The toughest thing about loving
someone is the hurt that comes with losing them.
That’s what Hooter was thinking as he made the trip to Fort
Worth, his heart heavier than an anvil. One of his best pals had
just lost his Mom, a beautiful lady Hooter had become well
acquainted with over the years. Like Martha in the Bible, Miss
Virginia was one of those rare individuals who always knew how
to separate the important from the immediate where her kids and
their friends were concerned.
When Hooter arrived, he was trying
to count the number of horse shows, judging contests and ropings
Miss Virginia—Virginia Lee Alley (Ishmael)—had driven Hooter and
his pal to before they were old enough to drive themselves,
legally at least. There was no telling.
It was the trauma of a horribly busted and dislocated
ankle—results of a fall—that had finally been the tipping point
for Miss Virginia, who had been ailing for several years.
“You know, she was tougher than boot leather through the very
end.”
“I wouldn’t have expected less,”
said Hooter.
“When they were pulling her ankle
back into place, I was holding her hand, looking at her, at the
wall, at anything but that ankle. It was torn clear around. Mom
studied the whole procedure though. When the doctor left she
told me, ‘You know, I didn’t think he’d be able to get all of
that put back inside, but he did.’”
Hooter had to smile. That was
Miss Virginia; she could always find the humor, and she was
always most concerned with making sure those around her were OK.
“I was just reading through this
again.” He handed Hooter a bright red notebook, heavy with
pages. “She finished it a couple of weeks ago. I carried her the
last draft a couple of days before she fell.”
Hooter’s pal had told him all
about the book Miss Virginia had been working on for several
years, especially since she’d gotten so sick a year earlier. The
doctors thought she was finished then. It was the story of her
growing up on the old Z Bar Ranch in Barber County, Kansas where
her Dad, T.O. Alley was foreman for years and years. She’d been
born in the bunkhouse of the neighboring ranch that her uncle,
Lester Alley, would eventually manage.
“Go ahead and look. Read it out loud.”
Hooter opened to the first
page and read:
Everybody on earth has their favorite spot. Cottage Creek on the
Z Bar Ranch is still mine.
This was an area east of where we lived at the Hodge Ranch
headquarters. To a young girl, it seemed like the doorway to
everything east. The soil there is the red clay that is so
prevalent in the Gyp Hills. A little creek runs through it with
a goodly number of trees and Hackberry bushes. The smell of
Sagebrush is strong in the air and the birds are always singing.
Its peace and quietude puts your soul back together again and
you know that all is right with the world.
I go there often in my mind. It’s
my refuge in the storms of life. If that isn’t a blessing then I
don’t know what is.
Hooter had to brush away a tear.
“I read it to her,
cover-to-cover, that last night,” said his buddy. “You could
tell she was hearing it, and enjoying it. Go to page 43.”
Hooter did so and read,
starting where his friend indicated:
Don McGrath and Daddy were quite a worry to my Mother. Both
being top hands, the jokes they played on one another bordered
on the unreal and their survival was nothing short of
miraculous. When they busted a cow to doctor her, one would tell
the other one, “Don’t take the rope off of her until I get to my
horse.” You know the end to that story. The minute they headed
for their horse, off came the rope and the race was on. I have
heard my Mother plead with them to discontinue this stupid play
before someone got seriously hurt. Amid giggles they would
assure her that they would, but we all knew that the next time
the results would be the same. We could only hope there would be
some tin around a windmill or a tree to save their ornery hides.
If two men ever enjoyed one another, those two did and I never
remember them having an unkind word. It was a special friendship
that would last forever.
They were always “Ma” and “Pop”
to Don and I’m sure my folks couldn’t have loved him more. Don
was a second Dad to me, and in my eyes, he was always tree-top
tall. He taught me a lot. I used to ride behind him on a white
horse that we called Blue John and we would go bring the
milk-cows in. I would wave my arms and say, “Look Don, I can
fly!” He always told me that if I planned my trip to Heaven on
the back of that old horse, I was in for a bumpy ride.
You had to smile.
“Now, look at page 56.”
Hooter began to read Miss
Virginia’s account of one of the many round-ups at the Z Bar:
It was always fun to listen to the good-natured kidding that
went on at the table; good, hard working ranchmen that enjoyed
one another’s company. Invariably there would be someone that
had gotten themselves in a pickle that morning and they were
usually the brunt of their jokes. On one such occasion, they had
been rounding up at headquarters and one young cow had lost all
patience with the activities of the day and promptly went into a
plum thicket by the house and sulled. It was an open thicket so
several riders took their lariat ropes down and persuaded her to
rethink her course of action. Instead of returning to the herd
as planned, she turned bunch-quitter and hot-footed it for the
creek to the west. Of course, a wild scramble ensued and she
again took up residence in a huge plum thicket in that area.
