Post Twelve - Aggieland

General Schroeder recognized Mace's voice on the phone immediately. His deep southern baritone bark was not a sound you soon forgot. Like old friends catching up, they shared a laugh about their last weeks in Vietnam. Herman had taken Mace, an enlisted man, with him to the officer's club at the base in DaNang on several occasions. The bourbon wasn't that good, but they enjoyed their conversations about returning to their life stateside. Mace recalled how he appreciated the privilege of being among the officers he aspired to be someday. Those lasting experiences in 'Nam gave him a glimpse into his future as a Naval Officer.

On the phone they talked briefly about their wives and kids. Herman had two daughters. Mace had Tucker, Kate and Samantha. Their families got together one time at Disneyland a few years after they returned from the war. Herman remembered the athletic Tucker very well-  his youngest daughter Melinda was giddy around the hunk of a boy. Lola Marie, his other daughter, could care less.

Not knowing exactly what it took to get into college, Mace shared Tucker's dilemma about the draft and ignoring the scholarship offers. He figured the Commandant of Aggieland had to carry some weight on a campus full of corp cadets.

In an era before higher education went all politically correct, Herman, did in fact have some power to make things happen; academically. He had little sway over any of the coaches, but was on the Athletic Oversight Council and enjoyed his special seating at Kyle Field and Olsen Field during the football and baseball games. He, like  most other Texans at the time, didn't go to basketball games; much less an Aggie basketball game. They were awful. 

He knew the coaches and promised Mace he would talk to the baseball staff. He made no promises about Tucker's chances, but felt confident he could get him into school over in the agriculture college.  Mace didn't expect any more than that and was grateful to Herman for putting in a good word. The bonds of war ran deep between the two men.

Post Eleven – Walter and Gabriel

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Post Eleven – Walter and Gabriel

Rarely did Kaci wear make-up, especially outside on the ranch. Typically she wore a cotton tank-top and Levi 501 jeans that fit tight around her narrow waist and shapely ass she thought was too big. The boys at school did not agree with her lowly self-assessment. They would stare in unison as she walked passed them on the way to class. At home she would pull her hair back in a ponytail and thread it through the opening on the back of a blue and white King Ropes trucker cap. She wore her pant legs inside her boots with custom made Garcia spurs her dad bought her one Christmas from J.M. Capriola’s in Elko, Nevada. The spurs were a constant attachment to her dusty, dirty boots even when she removed them on the back porch at the end of the day.

The only time Kaci ever wore make-up was when she had a date for the school formal or when her mom’s old friends from her modeling days in New York would visit the ranch. Jaylyn didn’t keep up with the other models after she left the business-they were too self-centered. She did, however, maintain lifelong friendships with some phenomenal photographers and eccentric gay make-up artists.

Walter and Gabriel were especially flamboyant. They were an old couple. They would cackle, laugh and flitter around like teenage school-girls when they got together with Jaylyn. They didn’t care who made fun of them. They were secure in who they were and had been out of the closet their whole lives. In the modeling industry around the world it was easy, accepted. In Llano, Texas it was a different story. Folks looked at them funny when they would go to town. Some would make snarky comments about “them fags from the city.” Jaylyn would always apologize to Walter and Gabriel.

Kaci’s dad Harold never really understood how a man could have those kinds of feelings for another man, but he accepted them completely as friends of his wife.  He genuinely liked Walter and Gabriel because they cared so deeply for Jaylyn. They were harmless. Walter and Gabriel would tease Jaylyn, in front of Harold, that if she wasn’t careful, they would steal her handsome Harold away. They all laughed deep belly laughs and drank several bottles of Llano Estacado Winery’s Muscat Canelli as they sat on the back patio overlooking the river.

These days Walter and Gabriel no longer worked in the modeling business. As middle- aged men they could not compete with the sexier, thinner and more hip young gay men in the fast paced world of high fashion. Their bigger girths, lack of tattoos and dated ways put them at odds with the new breed. They loved to talk smack and gossip about those pretty boys who pushed them out. Today they made their living as hair, make-up and fashion consultants for young women competing in beauty pageants around the country. They were in high demand.

