RIDING DRAG / ZELLA

When I think of her, I see two pictures,

  side by side in Grandma’s book...
A hopeful young nurse, in a starched white dress,
  and a red-head, in a wheat field, with a grinnin’, onery look.
She was a nurse, when it was a job,
  that only a woman would do,
She nursed in town odd hours,
  then planted wheat and bottle-fed calves too.
Because she married a handsome farmer,
  and together they would homestead,
And in the course of fifty-some years,
  kept each other’s spirits warm and fed.

She learned how to drive most any tractor,

  and she knew how to plow,
And she knew about delivering babies,
  be they human, or be they cow.
This dual life she lived,
  sometimes took everything she had,
But if you asked her about it,
  she’d say, “Aw, it’s not so bad...
You see, life is an Adventure,
  if you play the cards you’re dealt,
Good times you let the seams out on your britches,
  bad times, you hold ‘em up with a belt.”

She loved to share ideas,

  and she had an open and inquisitive mind,
She said you should look for miracles,
  because they’re not that hard to find.
Like babies and calves in the spring,
  crocus and crystal in the snow,
And seeing your friends and loved ones,
  everywhere you go.

She would have been pleased to see all the people,

  who came to the service that day,
She never would have believed so many would come,
  just to honor an Old Farm Girl that way.
And every one had a story,
  about how she touched their life,
Like the one told by a man
   and his forever grateful wife.
The man was smashed by a tractor,
  they fetched her to their farm,
She bagged his lungs and breathed for him,
  for two and a half hours, with her work-strong arms.

 The stories would have embarrassed her,

  it was her job, as a nurse, you see,
I must have heard a thousand such tales,
  and in each one, her humbleness was the key.
So, we stood around the funeral home,
  and we laughed, as we told her favorite jokes,
She would have enjoyed the laughter,
  she would have gotten in her pokes.

 Then her Husband asked me what I wanted of hers,

  I said, just her nurses hat...
But, true to form, she’d given it to a younger nurse,
  so, I figured, that was that.
Then he brought me her old straw hat,
  the one she farmed and gardened in,
And a rhinestone brooch she always wore,
  and her little gold nurses pin.

Then came the time we dreaded,

  we had to say Good-bye,
And we’re just not the kind of people,
  who stand around and cry,
You see, Death is a CELEBRATION,
  and if you do it right,
Your whole Life is a Ministry,
  until your soul takes flight.

 And if you’re really lucky,

  people miss you when you’re gone,
And maybe write a line or two,
  that keeps your memory strong.
So, I wrote down these words,
  that would have made her shy,
So, you would know, we loved her,
  and who she was, and why.
For in her UNSELFISH lifetime,
  she had truly done it all...
Everything, from those starched white dresses,
  to the evening cattle call.

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For more information on Debra Coppinger Hill go to AlwaysCowboy.com.

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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

FALSE SPRING

I have lived long enough to understand that a warm day in March doesn’t necessarily mean that spring is here. Sometimes it pretends to be the perfect weather for gardening to lure you outside and get you started cleaning up your garden with visions of fresh veggies dancing in your head. You will work the warm day away and go to bed thinking of all the things you will accomplish tomorrow. Tomorrow arrives with temperatures 45 degrees lower, a misty cold rain and a view through the window of your garden tools leaning against the fence mocking you for leaving them out because you were sure you would be using them early the next day.

I used to fall for the temptations of the first warm days. I would work myself silly getting my first of spring chores started only to be stalled by the following cold. I would have to start over several times throughout the end of winter months of February and March. Several years ago I recalled something my Grandfather told me when I helped plant his garden; ‘Never plant anything before April Fool’s Day.’ I now take his words to heart and follow them to the letter.

Yesterday it was 79 degrees and I spent the day outside. But instead of working in the yard I spent it sitting at the picnic table while my grandsons ran circles around me. We ate a snack, drew on the porch steps with chalk and watched the horses run and carry on in the south pasture. We filled the water tanks, laughed at the cat chasing a leaf blowing by and discussed why we don’t put grass in our mouths that comes from the part of the yard where the dogs go to do their business.