The thicket was so dense that a
horse couldn’t penetrate it, so my cagey little Daddy dismounted
and went in after her with his spurs jingling. They jingled even
louder as the cow brought him out again a whole lot faster than
he went in, for by now the cow was madder than a hornet. He
couldn’t get back to his horse and his buddies were laughing too
hard to help him. So, Dad headed for the creek with the cow in
hot pursuit. Daddy was about five foot seven, but his legs were
short and the cow was gaining. He flew under the low branch of
an elm tree and latched onto it, pulling his legs up just as the
irate cow sped beneath him like a tornado. He let himself down
with a chuckle and to the whoops and hollers of his friends…but
wait, here she comes again. This game went on until finally the
cow got so mad that she dropped dead in her tracks. Needless to
say, Pappy was the talk of the table that day. My Mother was the
only one who felt sorrow for that poor cow. The remorse ended
there, for there wasn’t one of those cowboys who thought any
other climax would have been appropriate for a cow with such a
sorry attitude.
Hooter couldn’t help laughing.
“Lord, that was your Mom, sure enough. She always did have a way
with words and describing stuff.”
Hooter’s friend was smiling, too,
even as gravity pulled a tear down his cheek.
“She put together a summary in the back about her favorite
horses. But there’s a great section in the book, too. Go to page
58.”
And Hooter read again:
In one of his weaker moments, Daddy bought us a Shetland pony
complete with saddle, bridle, harness and cart. She was a round
little bay mare with the typical Shetland disposition. Her name
was Bird but it should have been Satan. That adorable looking
little creature was capable of more deviltry than you could
shake a stick at. When you saddled her, she tried to bite you.
When you mounted her, she tried to bite you. Once you were
aboard, you could draw a straight line to the nearest tree limb
where she tried to rake you off. She had two speeds, slow and
stop, and sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. Under
harness, she would pull the cart to our mailbox and back with
all four of us aboard (Miss Virginia and her siblings). Mother
loved these excursions for we were out of her hair for what
seemed like a half a day while that lazy beast plodded her three
miles. She was all but dead under saddle and harness, but turn
her out of the corral and she ran and bucked like she was a colt
again...
Bird was not the only character
in the horse pasture. There was a big black horse by the name of
Joe that kept the place livened up as well. Dad had bought Joe
from our neighbor, Joe Summers, and I swear, their dispositions
were a great deal alike. Joe the horse could open any gate on
the place, he could walk any auto gate, and he delighted in
opening the yard gate and bringing all 60 of his pasture mates
in with him. We slept on a screened in porch on the south side
of the ranch house in the summertime and it was quite a
sensation to wake up in the middle of a stomping, milling horse
herd. Joe would find a loose end of screen, take it in his
teeth, and rip huge sections of screen off the porch. This
really endeared him to my Dad, who would decorate him with
anything he could get his hands on. Once he smacked Joe over the
head with my little pink parasol that I had just gotten for my
birthday. It never opened again.
Another favorite, Stubby, loved
moving cattle when baby calves were involved. As those calves
tired on the drive, Stubby would take his nose and gently nudge
them along. Daddy took Bud (her younger brother) with him when
he was quite small and Stubby was the one to carry our “precious
cargo”. Bud wasn’t very big when he decided to head a cow one
day and she took off over a hill where Daddy couldn’t see them.
In a few short minutes, Stubby topped the hill again, without
Bud, frantically whinnying for Dad to come and then disappeared
down the hill again. When Dad got there, Bud was sitting dazed
in some weeds. Stubby had his nose on Bud and was slowly
pivoting his body around to keep the curious cattle away from
him. Bud had made it down the hill in fine shape, but what
looked like weeds was actually a ditch and Stubby had no choice
but to jump it. Bud didn’t make the jump, but his faithful steed
had the situation well in hand.
“Your mama did love horses,” said
Hooter. “She knew good ones, too.”There was a long silence as
both men thought back to all of the horses, all of the years,
all of the love.
“Now, read the last page,” said
Hooter’s friend.
When life gets you down, let you
mind wander back to Cottage Creek where the moon is always
shining bright, the coyotes are always talking and the birds are
chirping their prayers, and don’t forget that cow off in the
sage bawling for her calf. God lives on Cottage Creek. I’ll meet
you at the bridge.
“Amen, Mama. Amen.” |