Kaci loved Walter and Gabriel. They were like uncles to her. They in-turn loved Kaci. They marveled at how much she looked like her mom when her mom was her age. They showered her with compliments and had fun working their make-up magic on her flawless canvas. When they finished, Kaci no longer looked seventeen and innocent, instead she too looked like she belonged on the cover of Cosmo. The sexual transformation was stunning if only temporary. Kaci had fun listening to them carry on with their ooohs and aahhs, but she never left the ranch looking like a cover girl. She wore jeans and loose fitting baby-doll tops to school. That was enough to send the country boys of Llano into testosterone overload.

Post Ten Rancho Estancia

Rancho Estancia was like heaven on earth for Tucker. Small by Argentina standards, the 950 acre place was big enough to maintain a small herd of Brahman cattle. The Zebu cows were well suited to the tropical climate. Tucker saw an opportunity to crossbreed them with an English breed -most likely Angus, maybe Hereford- to capitalize on the trend in South America to finish cattle on grain to satisfy the hearty beef loving country's evolving palate.  Oh how Tucker wished the meat loving sentiment were still true in the United States. Somehow Americans had lost their way and meat consumption suffered under constant attack of whacked out vegans and corrupt lobbying groups like PETA and the fundraising factory at the Humane Society of the United States.

If you listen to the press and the leftist animal rights freaks you would think Tucker and his ilk in the cattle business were scum of the earth. Selfish bastards who don't care about their cows and even less about the environment. Science and evidence have demonstrated the myths in the zealots' charges, but few seem to want the truth. Tucker does what he can to shed light on his beef production, but at times he thinks, "screw it, I got cows to feed."

That is what he loves about Argentina. He can escape the bullshit, enjoy a good steak guilt-free, drink a fine Cab and occasionally share his bed with Congetta Menendez. The firey hot Congetta, is the news anchor for Cablevison which is owned by Grupo Clarin, the largest newspaper in Argentina, and his pleasant distraction on his trips south. She was also a former beauty queen with a voluptuous set of assets that were required of South American women on television. 

The two of them met in '99 when she was a young reporter starting out at the Buenos Aires cable channel run by Multicanal. Tucker had bought Rancho Estancia a year earlier. To call her a reporter was to stretch the truth, she was Portuguese eye-candy with a set of killer hips, big brown eyes and a mane of shiney brown hair past her shoulders. She spoke Spanish, but was bi-lingual in several ways.  She also hosted a cheesy afternoon game show that resembled "The Price is Right." She was no Bob Barker, she oozed sexy fun. It was a highly rated show.

She had been assigned  to do a story on the American cowboy who was making a splash in Magdalena. Tucker didn't mind and thought it would help endear him to the locals. He was used to doing interviews back in the States. Her accent, flawless olive skin and television smile caught Tucker off guard. They connected almost immediately. He could not wait for the interview to be over and she stumbled on her words trying to be professional. She too felt something stirring. In an afternoon of passion, Tucker felt a release he hadn't felt in the past year. For a second  he thought of Kaci. He always thought of Kaci when he was uncertain. She was his safe place. At this moment, Congetta was anything but safe and Tucker's uncertainty passed quickly as their afternoon smoldered into the evening. 

It was to be this way for years. Congetta held on to her beauty with ease and continued to anchor the news even as Multicanel merged with Cablevision. She enjoyed the wealthy American cowboy when he was at Rancho Estancia. She did not sit alone at home when he was gone.

Tucker understood. He too had his share of company in his travels. On this trip, there would be no Congetta. He has too much on his mind.

Estacado Heart (UGLY ROUGH DRAFT)

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Estacado Heart (ROUGH DRAFT)

© 2013 J. Scott Vernon

Post One

She stood in the gentle warmth of the Sunday morning light through an open window. Her skin was softer than his white cotton shirt she wore unbutton to her navel. Her golden hair cascaded off her slender shoulders. The smell of fresh coffee drifted through his groggy senses. It wasn't supposed to be this way. He didn't mean to stay. His boots were across the room, his mind another place. He reached and pulled her closer, he whispered in her ear, "Good morning, I'm sorry I never told you..."

For a moment her knees weakened with his confession. She had always been the strong one, her independent streak well known, but now her mind raced. What was happening? How could she have not seen this coming? Could this really be true? Why? Why now? Who is he? The answers escaped her. Her throat was dry. Her pulse quickened.

