TAKE MY ADVICE - Opening segment (Scroll down for earlier chapters)

      

  

 

      I have always been told, “It’s better to give than to receive.”  I agree.  I've always found it far more enjoyable giving advice than receiving it. 
 

       During my earlier years, I especially enjoyed giving advice to my younger cousin, Lester.  Being a year older, with far more life experiences, I felt I knew what was best for him.  His father felt I should consider what was best for me.  So I considered what was best for me; it was helping Lester. 

               

      One of Lester’s goals was to become rich, so he could someday retire to an island in the South Seas or, maybe, to senior housing in Goodland, Kansas.  

     His mother didn’t like his talk of riches.  Every time Lester brought up the subject, she would say,” I’ll slap your jaws.” (This is really true! I’m not making this up!)  

     While his mother had Lester’s jaws in her crosshairs, his father was telling him to keep his chin up.  “Hold your head high,” he’d admonish Lester.  I figured that would only put his jaws in direct line for a good slap.

     Having Lester’s interests at heart, and thinking I might profit from our friendship, I was willing to step in between his mother and his jaws, if necessary.

     Having amassed a sizable fortune, myself, and knowing Lester wanted to become rich, I offered him my sage advice. “If you want to make more money than you’ve ever seen in your life---even more than lunch money, you can’t walk around with your chin up and head held high,” I said.

     “Why not?” asked Lester, with a quizzical look.

     “Well, first of all, your mother is going to slap your jaws.  Secondly, money doesn’t grow on trees; it falls out of pockets.  If money grew on trees, holding your head high would be good advice.  You could spot the money right away and pick it, while the bills were still crisp.  But as any financial genius, or anyone who plays ‘kick the can’, knows, money is on the ground: on sidewalks, in parking lots, and under carnival rides that turn you upside down. So take my advice; keep looking down, because the money is on the ground.”

     Lester was a bit hesitant to take my advice, claiming he hadn’t fully recovered from the barn incident.  “Forget the barn,” I said.  “We’re talking big money here.” 

     Since Lester was primarily interested in becoming rich, and trying to avoid his mom’s wrath, he decided my advice was the best he’d heard since we’d built our campfire in a haystack.  So he tucked in his chin and hung his head, knowing if he kept looking down for the money on the ground, it would be only a matter of time before he became filthy rich.  After giving me a small percentage---say fifty percent---for my advice, he could then fulfill his dreams of early retirement in Goodland…I mean the South Seas.

     I think Lester would have enjoyed life on an island in the South Seas, but a debilitating maple bar addiction caused his plans to take a detour.  It happened one morning on the school playground.  He and a friend were walking along, discussing the latest financial trends, and playing kick-the-can, when they both spotted some money on the ground in front of them.  Visualizing a maple bar, Lester ran for the money.  At the last minute, his friend tried to push him aside.  Just as Lester looked up, his front tooth collided with a tetherball pole.  The tooth fell to the ground.  Lester didn’t get a maple bar, but he did receive a new, shiny gold tooth.  His father wasn’t happy, feeling Lester should have been paying attention to where he was going.  

  

    I suggested Lester get help for his addiction.  His father said something to me, but I couldn’t understand it through his clenched teeth.   

    

    I decided to go into hiding.  I kept a low profile while Lester recovered from the trauma, and attended several MBA ---Maple Bars Anonymous---meetings, and listened to his father explain, once again, why it wasn’t a good idea to listen to my advice.  

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WHEN COWS RULED - Final segment (Scroll down for earlier segments)


      On occasion we would have to herd cows on the main highway through town.  Because it was a small town, there was no need to be concerned about traffic.  There was none.  If two cars ever came through town together, most people thought it was a parade, and would start clapping and rush to find a place to sit.  Even the cows would look for a place to sit. Who doesn’t love a good parade?  

     Although Gramps always cautioned us about fraternizing with his cows, he still enlisted our help for his cow-herding drills.  He believed the drills kept us out of trouble, and they were a great conditioning exercise.  

     When I talk about herding, this was no John Wayne, round ‘em up, move ‘em out, western.  John Wayne was on horseback.  We were on foot, and we weren’t running anything to the border.  

