night would come around, and we would start all over. There was a liquor store near the house that cared only about the color of our money – I never got carded. On Monday nights, when our school jazz band would practice; the seniors would all buy a couple of six packs and, as long as we each gave a can or bottle to the director, we could sip beer during the practice, then hang out in the parking lot drinking the rest.
I went off to college in the fall of 1980. At first, I stayed away from the beer, but soon found an upperclassman who would go on a beer run for me and a few of my friends. Fraternity rush followed and that meant unlimited amounts of free beer and whiskey. I was pretty much stuporous from Friday night through Sunday. My upperclass friend would make beer runs for me during the week and by spring semester, I would drink by myself all night, sleep all day, and to hell with my classes. Needless to say, in May, I had to explain to my parents that I had flunked out, but would be staying in the Gettysburg, PA area to look for work.
During this time, I also learned about drinking cheap whiskey, rum, vodka, southern comfort, gin, and a variety of other liquors. One April night in particular stands out. Some friends were having a rum and coke party and invited me over for it. I drank my share, and then some, to the point I don’t remember much of anything. I was told later that I stole a friend’s Mo-Ped and rode it around campus for the longest time. I finally wrecked the bike and hefted it into a dumpster behind the local pizza joint. I went to the fraternity house to sleep, I guess, but started hallucinating about things crawling on me and was thrown into a shower to bring me to some level of sanity. This was my first, but not my last, brush with blacking out.
In late August, I finally found a job at a book printing factory. After a few weeks, I was invited to go to a local bar with my lead operator and a few others from work. Protesting that I was xxxxxxxx, I was told that the owner didn’t much care. If I was a working man, age meant nothing. Soon, a pattern of working a shift, drinking a shift, then sleeping it off became the norm. That bar was closed by the state eventually, not for serving xxxxxxxx drinkers though. We found another bar that had just opened and would serve beer, whiskey, and hamburgers to anyone coming off shift, no matter if shift ended at midnight, 8am, or 4pm. The cycle continued for the next five years I lived and worked there.
I was going to chronicle my downward spiral into the cans of beer and bottles of whiskey, the blackouts, the lost weekends, the women I left behind because I would rather drink, but there is no need. Skipping ahead about eight years, I was living on my own again, having had two fiancés leave me. I was in a nice brick ranch that I was renting from the company I worked for. I had about a three minute walk to work. I was feeling the loneliness of living alone. I was drinking a lot of beer, as I always had, but was also drinking a lot of whiskey and tequila. I soon became tired of the beer so Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo became my best friends. For years, I would drink myself to sleep. Mornings were rough, trying to get started until one day I decided to try the ‘hair of the dog’ cure. It worked wonders, like it always had. I walked to work with a spring in my step and a smile on my face. This soon became as normal to me as showering in the morning, or brushing my teeth. Mornings, I would have a shot or two of Tennessee’s finest, then pour a cup of coffee and add a shot of whiskey to it. It progressed to the point that I would walk home at lunch, have a couple more shooters to tide me over, walk back to work and count down the hours until 5pm. That is when the real drinking started. I would pour a couple of drinks then head into town to get supper, always to go, so I could get back to the house and wash my burgers down with more booze. Sometimes it was Jack, other days it was Jose, but either way I went, a bottle was destined to be empty by the time I passed out. I passed out on my floor, in the yard, on my deck, wherever I happened to land. Pressures at work became greater, certainly due to the fact I was rarely sober, and the drinking increased.
Jimmy Buffet came to Raleigh and friends picked up tickets. I started the evening by buying a magnum each of JD and Jose Gold. I nipped at the Jack on the way to the pre-concert party, then pulled from each bottle the rest of the evening. By the time we all got to the concert, I was polluted. I couldn’t tell you for sure if Buffet even showed up. Friends were bringing back margaritas for me because I couldn’t walk to the concession. After, they poured me into a vehicle for the ride back and I kept tugging on both my bottles. When they opened the door for me, I fell out of the truck and landed in the gravel driveway, getting torn and bloody in the process. I crawled to the front porch, where a couple of the ladies stemmed the bleeding and I finally fell asleep/passed out/went comatose.
