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 / 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

RIDING DRAG / ALL WE NEED

At nineteen degrees our breath freezes in the air as we walk to the barn. Inside the cold clings to us and makes us thankful for heavy coats and fleece liners. As we work we warm some, but still keep on our gloves and coats. How fortunate we are to have clothing to keep us warm, work to do and a place to live that sustains us. We have worked hard all year and earned this quiet time. We feed the horses and cattle; watch the steam rise from their backs as we hold our hands deep in warm pockets and revel in the goodness God has given us.

This time of year seals into our souls those things we treasure. Family, home and friends have more meaning when winter comes and we are snug and warm in our house with those we love around us. We are more thankful when the cold batters things about outside and we are sheltered against it. But while we gather in the barn, the elements so close to us, we know how little we need to truly make us happy.

As we stand in this old barn we are reminded of the first Christmas so long ago. The Christ Child had a manger for his bed, the animals bowed down before him and Kings lay gifts before His feet. It is easy to believe, for in this place we find our greatest peace each day. We need little when we know that Christ who rules our lives was born in surroundings as humble as these. A dirt floor, some hay to sleep on and loved ones close to Him and yet, He had all…and gave all. How could we want for more?

We stand in the icy air, lift up our eyes towards Heaven and thank God for the gift of His Son. We send our prayers skyward, our breath mixing with that of the livestock and we know that we have all we need. “And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.”  Luke 2:10

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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