There was so much to do. The morning sun turned harsh. The glare was beginning to blind her, she knew she must do something, now.

Post Two

Tucker knew he was a long way from the dusty fields of his youth spent on the farm in the Valley. At times he missed the long hot summers hauling hay and breaking horses. The smell of fresh cut alfalfa and grain molasses always made him smile.

He always liked to smile and in time learned just how far a quick grin and easy laugh could take him in the world of making deals. His strong jaw, wavy brown hair and chiseled frame conspired to make his pursuits effortless. His hazel green eyes didn't hurt his chances. He learned quickly how to leverage his gifts.

Somehow the simple life got away from him as he raced around the world accumulating riches, women and cattle ranches on three continents. They were all just pawns in his never ending quest to win. To be the best. Tucker always wanted more, but now he felt so empty. Defeated. He found a opponent he could not defeat. One money could not deter. He had to come clean, his secret choked him like a hangman's noose around his neck. One more day he thought to himself. I will tell her tomorrow, but tomorrow may not come. The time was now. He could not wait. "God dammit," he thought, I can't do this to her.

When he opened his eyes and saw her silhouette against the large window in her bedroom he knew she must know. Kaci's tender way and soft touch had brought him back from the brink of oblivion before. He had passed her way often. She was always available to him. Her aqua blue eyes and perfect smile had a way of making him want her more. He knew he couldn't hurt her, but he knew that she, of all people, could care for him, she would help him through this, Kaci would know just what to do. He took a deep breath, the aroma of the coffee awoke his thinking. He had agonized over this moment for the past five months. "Now" he said to himself. I must tell her now.

Post Three

At 42, Kaci knew she had little time for boys. As an advertising executive at a Hollywood power agency, she had seen her share of overhyped, tatted-up party animals with a penchant for fast cars and nose candy. Coming up in the business she dabbled in them when she was young. It was always thoughtless, exuberant fun. Nothing serious, just a means to an end. She helped them become over saturated celebrities, they made sure the senior partners at Kimbro, Kelly and Cox kept her around. She herself had movie star looks, but even more, she was very good at her job. Kaci could have worked anywhere in LaLa land.

She had graduated at the top of her class at Southern Methodist University. A small town girl from Llano, she couldn't wait to escape the confining banks of the Llano River, even though she spent her high school years on the river's edge in cut off shorts and drinking beer with her best friend Katy Jo Carmichael, Izzy Rodrigues and John Allen Cooper. The four of them had promised each other they'd always be friends no matter where life would take them. Kaci was the only one who made it out. Katy Jo married the sheriff's son Hank, she has three kids and works at the Llano Public Works. Izzy became a fireman and died trying to save a kid who was caught is a house fire. John Allen still talks about the 3A football championship when he was the quarterback at Llano High School. He is a cowboy for day wages for ranchers in the county. He never married.

Kaci was engaged to Keith Austin when she was 28. He was an A-lister in Hollywood and liked to be seen with Kaci on his arm. He has been nominated for an Oscar for his role in "Sargent Jacobs Alibi," but didn't win. She loved him almost as much as he loved himself. They never married. She swore never to date an actor again, especially those who played cops.

Post Four

It was sticky the evening Tucker arrived at the airport in Buenos Aires on his way to Rancho Estancia 75 miles south in Magdalena. The breeze coming off the estuary of Rio de la Plata offered little comfort from the humidity that hung wet in the evening air. His ranch in Argentina was one of his favorite places but he always enjoyed the colorful nightlife of the city during his visits. The rhythmic sensuality of the music, the beautiful dark haired women and the machismo of the South American men had always made him feel welcome despite his fair skin and American citizenship. He was gregarious and his generosity was not lost on the natives. His money flowed like Pisco through a village drunk.

Raul Silva greeted him with open arms and a hearty embrace. It was good to see his boss. It had been months since Tucker last came to the ranch to host members of the United States Congress on a "trade mission" to the province. U.S. Senator Adam Taylor, the chair of the senate foreign relations committee, was also with the group. His deep voice and southern twang could be heard for miles. He was a flip-flopping populist Democrat, but his "people" in Alabama loved him and had elected him each time for the past 14 elections. Truth be told it was a junket paid for by the American taxpayers. They were there to hunt doves and eat like kings. Raul, the ranch foreman, always took care of the details. He and his wife, Salina had lived on the ranch for more than twenty years. They stayed when Tucker bought the ranch from Senor Camilio Santos in '98. Salina could cook a feast.