My drinking never slowed down after this. For the next year, I would wake up and drink, take a break from work and drink, come home in the evening and drink. A bottle a night or more would find its way into my trash. Weekends were one long drunken haze – I didn’t have to stop drinking for something as inconsequential as work. Then came the fateful morning I woke up and there was not a drop to drink. I had run out of booze. In a single moment of lucidity, I realized that what I was doing was a shitty way to go through life. I decided then and there to quit drinking. Cold turkey. On my own. No 12-step program, no clinics, no sobriety buddies to call on, just tough it out. That was the worst three to four weeks of my life – I had the shakes so bad, I could not sign my name to anything. I didn’t sleep much during this time because my body did not know how to relax without being inebriated. But I did it. To let you know how far I had sunk, I could not at the time, nor now, remember exactly which day it was that I quit. I do know, from the dates of events I attended soon after, that it had to be in September of 1994. I was 32 years old, and half my life was spent thinking about where and when my next drink was coming from. So the whole month is now a celebration of sobriety for me, 19 years clean and sober.
Back then, I thought one had to drink to be a man. I thought courage, fortitude, fun, and answers could be found in a bottle. But I realized that courage was leaving the cork in the bottle, fortitude came from within, fun was what I made of it, and some questions were just never to be answered. I became a man the day I quit drinking.
Every day is still a battle to stay out of the bottle. Some days are easier than others. Some are tougher, and I really need to think of a reason to NOT buy a drink. On really hot days, I can still taste the cold beer flowing down my throat. I can still taste the whiskey, smell the oaken aroma. But the memory of them is all I will ever have. I worked hard to get off the booze; it was one of the toughest roads I ever traveled, and I will not backslide. I know that I have an addictive personality and know that one drink, one little beer, and I will be right back where I was 19 years ago. I quit drinking in ’94 and have not looked back.
One footnote – Another one of our own is celebrating her sobriety too. SexyBitch76 is 70 days clean and sober. Congratulations SB and may you fill a treasure chest with all your gold coins.

2 am. Damn alarm clock anyway. Alright, alright, I’m getting up. I look out the window to see if I remember where I am, and I do. Damn, again.
I’m in Newport, TN, about an hour east of Knoxville. I was at a canned goods packager there yesterday to pick up what was supposed to be a pre-loaded trailer. Strike one. I had to bump the dock for a live load, which took five hours. Strike two. Finally got loaded, signed and picked up my paperwork and high-tailed it for the nearest truck stop, six miles away. I made it there just before my log book ran out of time. The problem for me now is that I have to drive all the way to Elkton, FL (45 miles south of Jacksonville) by 5 pm today, a total of 550 miles. Strike three.
I go through my morning ritual – cold coffee, cussing, cigarettes – and wander inside for some fresh java. Fill out my log book, inspect the truck, and then I sit there for a few minutes looking at my route on MapQuest and watching the weather radar. There are thunderstorms dotting my route, but they seem to be missing the tough sections of where I have to drive. It really doesn’t matter either way, I have to get this done; so I slip it into gear and hit the highway.
There is some high thin cloud cover and faint early morning ground fog as I head east on I-40. The Freebird III is pulling the heavy load like a champ on the gentle hills. The hills stand in relief against the brighter sky, the light from a full moon diffused by the clouds and fog. They are dark shadows against the sky, sharply defined in shape, but lacking in detail. My windows are rolled down, the night air refreshing after breathing recycled air conditioned air the last few days. Crickets and other night insects call to each other as my tires sing the highway song.
Up ahead is the Gorge, splitting the Smoky Mountains. Twenty one miles of twisting turns and hills in the bottom of a river valley. My truck is heavy, and slightly top heavy. I’m going to take it easy through this stretch; I don’t feel like rolling the trailer over and I haven’t gotten used to how the load feels and handles. I let a couple of trucks pass – I don’t want to hold them up either – and hit the first of two hard left turns before the Gorge actually starts. I gear down for each, the engine brakes growling as the truck slows. I ease through the turns and accelerate out of them. A few more miles and I am in the Gorge. I tiptoe through the tight hairpins and long carousel turns. No other traffic is behind me, so I am not xxxxxx to push. Another reason for going slow is that I cannot see far enough ahead in the dark to see how the turn breaks. A mistake here will send me into the woods. So I caress the accelerator as I enter the turns, like a lover in the first few moments of intimacy with his partner. Coming out of the turns, I accelerate into the straightaways. I enjoy the peaceful night, the sounds and what sights I can see in the darkness. Trees rush toward me in the glow of the headlights, then past my peripheral vision. So I drive gently, relaxing and enjoying the nighttime.