Today it’s 36 degrees and yes, there is misty cold rain falling. We are trapped inside, but instead of staring out the window at yard tools demanding we come out and put them away before they rust, we are drinking hot chocolate and talking about what fun we had yesterday. You see, the secret to a good garden is to not get into a hurry. My Grandfather told me that too.  I am sure he also knew this was the secret to growing a good relationship with our kids and grand-kids. Mother Nature likes to play games with us by teasing us into believing spring is here. The key to enjoying spring when it really gets here is to enjoy the final days of winter. Now, if you will excuse me, my grandsons and I have some corn to pop and a rousing game of Hungry, Hungry Hippo to play; it’s the perfect weather for it.

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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

LET'S ALL SING

I am reminded of the old song “Let’s All Sing Like The Birdies Sing”. The Mockingbirds are back and have set up a morning concert on the fence outside my bedroom window. Each day as the sky begins to gray they start warbling and chirping and whistling their little hearts out. (Tweet, Tweet-Tweet, Tweet-Tweet!) It doesn’t disturb me as I have been awake long before the sun began to climb. I do wonder however if the time for their concert will change with the coming of daylight savings time? Do they know what time it is or will they simply react to the sun and nothing more? They seem a little out of sorts and I can only guess that my schedule of chores and movement past their perch throws them off.

Each year I look forward to springing forward an hour and gaining sunlight at the end of my day. I do not mind getting up in the dark and starting my daily chores because the sun appears and lights my way. I do not like doing my evening chores in the increasing darkness. It is a joy to have that extra light, to be able to finish feeding and watering then having a nice sit on the porch to watch the sun disappear. I wish there were some way we could just spring forward and not spring back.

 
Porch time is my favorite time of the day. I sit and listen to the sounds of the ranch and watch the sun as it sets the stray clouds on fire with brilliant color. Life is good and I am happy and appreciative. I don’t know who came up with daylight savings time. Oh, I am sure I could look it up on the internet and know all there is to know about it; but do I really need that information stuffed into my brain? No. All I need is a big glass of tea and some time spent in what was my grandfather’s lawn chair to help me put things into perspective. So, whoever you are that came up with the concept, the Mockingbirds may not thank you, but I certainly do and I don’t mind singing about it one bit.

 

*For more information on Debra Coppinger Hill go to the poetry section at AlwaysCowboy.com

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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

IT'S ALWAYS SOMETHING!

“Do you have a headache? Are you dizzy? Are you having chest pains?” they asked. “No. No. No.” I answered. I felt fine; as a matter of fact I felt better than I had in months. All I needed was a quick going over and my papers for the adoption signed. My trip to the clinic turned into an affair of the heart and I don’t mean that in the romantic way! “You are currently experiencing a mild cardiac incident; you came in just in time.”

 

I was still sitting there grinning and waiting for the punch line. Surely this was a joke; I felt perfectly healthy. Sure I was a little stressed (who isn’t?), and sure I was stretched a little thin with family and work and horses and…really I was having an ‘incident’? My whole world is made up of nothing but ‘incidents’. ‘Incidents’ are my norm. I am good at handling ‘incidents’.

 

I have been released to get back to normal; someone else’s idea of normal, not mine. Better cooking/eating habits, not catch as catch can when I am busy. Better sleeping habits, not staying up all night when the muse calls my name. Better ways of handling stress, not taking on just one more little project because it’s easier for me than them. I have to admit I am not finding any of these things easy to do. I love to cook and I love old family recipes. Writing has always been a ‘when inspiration hits me’ affair for me. I love my family and friends and I hate to say “No” to anyone. But I have promised to do better and get my blood pressure under control and keep a vigilant eye on other problems we found while the Doctor was reading me the riot act.

 

So, for those of you have noticed I was missing in action, there it is in a nutshell. I am back and ready to write and share. I am also prepared to make critical changes that will benefit me. But first there are errands waiting, a kid to get off the bus, three loads of muddy laundry, a dog to deliver and a bucket of Cowboy goodies to put together for a charity auction. Hey, I said no to volunteering yummy goodies for a bake sale and to hauling a show calf to Kansas. But after all, I swore to behave better, not to quit living my life! Yup, it’s always something, but I promise to be more discerning!

