February 25, 2007

When the Cattle are Millin’ at the Top of the Day

I could go on and on about the New West and the changing landscape of western values, such as I touched on in my last post with Children of the Mustang Range, but for now I will resist the urge and move on to something a little lighter. But before I do, you may as well take a look at an excellent poem by Rhoda Sivell They Keep A-Stealing on You in the Night published in 1912. You can read it here: http://cowboypoetry.com/rhodasivell.htm#Stealing Or listen to this haunting poem here:

The lament of lost rural values and increased urbanization goes back a long time. My take on it is that it would happen faster if it isn't slowed in small increments - though the inevitable seems to loom large.

This poem was inspired by a photo of my mother on a cattle drive in 1996. It was taken at noon during a lunch break. She was 72 and still riding out from time to time - on her mare Latigo, who was probably the cowiest horse I have ever known. That was the beginning of the poem. The men and horses mentioned in the piece come from my own personal aquaintances and are real live references to friends.

When the Cattle are Millin’ at the Top of the Day
by Paul Kern

When the cattle are millin’ at the top of the day,
An’ we settle ourselves down fer lunch,
We undo the buckles and dust off the grub,
An’ pass it all out to the bunch.

Charlie Goodnight didn’t make it here,
The trail’s too steep for a team -
No chuck wagon, harness or reins,
Grub’s by saddlebag an’ water - canteen.

Say Bruce over there how long’s it been,
Since them tortillas seen light of day?
Seems like ya’ been savin’ ‘em some –
Them speckles of green have all gone to grey!

And that rounded ol’ herder’s canteen,
Ya’ know the one with the dent -
When did it last see some scrubbin’ an’ soap?
Why Bill’s nursin’ it like he was a gent!

Dan’s a refined sorta feller ya’ know,
He's a horse that joins in the fray,
He likes the stuff ‘tween sheets of bread,
But mostly when it’s P B and J.

The big ol’ paint gets his own licks,
His likin’ is apples - but right about noon,
He’ll take what he gets which is only the sauce,
An’ he’ll lick it right off a’ yer spoon.

Curley’s jerky is wizened up hard,
With branches of sinew an’ grime,
It’s shrunk up tighter’n a Scottish fist,
Lookin’ an’ tastin’ like pinion pine.

And then there’s ol’ Fred’s fingernails -
All nine of ‘em (lost one to a rope),
So crusted an’ yeller just to hide his shame,
He swallers his grub at a lope.

It’s crusty and moldy and bad to the bone,
Of microbes an’ critters there must be a bunch,
When the cattle are millin’ at the top of the day,
An’ we settle ourselves down fer lunch.


When the Cattle are Millin’ at the Top of the Day

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