     In this drill, Lester and I, and no more than three cousins, would attempt to coax, coerce, and prod approximately 2000 “party cows”, half, who were probably out on bail, from one pasture to another.  This meant crossing a valley, climbing a mountain, and tip-toeing along a ravine (Have you ever seen a cow tip-toe?), before finally arriving, three days later, at a lush, green pasture, across the road from our point of origin.  I hated that drill.  Every time Gramps would say, “Well, boys, I think it’s time we move these cows to another pasture,” I’d think, “Why don’t you hire John Wayne?  He’s always moving cows.  And he’s got all those guys running around on horseback, with maps, in case some cow gets lost, and needs to ask for directions.” Here we are, running around on foot, waving our arms, and yelling in fluent cow (English was our second language), while 300 misfits sneak off into the woods, pretending they're lost.

      Of course, I’m the one who gets to go in and negotiate their return to the herd.  While I’m stumbling through the brush, looking behind the trees, I hear a rustling sound, and some wise cow jumps out of the brush at me, pretending she’s a bull (one of the games cows play), thus triggering my alarm system---highly sensitive from previous bull encounters---and causing me to high-step and jitterbug through the forest, screaming, “BULL! Bull in the herd!”  Everyone else was yelling, “Stop! Stop!  It’s only a cow.”  It was too late.  I was already at the house, two miles down the road; had eaten lunch, and was half-way through the sports page.

     Later, Gramps said, “I could tell by the way you came out of those woods that my conditioning drills were a success.  You really put the move on those tree stumps, and when you hit the straightaway your feet didn’t even touch the ground.”

     Gramps’ cow herding drill may have been great for developing speed, agility, and endurance, but I’d much rather turn on the T.V. and watch John Wayne do it on horseback.  The cows would too.  And they ruled.


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WHEN COWS RULED - Segment 3 (Scroll down for earlier segments)


     Maybe life was better on the ranch.  The money was lousy, but there were no exhausting border runs.  
  
     Gramps’ cows also got free entertainment, provided by Lester and me.  Just watching us seemed to  entertain them.  Often, they would walk over to where we were standing.  “What are you boys planning...a barn-burning…ha…ha…ha?”  They wouldn’t let us forget about the barn. 

     One day, as Lester and I romped about the ranch on our horses, I came up with a brilliant idea.  Brilliant ideas scared Lester.  He started to run, but I grabbed him before he could get away.  “Hold still and listen,” I said. “We’re not going to build a campfire.”  Lester breathed a sigh of relief. “Besides, there’s no barn,” I continued. 

    “Okay, what’s your idea?” asked Lester nervously.

    “Let’s see if we can jump that split rail fence on our horses.”  

     “We’d have to lower the fence,” answered Lester, beginning to perspire.

   

    “Okay, okay, maybe a couple rails,” I responded.

    We prepared the fence, and then we calculated the speed, timing of the jump and clearance needed to get over the split rails.  At the sound of a distant moo, we were off.  About mid-flight we discovered that climbing over the fence would have been much easier.  Trying to jump a fence while holding a broomstick between your legs took far more athleticism than either Lester or I possessed.  We crash-landed, ending up with two very small horses, neither big enough to ride.  It wasn’t long before the cows had surrounded the crash site, bent over, holding their sides in raucous laughter, some slapping their knee with a hoof.  Lester and I thought for sure they were going to throw dollar bills at us for such great entertainment.  Then we realized that cows had no where to carry money.  

    Gramps said he had never seen his cows laugh so hard.  He said laughing cows gave more milk.

    Trying to preserve our bodies, Lester and I decided to ask Gramps if we could ride real horses. 

   

    He just laughed.  “I’ve got too much respect for horses to let you boy’s on’em.  I feel bad enough for those broomsticks.”   I’m sure that’s why he had nailed the legs of his sawhorse to the floor.  He probably thought Lester and I would try to ride it off into the sunset. 

   

    Gramps was always calling on his grandkids---that would be me and my cousins---to help him herd behaviorally-challenged cows from pasture to pasture.  Being close to a mathematical genius, I knew the shortest distance between two pastures was a straight line.  If I had to herd cows, I wanted to walk the shortest distance…a straight line.  The only problem---Gramps cows fought straight lines.  They would have none of it.  When Gramps said, “Move’em out”, cows would run into town for a cup of coffee, or maybe some Chinese food; anything to avoid a straight line.  After dinner and a little window shopping, they would meander home, being sure to visit neighbors along the way.  

WHEN COWS RULED - Segment 2 (Scroll down for opening segment)

 
Gramps’ cows hated being fenced in while their cousins were roaming the open range, and basking in  the glory of Hollywood westerns.  