I enter a left hand turn. It is a long one and goes on forever it seems. I feel like, any minute now, I will cross back over the highway. And I am reminded of the Tehachapi Mountains west of Barstow, CA. In 1874, to conquer one of the tougher grades, the Southern Pacific railroad built a spiral or helix track climbing the side of a hill. The helix is three quarters of a mile long and there is a tunnel where the track crosses over itself. An engineering marvel at the time, it is still in use by the Union Pacific and BNSF railroads.
I continue along the winding road, slowing for the turns, speeding up a bit on the straight sections. I pass through two tunnels that cut through razorback ridges that come off the mountain down to the river. Even though I know that the tunnels are tall enough to accommodate my truck, I still fade toward the center line, just to be sure. One nice aspect about driving at night is the lack of traffic. This allows me to fade a few of the turns, to let the Freebird ease through them where it feels most comfortable. Only about half a dozen cars pass me and I never see the headlights of any trucks in my rearview mirror during this whole stretch.
I leave the Gorge behind finally and am able to reach highway speed again. I’m in North Carolina now and the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains , heading uphill toward Asheville. My next obstacle is the state scale house, but at this early hour, it ought to be closed. It ought to be, but is not. I gear down and pull onto the scales. I sit for a minute while the platform settles down and then, getting the green light, start grabbing gears to get back out on the road. I climb and drop over the hills, the city lights of Asheville casting a pale pink-orange glow on the low clouds. My exit for I-26 is just ahead, and I roll onto it, heading southeast to South Carolina. After a few miles, a bright light explodes across the sky. One of the thunderstorms I saw on the radar is nearby but not really a threat. I keep driving. Yellow caution signs ahead tell me that I am about to drop down into the Green River gorge. This portion of the road is a seven percent downgrade for the next mile. I downshift into ninth gear and set the engine brakes; I lift my foot off the accelerator so I don’t carry too much speed over the top of the hill. It doesn’t matter as 78,500 pounds of tractor trailer succumb to the force of gravity. The lower gear and engine brake cannot hold back the Freebird; I foot the brake and release, foot and release – this will keep the brakes from overheating. I really don’t want to replace the brakes with less than 25,000 miles on the odometer. As we near the bottom of the hill, I grab tenth gear and get as much speed as possible to start to climb away from the river. But the steep grade is repeated going uphill and I soon have the Freebird down in seventh to finish the climb. Over the top we go, walking the gears up the ladder to tenth again. I watch ahead as lightning dances and twirls across the sky; this next storm might be in my path. Hard charging for about another five miles, and then another downslope, this one a 6% grade for three miles. I briefly consider dropping all the way to eighth gear, but discount that notion. The engine will over-rev and I will be burning up brake shoes to keep it from exploding. I take ninth again, gently nose over the top, and begin stabbing and releasing the foot brake again. This newest version of the Freebird has yet to learn about hills like this; this stretch of highway is a good classroom for her. Again at the bottom, I upshift and keep on trucking.
I cross the line into South Carolina and the western foothills of the state. It is daylight now and the sky is studded with thunderstorms as far east and south as I can see. Exits and towns fly by as I near Columbia, the state capitol. Once through there, the highway bends more to the southeast on its run to the Sand Hill and Low Country part of the state.
Many states along the East Coast have similarities in topography. Through North and South Carolina, the Sand Hill region marks the ancient beaches of pre-history. Mostly covered in long-leaf and loblolly pines, various species of oaks also predominate. The falling leaves from all these oaks give the water a dark tea color. Similar regions on the coast also include the Pine Barrens of southern New Jersey.
Driving through the low rolling hills of this area, I come over the top of a rise and see below a thin fog holding low in the valley. This brings to mind a sight from Kentucky just a couple days previous. I climbed a mountain in the southern portion of the Bluegrass State and looked down into a valley surrounded by more hills. The fog there lay heavy in the valley, obscuring from view all that was under the white blanket. Bound by the hills as it was, it resembled a mountain lake spread out below me.
