Get along little dogiesFor all that my brothers, my sister, my daughter and I spent time atop a horse, we were never into it seriously enough to participate in or attend horse events; just never had the time, money or inclination. But a friend of ours had a pair of tickets to the San Antonio Stock Show and Rodeo last weekend, and then wasn’t able to go – so she gave us the tickets. We were at first a little disconcerted to see how far up in the rafters that our designated seats were – but I will have to say that we had an excellent view of the events that we did watch. And of course the utility of most of the events in relation to working cattle from horseback in the 19th century was perfectly plain to me.

Team roping – of course, that was the best strategy to secure a near-adult and semi-feral longhorn in order to brand, mark and neuter, without risking certain death by goring or trampling. Drop a slip-line over the head, and catch it by the rear legs with another – and there was the cow immobilized. Looking at diagrams and descriptions of this, I had always suspected that sending that second rope low and catching a running animal by the feet was pretty hard. It was – only two of the seven or eight competitors that we watched were able to do this successfully.

Calf-roping – that also had utility; the contest is for the rider to rope the calf, dismount while the horse holds steady (or even backs up, to hold the lariat taut) while the rider flips the calf on it’s side and ropes three legs together with a short length of rope. Most of the competitors were able to accomplish this; but one rider drew a particularly feisty small black calf that fought him every inch of the way. This calls for a pretty clever and obedient horse, since the horse is doing about a third of the work.
Calf Tie
Bronco-busting also has historical roots in working cattle the old way; horses were often wild mustangs, nearly as feral as the cattle. Such were the times and utilitarian attitudes toward horses – who were merely warm-blooded, living tools in the eyes of cattle drovers – that such horses would have to become swiftly accustomed to being saddled, bridled and ridden. This was most commonly accomplished by applying saddle, bridle and strong-nerved rider to the untamed horse and letting it buck until exhausted … and repeating when necessary. I have to say that watching the bucking horses kick, twirl, spin and buck while the rider was bounced around like a floppy rag doll was enough to make my back hurt – but being able to stay in the saddle under circumstances like that was part of a horse-wrangler’s job description.

Some of the other events don’t seem to have such a historical pedigree, but grew out of later Wild West shows and the traveling rodeo circuit. They were purely entertainment, either for an audience or for bored young men to challenge each other; I wondered if the phrase “hold my beer – and watch this!” hadn’t been involved the first couple of times. Steer wrestling – that is, jumping out of the saddle of a running horse and flipping a running steer to the ground – is likely one of those. So is bull-riding; like bronco-busting, only with a bucking bull.
Mutton Busting
And a few events were just pure good fun; mutton-busting, for example. The sheep themselves didn’t seem particularly discommoded, and the children were all rather small – including a fearless three-year old girl, whose sheep, alas, seemed to have run right out from under her when the gate opened, before the assistants holding her steady could even let go. Barrel-racing evolved as suitable rodeo event for the ladies, very few of whom in the last century or the one before, had the upper-body strength necessary to wrestle steers to the ground by grabbing its head … or at least the sense not to try. And that was my afternoon at the rodeo – I do wish I could have been a little close to watching the rope-work. That would have been educational.

12. February 2014 · Comments Off on When the Going Gets Wierd… · Categories: Uncategorized

(A repost from the archive of one of my other blogs, ruminating on identity and writing)

The weird turn professional, and apparently write a memoir about it, which is all very nice when it sells a LOT of copies, and the writer becomes FAMOUS and sells a mega-jiga-million copies, and everyone remembers that they knew you when – maybe. Journalistic fabrication is so last year (Stephen Glass, Janet Cooke, whatsisface at the NYT), the current flave of the moment must be the memoir; One’s own life, but with improvements.

The fun begins when everyone who knew you when — the people next door, brothers and sisters, employers, co-workers, ex-spouses, friends and former friends score a copy and begin to realize that there is a whole ‘nother reality reflected there, one with which they were completely unacquainted. So the Oprah Winfrey/James Frey ruckus was just one of the most current disconnects between real life and life remembered with advantages. The lesson ought to be for memoirists to linger meaningfully in the general vicinity of verifiable facts, either that or wait to write it all when everyone else is dead and can’t argue the point with you. If you really can’t wait that long, perhaps it would be less embarrassing to just call it fiction, loosely based on your own life. Even if the stuff that really happens is sometimes stranger than you can ever make up.