Many of them had stomped their hooves on a Hollywood contract, and were now starring in cattle drives with John Wayne.  There was good money in Hollywood, especially if you were one of the leading cows, or a stunt cow. (If you've never seen a cow do a stunt, you've lived a sheltered life.)

       

   These Hollywood celebrities were reaping the rewards of fat cow living: running with John Wayne not far behind, hanging out at the best watering holes, and doing commercials, encouraging everyone to eat more sushi.  This was a far cry from the mundane life of the ranch.

    Gramps finally had to break down and get a TV for the barn so his cows could watch their cousins in the westerns.  They loved the stampedes.  If you walked by the barn, you could hear them yelling, “Go the other way; the other way!”, “Watch the rope!”, “Don’t pay any attention to the dog!”  Another cow would pipe up, “Relax, it’s only a movie.”

    Of course, their cousins would tell them it wasn’t all watering holes and fat cow living.  It was a lot of work, especially with all the re-takes.  The director was always having them line up for another border run…”Okay, let’s do the border run again…and let’s stay together.  If you get separated from the herd, let one of the cowboys find you.  Don’t wander off to some watering hole.  And don’t try to find the border on your own.  You could end up in Vermont.  If you’re not certain which border you’re crossing, ask one of the cowboys.  They’ve got maps; any questions?”

WHEN COWS RULED - Opening Segment (Scroll down for earlier chapters)

Growing up in a small town surrounded by dairy farms, I was well acquainted with cows that had their own agenda, and rarely listened to reason. 

     With cows far outnumbering the townspeople, farmers did their best to keep order.  But it didn’t take me long to learn that cows ruled.

     They left a lasting hoofprint on my life.  I’ve tried to get it removed on several occasions, without success.  

  

    In the nearby hills, Gramps had a big ranch with a large herd of attack cows. It was there that I learned one of the most important lessons in life---never trust a cow.  You could never be sure which ones suffered from serious behavior disorders, such as kicking and butting, and an overwhelming desire to run over you.  That’s why I didn’t like working with any cow unless I knew his complete work history. Was there any butting, kicking or stomping in his past?  Was I dealing with an easy-going, level-headed slobber-master, or a cow that should be in lockdown?

     As a kid, I often heard of contented cows, although I don’t recollect ever meeting one in person.  Growing up around cow gangs on the back forty, I was more acquainted with bovine malcontents, who were always grumbling and complaining about some perceived injustice.  Gramps said they had probably spent too much time listening to Lester and me. 

     Sure, we may have whined occasionally about having to herd cows, but that was only because Gramps didn’t require a criminal background check for any of his herd. You never knew when a cow would lead a breakout, and the whole herd would stampede over your body and through the valley, with no thought of stopping at grandma's house.  We were putting our lives on the line.           

    

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ROOSTER RAGE - Final Segment (Scroll down for earlier segments)

     Knowing it was my body he was planning to assault, I quickly applied a geometrical truth...the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.  Without hesitating, I roared off, with Rudy a close second.  What I couldn't go over, under, or around, I went through.  I must have lost Rudy in the poison ivy, because I didn't see him when I looked around.

  

     Up ahead was the Hen House of Doom, not exactly a place of refuge, but far better than being out in the wide open spaces, with a crazed rooster-at-large.  I ran in and slammed the door shut. 

 

     "Sorry ladies," I said.  "Gramps sent me in here to collect some eggs." 

     I figured I might as well pretend I was amounting to something.  I grabbed a half a dozen eggs and peered out through a crack in the door, hoping Rudy had given up and left the country.

     What happened at that instant is rather vague, but I remember hearing a cock-a-doodle-doo, flapping wings, and seeing Rudy staring me in the face.  Words were exchanged, followed by flying feathers and flailing arms.  By the time I regained consciousness, I had crossed a river, run through a canyon, darted between a stand of trees, and was sitting on top of a split-rail fence on the other side of the barnyard, covered with egg yoke and feathers.  I don't know how long I had been straddling the fence, waiting for Search and Rescue, but Rudy finally lost interest and went swaggering back to the hen house, apparently pleased that he had been able to terrorize me once again.

     I don't know if I'll ever amount to anything, but I owe my skills as an athlete to Gramps Camp. It was there that I learned to run like the wind---even with egg on my face.

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