"Blue" was old even then, inspiring our neighbor, a local wag, to christen it, "Ol' Everlastin'," and because it was an International, of course, the community consigned it to the general species of "Cornbinder." Some of the most formative, memorable moments of my years growing up revolved around "Blue."
I was the last of the litter, the johnny-come-lately in a family of five brothers and sisters. But, as it developed, the bottom rung proved no handicap. I had my granddad to myself during those teenage years, and the hours spent bouncing around the hills with his company and in the faithful blue pickup remain my most pined for in the fabric of memory.
That fall day we were on the annual Christmas tree gather. It was different this year. Typically, my grandmother would be there in her glory, passing judgment on every tree nominated to be taken home, gathering boughs for the mantle and the multitude of wreaths that must be fashioned.
But this had been her year for feeling poorly, the result of a hepatitis attack after the state fair. This trek to the hills was missing another element: Not one of my nieces or nephews, the grandkids, came along. They were in school or down with the grippe. So, it became just Granddad Lou and I. My uncle Phil, Lou's only son living at home, was already in the hills having stayed the week past at the cow camp, fencing and picking up strays, our own or the neighbors'.
Phil lived both for and in another era. Fall roundup gave him the chance to don chaps, pack his warbag and slicker, and slip the veteran Winchester into the worn scabbard in the event a coyote or "some venison" crossed his trail.
Ever since anyone could remember, we small ranchers staged an episode after the fall gather, dubbed the "greasy sacker re-ride" when those cows, calves, or steers that evaded the main crew were sought out and brought in before winter claimed the country.
Uncle Phil spun many a yarn and had many a laugh over the re-ride. He took pride in being "chief of the greasy-sackers," a title his friends bestowed upon him. Fall, the roundup, and the re-ride allowed Phil to be poet, philosopher, and crown prince of all he surveyed in our hills. He took on new dimensions then. He became Bridger, Carson, Cody, Goodnight, Chisholm, and his other heroes of those times which inspired and formed his persona over the years. Trailblazer, mountain man, scout, cowman, and stockman supreme, Phil lived his own colorful dreams for a few wonderful weeks, and the afterglow remained long enough to carry him through the holidays and the feeding routine that became a daily routine of winter on a ranch.
It emerged a hard, brittle day under a sky of scuddy steel the afternoon we went after trees. The gold of the aspen had turned mottled and drab, the rabbit brush past its prime.
"Storm by tomorrow, maybe tonight," my granddad grumbled. He didn't seem in good humor. Going after Christmas trees seemed a mite frivolous, or so he let on. Now, I knew him well enough to read through his declaring the day "wasted."
My grandmother confirmed it: "Your grandfather is an old brick. He told me last year, the day he couldn't go to the hills after those trees would be his last.
"He told me once: 'Peg, I know . . . there'll come a time when I won't be up to the spring drive, let alone the roundup. But, I hope I can at least ride along to get the trees.'
"He has his open moments. Watch for 'em."
I accepted her challenge. But, Granddad Lou did not invite closeness or such. His emotions swam well beneath the surface.
The roads were grim, hard and rutted in the shadowy recesses, slick or soupy in the sunny patches. Frost was moving deeper every day, but the land had not submitted completely.
Along the road, we met Ferris Portman, one of the big landholders of the region, dryland farmer and cattle baron whose exploits were held in suspicion. Portman was new to the country, and he swung a wide loop.
He waved us down as we approached and climbed down from his new Power Wagon. The topics were cattle and the weather, then money––Ferris was keen on money––and bankers. While they visited and Ferris dominated the conversation, I could see my grandfather fidgetting. He wanted to break it off, but you didn't shake Ferris that easily. Not until his cowboys and a couple dozen pairs broke over the hill, did Ferris let up.
"Here they come. Say, I'm missing at least two good cows and a half dozen big calves. We had 'em before we moved into our field. I told yer hand over at the camp––the silly one––what's his name? Phil? I tol' him I'd buy him a steak and a milkshake if he found that bunch.
"I don't 'spect he ever ate in a restaurant. Can he read? Don't appear he's got a lot of capability, but those retarded folks surprise y' with what they can do. Gentle enough hand around stock––hard to find gentle hands today that are any good. Where'd y' hire him from?
"I had four head shot this fall, just left them in th' gully. I don't know what it's comin' to. Prob'ly find those strays full of .30-30 holes for all I know. Y' can't insure 'em, prices bein' so sour. We might get outa cows but grain's not so hot neither.
"You know," he laughed, "I don't know why anyone with good sense stays in this business, do you? Be honest now. Look at these ranahans I got hired––an' your half-wit over there at the camp––why, they're better off'n you an' me both. Nary a worry in this world. Well, I gotta open gates or they're gonna get ahead of me. See y'. Merry Christmas."
And with that, he jumped into his new pickup and spun out and down the road.
"Ferris prattles on a lot," I ventured.
The cords on Granddad's neck stood out stiff and rigid if he was mad. His sagging jowls tightened and took on a lumpier appearance then. He didn't answer me. So I kept quiet and fell to studying the leathery hand gripping the shift knob, the stubby, knobby fingers working back and forth over its worn surface, an angry gesture.
When we met up with Phil and fell to cutting trees, Granddad Lou barked at him for dropping "Blue" into a badger hole and danged near getting us stuck. It became a quiet ride home for the three of us, and dusk when we pulled in the yard. Granddad was smoldering and silent.
By the light of the porch, Phil grandly displayed one of the junipers we'd cut while Grandma smiled her approval through the dining room window. Before Lou and I left to do chores, the old man clapped his son on the back.
"Glad yer back home, Philly. We need y' around here."
Granddad and I began pitching hay to the horses and replacement heifers. Up in the yard we would hear Phil whistling and singing as he unloaded the evergreen harvest. After several minutes, I mustered my courage to say what I'd rehearsed all the way down from the hills.
"Granddad." I waited until he looked up and I had his attention. "Mister Portman wouldn't understand . . . but I know one reason you stay in the cattle business." I glanced up toward my dear, funny, simple uncle. Lou paused, leaned on his fork, listening to the cowboy Christmas ballad Phil was vigorously working over. There, in the twilight, I felt his milky old eyes rest on me and soften, regarding me as someone needing more attention these days. I was to think on this moment many times in the years that followed.
"Ol' Blue" is at rest now, sitting in the windbreak, a plaything for the great-grandkids and a haven for field mice. Phil prepares for the "re-ride" every year, and Granddad Lou hasn't missed a trip to the hills for Christmas trees yet.
But, most of all, I remember a chilly November night there at the feed bunk and my crusty old curmudgeon of a grandpa hugging me to his chest where I could smell the wool and the woodsmoke of him.
Some things endure.
Copyright, 2012, JLC
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