 

*For more information on Debra Coppinger Hill go to the poetry section at AlwaysCowboy.com

 

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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

RIDING DRAG / JUST A QUICK NOTE

RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL

My first cousin once removed Zella always started her letters with “Just a quick note to let you know...”, followed by the news of the week. I had long ago learned from corresponding with her and my Aunt Carol that if I wanted letters to read that I had better write letters to be read. I would read her ‘quick notes’ that would go on for pages and feel a part of my family that was so very far away. I would read it several times over, pick up my pen and write back. Reading made me feel less separated from my relatives and writing made me feel less homesick. Tucked away in several shoeboxes in a steamer trunk in the old dairy barn lie each and every letter they each wrote to me over the years.

They and their letters were my lifeline as we travelled from one job to another. We lived in a thirty-five foot travel trailer and pulled an eighteen footer as an office for Husband. Back and forth across the country we moved while our friends settled into homes here and there. We dreamed of other things, saved money by staying in the trailer and waited patiently for acres, cattle and horses. Zella lived on homesteaded land claimed the last year you could file for a homestead in Oklahoma. She understood about wanting, needing land. Carol understood about moving and taking your house along with her as she and Uncle Bill had been nomads like us at one point as he too worked in the oil fields.

Last week while I was laid up with a messed-up shoulder, I went looking for a book and found instead those boxes of letters. Good news, sad news, jokes, good-natured gossip and stories made for good reading. It is my family’s history compiled for the most part by two women who taught me that love quite often comes in the written word.

Zella is long ago passed through the gates of Heaven, while Aunt Carol lives about thirty-five minutes from me. It seems strange to think about writing a letter to her when she is so close. But as I write this I am prompted to remember that it was she who wrote the last letter to me and therefore, I owe her a letter. I also believe my first line will be “Just a quick note to let you know how very precious your letters have always been to me...”

*For more about Debra go to the Cowboy Poetry section at AlwaysCowboy.com.

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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News and Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

RIDING DRAG / My Mother's Tatted Lace

To this day my Mother’s hands are never idle. She tatted the lace for my daughter’s wedding handkerchief and crosses that she gives to others. She never has to look at her hands, but I have watched them and listened to the song of the shuttle for hours on end.

Tatted Lace

     Her hands were never idle,

she could quilt, and she could sew.

She made the clothes, that we wore,

and the curtains for the window.

She could make something out of nothing,

it appeared as if from thin air,

And each thing, that she made us,

was filled with love and care.

 The materials came from feed sacks,

opened and washed, then neatly pressed,

And from odd bolt ends of yard goods,

into which she made our Sunday best.

To make it all so special,

make a feed sack dress stylish and grand,

She edged it with the finest lace,

that she tatted herself, by hand.

We’d watch the balls of ecru thread unwind,

as her magic, she did weave,

The shuttle moving at a pace so quick,

our eyes it would deceive.

We watched her tat for hours,

and a certain peacefulness it did bring,

Drifting to sleep at her knee,

the clicking shuttle, a lull-a-bye would sing.

I’m grown and can afford store-bought clothes,

the very best money can buy.

But I never find anything that I like,

and I’ve begun to understand why.

The workmanship cannot compare,

to that crafted by her hands.

For I still have pieces of that lace,

and the test of time, it does withstand.

And like the love she put in it,

when she crafted it for me,

I know where-ever I am in the world,

there also, She will be.

And in the twilight, through the window,

I still see her hands and face,

The shuttle clicking to and fro...

making tatted lace.

*For more about Debra go to the Cowboy Poetry section at AlwaysCowboy.com.

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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

COWBOY POETRY / NEW MEXICO

NEW MEXICO

The first time you see her, she will steal your soul away,
And replace it with a being of her own,
Her white sands will glisten, underneath turquoise skies,
And make your heart always long, for New Mexico.