Some time past there was a story about another writer — somewhat less well known since Oprah didn’t personally have to rip him a new one on national television— who wasn’t a Native American at all. What is it with wanting to be a Native American, all that mysticism and wilderness wisdom? And Timothy Barrus wasn’t the first, (Grey Owl, anyone?) only being a porn writer may have been a little less embarrassing than the resume and club membership of this best-selling but unfortunately fraudulent Indian. And Carlos Castenada and Rigoberta Menchu still have passionate defenders willing to deny or discount certain uncomfortable findings.

Really, I feel quite sorry for people who begin with a little fib, a touch of exaggeration and eventually wind up believing it; some of them do not take contradiction well, and it is way too late in the game to get a writer and memoirist like Lillian Hellman a little painful cross-examination (But Mary McCarthy tried, anyway.)

Fraudulent memoirists like Frey and Barrus may be a passing evil, best selling or not. Grey Owl and Asa Carter, although not as advertised, were possessed of a lovely and sympathetic writing style and may even have done good with their output, in the long run. But Menchu and Hellman, with the deeply politicized aspect to their writings and public personas probably have not. After contemplating how their books inflamed or warped the perceptions of certain public issues, it is a positive relieve to contemplate Ern Malley and Penelope Ashe, two last literary frauds which were done for no more reason than to make a point, and for their perpetrators to have a little fun putting one over; A self-consciously literary magazine called Angry Penguins is just begging to be sent up, and as for Naked Came the Stranger – it was proved in 1969, and for a hundred years before and ever since, that trash with a naked woman on the front cover will sell.

Lone Star Sons Logo - Cover(At last, the final segment of the mystery of the vanishing rancher, Randall Huff. Previous chapters linked in the entry below.)

The two friends returned to the main house together, still maintaining the pretense of master and servant, Jim silently readying his mind to answer sharp questions regarding Clay, and even the luckless Mr.  Landry, should the topic arise. It was good that he did, for Squire Yoakum met them on the verandah, scowling like a thunderstorm.

“My daughter, Miss Kate tells me that you accompanied her to the meadow to retrieve her dog. I do not approve of this, that you would go for secluded walks with a lady, on bare acquaintance…”

“Miss Kate requested my assistance, which I happy to render,” Jim answered, in even tones. “I did not intend any disrespect to a lady, or to your hospitality.”

The host of Yoakum’s Landing scowled even deeper. “But you went back to the meadow, you and this man of yours – I saw you from the upper window, not twenty minutes ago. It was as if you had seen something and wanted to take another look. Did you indeed see something, Mr. Reade?”  Squire Yoakum looked on Jim and Toby with a hard, searching air, every shred of friendly bonhomie vanished as if it had never been.

“The meadow is your property,” Jim answered. “As the owner, you would know best what there is to be seen by anyone casually passing by.” He did not like the veiled expression on the Squire’s face; that of a glutton eagerly contemplating a tasty dish. “Are you afraid that I may have seen something untoward and tell tales to the local magistrate or the sheriff?” To Jim’s discomfiture, the Squire broke into hearty laughter.

“If you did, they would not believe you, boy. They’re all my friends, hereabouts – and I am a generous man to my friends.”

“Supposing that I had found clear evidence of a body buried there, and a murdered man’s property disposed about Yoakum’s Landing?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jim knew that he had spoken rashly, but it was too late to take them back. “I was sent here to find such evidence and property, by no less than Captain Jack Hays, who reposes great trust in me. Furthermore, he and others know that I intended searching for it here.” Jim rested his right hand casually on the butt of his revolver, holstered at his waist together with his hunting knife – an implicit warning to go with his words. “Should harm come to me, or to my servant, I do not think you would be able to withstand the storm which would then arise.”

“Don’t you threaten me, boy,” Squire Yoakum growled. His eyes were as cold, as absent of feeling as pebbles. “I’ll never stand trial, no matter what you and your Captain may claim to find on my property. Show it to the magistrate, say your piece … and then see how far the trial will go. I’d never be convicted by any jury in this county or the next. I’m the grand nabob of these parts – any accusation made against me will never stand in court or anywhere else.”