Coming back to the task at hand, I turned south on I-95, my heading more south than east now, heading for Georgia. The road is walled by towering pines where, not a few hours ago, it was bordered by rock walls carved out by man to lay down the highway. The road is flat and I am no longer losing time struggling up the hills. In a little over an hour, I cross the line into Georgia just north of Savannah. The road has been lined with swamps along this stretch, with stands of flooded timber. Some of the trees cannot survive like this and stand grey and dead. Their branches are covered with Spanish moss, making them look like old women covered in shawls, or old men with long grey beards. The water surface is dimpled as small fish and large sip flies off the surface; egrets and herons stalk the shallows trying to catch their next meal as it swims by.
I am xxxxxx to take a break at the first truck stop I come to. New regulations mandate a half hour break sometime during the first eight hours of being on-duty. I had spent a little time on the phone with MrCoverYou, seeing if we could get together for coffee and doughnuts. Unfortunately, the exigencies of work xxxxxx him to postpone our meeting. An opportunity is lost for me to meet one of the finest gentleman I have come to know.
Getting back on the road, I am now in the coastal plains. Many bridges lay ahead, crossing estuaries and salt marshes, the cradle of life for the Atlantic Ocean just a few miles to the east. I watch as schools of shad and other baitfish swim near the surface. I can imagine the smaller, newly hatched fry of the oceanic species swimming out to meet their destiny in the great ocean. Occasionally, the pods of fish explode as a larger predator takes advantage of the buffet on the surface – then it is every fish for itself. Small buoys dot the surface where crab pots are placed to harvest the crustacean bounty for the dinner table.
My mind and backside are numb by the travelling now as I near the Florida state line. At the same time, I can count down how much longer I have to go and look forward to the end of this trip. The Freebird III soars into the Sunshine State and I slide through the agriculture check station and the state scale house. I hop onto the beltway around Jacksonville and drive around the east side of the city. I love this part of the drive, for I get to drive past the port facilities that line the St. Johns River. Huge thunderstorms are covering the interior of the state here and extend out over the Atlantic. The river looks like a race course as dozens of small boats rush headlong back to the marinas and boat ramps, chased off the water by the dangerous weather offshore.
Hurrying through the last 45 miles, I make it to my customer to drop off the trailer of goods they need to distribute to their customers. My next stop is a nearby truck stop to relax and sleep off the last ten hours and 550 miles of crossing state lines, mountain ranges, and rivers. I travelled from the high hills of the Tennessee Smoky Mountains with their oaks, maples, hemlocks, and pine trees to the sandy plains of Florida with palm trees swaying in the breeze. And now, I rest.

I found a Johnny Cash video I was looking for and hit the play button. Now, I don't usually watch the ads before the videos I want to see, but something made me look at this one. Yeah, it's a truck commercial - just forget the last 15 seconds of this video and listen to what the great Paul Harvey has to say.

The alarms all start their clamoring at some God-awful hour. We wake up, grudgingly, and turn on the lights. Getting dressed, we keep bumping into each other and giggle. I start the paperwork while you straighten up the truck. Then hand in hand, we go inside to buy coffee and something to eat.
It is just barely morning, according the clock, but still dark. It is many hours until dawn and a few more hours of driving after that, just to make the delivery. I slip the clutch, and we start our trip.
Where are we and where are we going? It doesn’t matter because I have you by my side. We talk about life, experiences we have had; each story reminds us of another one. I tell you about some of the places outside the windows, sheltered by the dark. We speak of people we have known, other places we have been.
The windows are down, the breeze cool and refreshing, even in this part of the country and this time of year. We become quiet as the miles roll under the tires. During these quiet times, we can hear the cicadas and katydids calling to each other. We watch deer cropping the grass alongside the edges of the road. A coyote skulks across the highway, looking over its shoulder as if it had done something wrong, like coyotes often do.
We stop for fuel. As the diesel pours into the tanks, we listen to the sounds of a truck stop at night – engines rumbling, reefer units kicking on with a snort. Out on the highway, engine brakes rumble like distant thunder as another driver gears down for the exit. He too must fill his tanks with the lifeblood of the American highway. Off in the distance, a lonesome whistle blows.
Back on the road, we sip coffee and talk quietly. The night is long and wearisome, the concrete path we travel empty. Trees rush by the side windows then disappear as the headlights move along. Bugs splatter the windshield; we both jump as a big one hits and we laugh. The ride is relaxing; I have one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick shift. Your hand reaches out and rests on mine. I smile and so do you. We watch as a shooting star lights up the sky in front of us and we gaze in wonder.