There is magic in her mountains, secrets in her sage,
A special kind of wisdom, that only comes with age.
The music of her canyons, will echo and roll,
And fill your life with desire, for New Mexico.

She'll captivate your spirit, keep it in possession there,
No matter where you are, you smell cedar in the air.
The song she sings you, comes from long ago,
And haunts you with a passion, for New Mexico.

You understand the stillness, of a desert afternoon,
You're enchanted by the beauty, of yucca in bloom,
As you wonder at the colors, transformed by the sun's glow,
Your thoughts are of being, in New Mexico.

Voices of the past, warriors and pioneers,
Urge you with their stories, of laughter and tears.
An unsettled feeling, is all you have to show,
As you roam familiar trails, back to New Mexico.

Some will call her savage, some will call her wild,
In ever fleeting shadows, she remains but a child.
This boldness of character is restless and untamed,
Gentled only by The Power, that takes on many names.

You'll hear her in the night, when Westward breezes blow,
And to fill that empty feeling, you know you have to go,
For once you hold her in your eyes, nothing else can make you whole,
And you're never really home again, until you're in New Mexico.

 ©1999 Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved

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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured weekly at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join Debra and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

"ALWAYS COWBOY: For Those Who Live the West and For Those Who Dream of Living It!"

RIDING DRAG / HAPPINESS SQUARED

The kitchen remodel continues slow but sure and my and Angela’s job this week was to make the supply run. Our mission was to search for and secure 10 lbs of three and a half inch deck screws. We ended up at the local farm and ranch store where luckily they had a ten percent off sale going on. Screws secured, discount taken and out the door we go! (Bonus…they were giving away free bags of freshly popped corn. Yum!)


Outside a group is selling chances on a restored Corvette and various other prizes. The group selling the chances turned out to be a square-dancing club. The ladies selling the chances were personable and charming with natural, infectious smiles. They played off of one another and laughed the kind of laughter that draws you in and causes you to laugh along. Angela and I bought 5 one dollar chances. The possibility of us winning the Corvette is next to none, but the tickets were worth every penny for the entertainment.

I mentioned that my Pappaw Gass used to call square dances. I remember listening to him when I was little, sometimes falling asleep laying on the edge of the stage. The sound of his voice mixed with the tunes of fiddle and guitar made for a cheerful, up-beat lull-a-bye. One lady took hold of my arm, looked me in the eyes and said, “Honey, you have to write that down; stories like that are gold. You have to tell that and write it down for your kids and grand-kids.”

So, I wrote it down and now you know that my grandfather called square dances. I will also share with you that I have a collection of his square-dance music records, some LPs and some 78s and an old book that belonged to him called “Cowboy Dances”. I will also tell you that he picked a little flat-top guitar and played a mean jaw-harp and had an incredible laugh that came from deep-down and made you laugh too. Just like those two delightful ladies.

On and off all weekend we talked about our grandfathers and the things we remembered about them. We shared and laughed and the work seemed to go faster. Tonight I thank God again for my good friends Angela, Mike, Peyton and April and all their help. I will thank Him also for two lovely ladies who caused me to remember my Pappaw and the music of my childhood. And as I lay me down to sleep I will think of my friend Tom who recently asked me, “While you’ve been working on that old house of yours, have you found any treasure?” Yes Tom, as a matter of fact we have; just yesterday we found gold.



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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

RIDING DRAG / RANCH SCENTS

Last night I raked up the loose hay in the east feed room. Then I stood there and breathed in that indescribable smell of good Oklahoma Bermuda/Bluestem and Colorado Alfalfa. It’s a smell that fills your senses and follows you for days. Men’s cologne should smell like this; rich, full, useful and nutritious. I would pay good money for that smell in a bottle.