“You seem very certain of yourself in this,” Jim riposted. To his infuriation, the Squire smiled broadly, all menace vanishing in an instant. Here was the hospitable, generous host once again. “I am, boy,” the Squire replied, his broad countenance flushed with satisfaction. “You can’t touch me, here on my own ground – so give up trying. We’ll be friends again – and I’ll forget this little exchange ever happened, hey?” He lowered his voice, adding, “I’m generous to my friends; I don’t forget them, and they certainly do not forget me. And,” he added in a confidential murmur which fairly turned Jim’s stomach, “My daughter does not forget her friends, either – she is kindly-disposed towards them. Especially those who are well-inclined towards the family. You’ll sit with us at supper then, will you? My daughter says that the kitchen has prepared a bounteous meal for us tonight.”

“I must beg your indulgence,” Jim answered, “since my traveling-companion is ill, and I must tend on him until he is fit to move from here. Mr. Huff is at least as much a friend as a client, and I owe him this favor.”

“Have it as you wish,” the Squire answered, seeming to be without suspicion, although Jim kept his hand on his Colt until the man had vanished within the house. Toby remarked quietly,

“I think we should go from here, James. I do not trust him, or any of his household.”

“I would agree – but that Mr. Huff will return here, expecting to find us in the chamber where we have stayed. If we depart – we may not be able to intercept him on the Trace. He will then walk straight into an ambush.” Jim drew a sigh, wishing that he had not been so hasty in sending Clay Huff away with Mr. Landry – or that he had been so taken with Miss Kate. “No – we stay here, and remain on guard.”

He thought for a moment, while Toby watched, as patiently impassive as ever. “One of us to be in the room, always – and we either cook for ourselves on the pretense of preparing food for an invalid, or else take from a dish that we see everyone else helping themselves from.”

“For how long, James? What if Mr. Huff does not return?”

“Four days,” Jim answered. “Four days – I think we may hold out that long.”

More »

09. January 2014 · Comments Off on A Musical History Moment – Done With Bonaparte · Categories: Uncategorized

Napoleon Bonaparte’s career influenced the rest of the 19th century to an incredible degree – even as far as the then-United States. I found this short while pursuing something else – and thought to post it here. (I’ve always loved Mark Knopfler’s music.)

My author tableWell, I have been in colder places in my time, and places were it got colder longer, but most of them involved show, and shoveling massive amounts of it … or that year in Greenland, thirty miles north of the Arctic circle, which didn’t have all that much show, but was dark as the bottom of a coal mine for all the days of the winter months. I can handle temps in the teens and twenties very well, thank you, but I think I had better get out that Eddie Bauer parka, the insulated gloves, woolen hat and the warm scarf to wear when walking the dogs tomorrow.

So, the month-long holiday hurdles have been negotiated successfully, the turkey leftovers finally disposed of, the Christmas lights and ornaments all taken down – and here I am ready to face the New Year. As far as book events go, the biggie is the San Antonio Book Festival in early April. Watercress Press is going to have a booth in the exhibitor’s hall, and as one of their authors, I’ll be there. It’s only the second time the SA Public Library foundation has done this kind of thing so there is something to be said for getting in on a lower floor. And Watercress has been around for thirty years in San Antonio; one would think that a bit of respect for seniority would be due.

I’m rather looking forward to it, since I have been trying to gin up interest in my own books in San Antonio. I love the Hill Country, and I’ll go anywhere within reason to do a book event, but with the cost of a tank of gas, and considering the needs of the dogs, it would be fantastic to do a book talk within a fifteen or twenty minute ride of the house. Weirdly, the books seem more popular practically anywhere other than the place they were written – and in the case of The Quivera Trail, the location where they were set. For a while, The Adelsverein Trilogy was on sale in the bookshop at the Texas Institute of Cultures, but that was about as good as it got. Readers have also suggested  the Texas Book Festival – I’d be eligible to exhibit there as an indy author, but last time I looked into it, the costs for a booth there was way out of what I could pay – and again, there is that long drive involved.

But I am going to club together with my daughter’s Tiny Artistic Bidness, Paper Blossom Productions for a couple of market events; the spring market in Helotes for certain, and another in Bulverde possibly. I’ll post more on all of this as soon as we know for certain.