The sky begins to lighten. You doze in your seat, your face peaceful and beautiful. I await the first rays of dawn to break forth, to shine through the front glass, to highlight your face, your smile. Your breathing is a gentle whisper, saying that all is well.
I have to stop once more before the trip is over. I wheel into another truck stop and park. I need to use the facilities, and maybe get some more coffee. The sun is warm on my face. I reach over to wake you, to ask you to walk in with me.
You are gone. The only things in the seat are my atlas and truck stop guides. The light of day reveals the truth that, even though I talked to you, listened to you, you were but a dream. You are gone, your image, your presence missing as if you never were. You drift away from me like the smoke from my cigarette blowing out the window. I felt your touch, felt the warmth of your hand in mine but now, you are gone. The last thing I see is your smile then, it too is gone.
Damn the dawn, damn the light. Damn the end to the night.

The Highs
"A thousand miles of backroads and highways connecting towns with funny names" This is where you will find the heartbeat of America, some of my favorite places to be.


The Lows
"You got a gypsy soul to blame and you were born for leavin"


Let's bring it on home
"Getcha little bit of chicken fried..."

I just read Lilll’s blog – the one about Love’nMyBug. It was a sad night when we got the word of her passing, and it is a sad day now that her profile is gone for good.
For those who never knew her, you missed out on one of the brightest stars in the NN galaxy. For those of us who did, we knew her to be sassy, irreverent, hilarious, warm, and caring – a wonderful friend. And, she rarely met anyone who wasn’t a friend.
It is near ten months since we heard of her passing. We followed her battles daily, trading with each other any snippets of information we had. We cheered and laughed as we heard of her telling her doctors and nurses exactly what she thought. We wept tears of joy when she was at last able to dictate her blogs to us through her husband. We shamelessly wept when we heard that the battles had become too much for her.
The fact though, is that she is still alive in each of us – she resides in our hearts and our souls. And that my friends, is what is known as immortality.
What follows is the dedication I was finally able to write for her. A tribute to a wild, warm, wonderful woman – Love’nMyBug.

An Amazing Soul

About a month ago, I was sitting in my lonely writer's garret in front of my computer, staring at a blank screen. I was trying to write something meaningful and beautiful for a friend of ours who had passed, and failing miserably. Just today, I realized that I had, unknowingly at the time, posted the perfect tribute to LoveBug, Erin, just a few days before.
Erin, though small in stature, walked large through our lives. Her devastating "wiener punches" were delivered with such a sweet smile that one never minded being emasculated - after catching one's breath of course. She would publicly chide us for our human frailities and weaknesses and tease us about our shortcomings. Yet in private, she would tenderly, or with a swift kick in the rear, coax, goad, or console us, convinced of our value and worth as human beings and not quitting until we ourselves were convinced too. One never had to 'check six' because she was always there, watching our backs for us. And if anybody could, Erin would be able to convince that ant that he could knock down that rubber tree plant.
I am sure that Erin would have made a helluva Marine - she was dedicated, courageous, a fighter, and a peacemaker. She was a beloved mother and wife, and a damned fine friend to all of us here.
For an amazing lady, full of grace, yet with a rock and roll soul:

I woke up to my alarm in a truck stop in Muskogee, OK. After a few minutes of trying to extend the night, the sleep mode of my alarm finally roused me. I stood and stretched out the stiffness of the early morn, found yesterday’s thermos of coffee and poured a cup. I sipped the cold brew while getting dressed and wiping the sleep from my eyes. I walked the four feet to my office to begin my day.
I filled in the header of my log book, sent the previous days’ log information to the main office and double checked the directions to where I was going. I had actually driven past my destination by forty miles, but that got me to the nearest truck stop. Feeling awake enough for a brief walk, I ambled inside to refill my thermos and mug with fresh hot coffee and to get a breakfast sandwich or two. The day started much like any other; it could have been Muskego, WI, Muskegon, MI, or Musconetcong, NJ as easily as Muskogee.