It led me to consider other smells that might attract Ranch/Farm Women. Warm, cuddly puppy smell is nice. But how many men would agree to smell like a puppy? (Although I have met several who have worn cologne that reminded me of wet dog.) Freshly dry new foal is high on my list of favorite smells. Almost any horse smells as a matter of fact. Even horse sweat has its merits. Then there is saddle leather, real saddle leather, cleaned and rubbed down with oil; not that swamp water smelling stuff they sell at Christmas by showing a guy on a horse. My favorite, however, is the smell that clings to a coat on those sharply cold days where your breath hangs in the air; a blend of barn, feed and livestock mixed with tiny crystals of ice. It waifs into my senses, makes me close my eyes and quickens the pace of my heart as I breathe deep. It is the smell of honest, hard work. Real men already smell like this. We do not have to go in search of it. It is here, where we live. It is land, livestock, love and home in one sniff.

My Grandmother used to joke that all men should smell like Lincoln Continental cars and one hundred dollar bills. That too might be nice, that is, if we can change the vehicle to a Chevy 4-wheel drive, Duramax crew cab one ton. But I still think I would prefer those afore mentioned smells.

Husband detests all women’s perfume. He believes in addition to no smoking ordinances that there should also be no perfume zones. When I asked him what women’s perfume should smell like he instantly answered, “That’s easy! Perfume should smell like fried chicken and German Chocolate cake. Or cocoanut pie…yeah, pie, that would be good too.” Then he wandered out of the room muttering something about bacon sandwiches, chili, fried catfish and butterscotch pudding, but by then I wasn’t really listening. I was hatching a business plan.

If only I had known it was just that simple to smell attractive to a man! I think I will make my own signature scent. I’m going to call my new line ‘Yummy’. I’ll get a really pretty bottle, go into the kitchen and mix up my patent pending secret recipe. A few teaspoons of vanilla, a hint of cocoanut, three pinches of chocolate and a dash of chicken drippings! Since I am sure it will be immensely popular, with husbands everywhere who will be buying it up as gifts for their wives, I will need to have more than one scent. At this point I am considering replacing chicken drippings with bacon grease, chili powder and the oil you fry fish in. And actually, that butterscotch kind wouldn’t be bad on a guy either.

This is totally not where I was going with this when I started writing; but just like with the rest of ranch life, you learn to go with the flow…or in this case, with the smell!


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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

RIDING DRAG / TOO MANY IRONS IN THE FIRE

I was feeling a little over-whelmed earlier today when I started making a mental list of all the things I have to do in the next weeks to come. After transferring the list to paper because there was too much to remember otherwise, I realized that I have a common ranch-wife condition. ‘Too many irons in the fire’ is a malady common to many of those of us who live a rural lifestyle.


It starts innocently enough; “Can you make the feed run?”-sure, “Can you design a new sale flyer?”-sure, “Can you sell stuff for the fundraiser, clean out that shed so the calves can get in, wash and vacuum the truck, get the tractor serviced, iron me some shirts and jeans, look up some internet information for me, get the dogs their shots, take the baby to his Dr. appointment, see how much Bermuda sprigs will be next spring, go get lumber for the trailer project, go back and get screws, caulk and saw-blades, put the new filters in the fridge, trucks and heat-pump, feed all those guys coming over to look at horses AND by the way, can you run by the bank and set the mouse traps in the feed room?”-SURE.

We say ‘Sure’ because it is easier than explaining why we can’t or even why we don’t want to. We also say it because we all think we are Superwoman. It’s not that we really believe we are, but because most of us are raised by women who we know without a doubt truly are or were Superwoman. We marry men who work as hard as we do and we wouldn’t think of not holding up our end. We also have kids who work hard and as mother’s we will do anything to lighten their loads. And don’t get us started on what we will do to make things go well for our grand-kids.

Friends are another matter as most of us have friends just like us, who wouldn’t dream of adding fuel to the fire where all our irons are heating up. They ‘get it’ and will do anything to help us, thus adding another iron to their own fire.

I was going to write a cute little poem about the Superwomen I know, but after doing all the things I said ‘sure’ to I still have my own set of irons to take care of before bed. Dishes, laundry, letters and bills to go out tomorrow, trash needs taking out…oh, and writing and sending this column, all hopefully will be done before midnight. It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Super-Ranch Woman! Is that a branding iron in her hand?