With the early morning routine finished, I fired up the big Detroit engine, pulled out of the parking lot and headed north on US69. Dawn was beginning to break over the Oklahoma plains to my right. The sky there was full of pastel sherbet colors – raspberry and orange, brightening where the Sun would peek over the horizon. A few high scattered clouds shone fire where the early light of day reflected off them. The sky overhead was pale grey, deepening to a dark blue velvet in the west where the light had not reached; it was as if that part of the sky did not want to acknowledge the coming day any more than I had half an hour earlier.
I missed the sun actually crossing the horizon, but saw it as it cleared a low rise in the east. It radiated a red orange light through the low clouds and haze in the distance, the first rays of morning kissing the plains and cattle fields. Light and shadow gave form to the hitherto featureless land, highlighting the undulating pastures. Trees, which heretofore had been darker areas in the shadows, took shape – they marked the boundaries of the fields and creekbeds. Live oaks stood alone or in small groups in the middle of the leas while willows and cottonwoods marked the watercourses.
As day touched the pastures, the cattle began their day too. Numerous breeds of beeves, red angus, black angus, angus-hereford crosses, charolais, and many others dotted the prairie. Moving in small groups, they began walking from their bedding areas to their grazing sites. Some stopped at tanks – man made ponds for watering cattle – to drink of the muddy water before breakfast. Some of the young calves cavorted - playing, running, jumping and bucking, the he-calves head-butting each other, practicing the fighting they would do later to establish dominance. And, like children everywhere, some of them were scolded by the cows, who were obviously cranky for having awakened at this hour. A head butt from mama, or a slap with the tail, and the calves would quiet down for a spell, before forgetting the punishment they had just received and continuing with their antics. Others nuzzled their mothers’ udders, hoping for a drink of milk before commencing their grazing. Some wishes were granted, others not; some of the calves were gentle in the asking, others, a bit more strident.
One thing different about the herds here as opposed to the herds down near my home place. The ranchers here do not employ donkeys with the cattle. Coyotes in Texas are a nuisance, harassing the cattle during the night, and sometimes daylight, hours. At birthing time, packs of them will roam, hoping to separate a calf from the herd, an easy meal. Donkeys hate coyotes with a passion and will chase them across the fields, attacking if they catch one, with hooves and teeth. These normally sedate, lazy and sad looking creatures turn into hellions when the coyotes come calling.
The birds of the area awakened also, in decidedly better humor than the four legged beasts walking the land. As my windows were down, I could hear meadowlarks and mockingbirds greet the coming day with their melodious voices. Red winged blackbirds called to each other from the tall grass. Swallows and swifts began their mosquito eating day while scissor tailed flycatchers used their extra-long tails to perform impossible aerobatics while chasing their meals through the air. A red tailed hawk sat majestically on a fence post, head erect, chest out, as it scanned the grasses for a small meal, ready to pounce, silent death from above.
As the sun rose higher, it shed its heavy red orange coat for a lighter one of yellow; this before donning the brassy colored garb it would wear during the hottest part of the day. The greens of the trees and short grass were a deep rich green, whilst the taller grass that stood brown during the day glowed golden in the early slanting rays. I passed a cornfield, the golden tassels glowing also over the green stalks, all looking rich and healthy. Patches of ground fog hung weakly in the air over slow moving creeks and stagnant ponds and tanks, the vapor suffusing the light even more.
I made my delivery as I should then a pick up across the street and headed back the way I came. The difference in a few hours time was almost startling. The sky had turned to brass in the heat of the late morning, almost copper in color as the sun baked the air and ground below it. The cattle had moved from the open pasture to the shade of the trees along the edges, or the few that stood sentinel in the middle. Some of the walking rib-eye steaks waded in the tanks to cool off, and to keep the worst of the biting flies off their skin. The young ones lay in the shade with their mamas, eyes closed as they napped; some watched the traffic pass on the highway. Hawks still kept their vigil for rodents that were foolish enough to rustle the grass while crows and buzzards flew along or glided on the thermal currents looking for their next offal meal. The smaller birds had, for the most part, retreated to the shade of the trees and scrub, except for the mockingbirds and scissor tails, who rose in waves to attack and chase off the larger birds, harassing them until the predators were away from the nesting sites. The attackers then retreated, only to be replaced by others, the harassment continuing for the large birds until they passed out of sight.
It was a morning, a day like hundreds of others, yet still special to a driver who, while cynical in his dealings with the purported ‘custodians’ of this land, was not jaded at all to the wonders of the land through which he drove.