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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

RIDING DRAG / LONG SHADOW DAYS

After the recent loss of our old Kelpie cow-dog MiMi, I received a lovely condolence letter and some poetry from one of my readers in Albion, NE. She said I wouldn’t know her from a bale of hay but that they had raised farm dogs since 1945 and she wanted to share a couple of pieces of poetry with me. They couldn’t have come at a better time. It has been a month since MiMi passed through the gates and it is finally hitting home that she is really gone. The opossums have grown bold and come up to feed from the cat bowl and we miss having her warn us of approaching storms. There is a hole we can never fill.


No, I don’t know Donna from a bale of hay, but is because of people like her that I write each week. Our lives as stewards of land, livestock and ranch critters are filled with stories worthy of being told. These tales of truth document people and animals that comprise rural America and preserve a way of life vital to this country of ours. With this in mind, I dedicate this week’s column to Donna M. and I thank her for her lovely expression of sympathy.

*Tuff pads across the hot gravel at the end of the drive, his shadow following long and lean. He is old this dog. I do not say “this dog of mine”, for he is independent; owns me more than I own him. No longer youthful, he has long ago given up chasing rabbits, so Mr. Bunny sits among the nasturtiums and gobbles the bright blossoms.

At the corner of the garden Tuff pauses to drink from the old turkey roasting pan left just where the leaky faucet can drip fresh water all day. I could fix it, make it like new and save on the water bill; but then who would make sure he has a cool drink when I am away? My day job is in town now; an office position taken when the horse market went thin and kept ‘just in case’.

Tuff used to lie at my feet where-ever I was. His rhythmic panting setting the pace as I went about my chores. We were constant and consistent comrades and I missed him once the job started. I snuck him to work once when I thought the Boss would be gone all day. Tuff lay beneath my desk, his head on the toe of my boot, content like the old days to just be touching me. As co-conspirators we’d have gotten away with it too, if the Boss and his son hadn’t showed up late in the afternoon.

Tuff could ignore the Boss, but he doesn’t like the son, so he stuck his head out and growled real low. I made the excuse that I had to take him to the veterinarian immediately after work and needed to save gas and time by not back-tracking home. The Boss said it was ok just this once and petted Tuff, while his son said he never could understand why dogs don’t like him much. I allowed that some dogs are just that way and they went on about their business. Tuff and me, we know the truth and agree that some folks just deserve growling at.

I watch as Tuff settles on his rug on the side porch and stares off towards the east pasture where the cows and calves used to stand in the shade. Sometimes I think he misses them and that he is reflecting on the old days, when he was a real jaw-snappin’ cow-dog with the world by the tail. Maybe it’s just me, sliding into old memories of when I was just as young and bullet proof.

The sun shifts and I realize it is getting late. I drive on down from the top of the hill where I have been watching and stop at the gate to pick up the mail. Tuff’s ears go up and he races across the yard and circles the fence to meet me. I open the truck door and he jumps up and wiggles in next to me. As I shut the door he sticks his head out the window. To anyone coming along our road it looks like he is driving; our little joke on passers-by.

I park by the chutes and like a young pup Tuff bounds out of the truck, barrels full speed across the yard and barks at the rabbit in the flower bed. I smile at his attempt to fool me into believing he stays on guard all day. I praise him, call him ‘good dawg’ and laugh as he picks up his rug and shakes it.

He dashes a few feet ahead of me as I follow a nightly routine of walking to the barn to feed the horses. His shadow and mine mix together and form a creature of mythological proportion. Looking back to where I lag behind, he pauses and waits for me. I envy his patience, his contentment with his life as it is; find comfort in his unconditional companionship. I catch up and we walk on, two shadows before us, touching now and then in that familiar way of kindred spirits.

I like to think that the road to Heaven’s gate is like this; an easy walk along a frequented path with a good friend. In these long-shadow days it is comforting to know there is someone there who loves us for no other reason than we are consistently there. As evening falls and the shadows stretch out far ahead of us I realize something. They do not show age. They are as we were. And with Tuff by my side, that is enough.



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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html