Post Five

By all measures Tucker leads a charmed life. He has a craftsman house overlooking the Pacific Ocean on the rugged coast just south of Carmel. His farm in the Central Valley boasts 1,800 acres of class-one soil, the mostly productive in the world. For most of his life he has grown cotton and alfalfa, but in the past five years he has transitioned much of his farm to almonds, walnuts and a few acres of pistachios. An astute businessman, he knows the global demand will continue to grow.

At the turn of the Century, he partnered with his old college roommate, Jack Crandell, on a vineyard in Australia. Jack had struck gold in the dot com boom and needed to diversify his investments. He knew Tucker had connections in Melbourne. Their investment paid off and now they produce some of the world's best Shiraz, Cabernet Sauvignon.

Life for Tucker was good. It hadn't always been that way. Growing up he worked hard on his family's small cattle and horse ranch. His dad, an officer in the Navy, retired and bought the ranch when Tucker was just a boy. Together with his two sisters, Kate and Samantha, they spent every waking hour outside feeding cows, riding horses and fixing fence.

When he wasn't driving a tractor or roping steers, he spent his afternoons in the winter and spring playing shortstop on the varsity baseball team at the high school. He had a rifle for an arm and at 6'1", 185 he had the physical tools to be a  major league prospect.

It wasn't uncommon to see two or three pro scouts at the Tiger's games. They all knew about this good looking country kid with great hands and excellent footwork. His batting was decent for high school. He was hitting .328 early in his senior season. Good, but not good enough for the next level. He spent weekends in the batting cage.

The Tigers made it to the Valley Championships and lost 4-3 to the Drillers from Bakersfield High School in the bottom of the ninth on a sacrifice fly with a man on third. Tucker went 3 for four with an RBI and a triple at to right field.

The San Francisco Giants drafted him in the sixth round and told him he would play for their Triple A farm team the Fresno Grizzles. The thought of playing near home in the Pacific Coast League was intriguing, but Tucker had other plans.

Post Six

Growing up in the Hill Country of Texas, Kaci enjoyed life spent outdoors. A tomboy of sorts, she was athletic. Her long legs seemed tan year-around. Her long blonde hair had a natural curl and was highlighted by the Llano sun. Together with her younger brother Cameron, she would ride horses until dusk on most summer days. The Llano River dissected her family's purebred Hereford ranch and they had a spot on the river's edge where they could tie their horses and swing from a rope into the refreshing waters. With summer temperatures often reaching 100 degrees and humidity that would steal your energy, the river was an oasis of the young.

Her dad, Harold, was a big shot attorney and spent most of his week in Austin lobbying for the oil barons of west Texas. On the weekends he like to ride through his cowherd and entertain guests at the ranch. Her mom, Jaylyn, was content to keep a beautiful home and care for Kaci and Cameron. She had had enough of the hectic pace of a model. In her youth she was a Ford Agency girl and traveled all over the world and appeared on every major magazine cover, including a record eight times on Vogue. She commanded six figure modeling fees and was often listed as one of People Magazine's "Most Beautiful People."

Jaylyn met Harold at a charity event when he was on a trip to New York to litigate a Canadian oil lease for one of his clients. His royal blue eyes, Texas charm and gentleman ways attracted her to him right away. For months they kept in contact and she, at his constant request, eventually visited him in Llano. She never returned to New York. Kaci was born nine months later.

Post Seven

Though never consider studious, high school came easy to Kaci. She muddled through math with mostly B's, the curiosity of science intrigued her and she picked up Spanish quickly – she conversed regularly with her dad's hired ranch hand Alejandro - but,  she excelled in English and had a way with words.

There was something about the way Mr. Jackson, the new English teacher, taught the courses. She loved the way he made words and stories come alive. The fact that his sandy brown hair was a little long, had a stubbled beard and was the youngest teacher on campus made his after lunch class even more bearable. All the coeds loved Mr. Jackson. The guys thought he was a tea-sipping hippy from UT, but they too had to admit he was pretty cool. He was also the advisor for the Yellow Jacket yearbook.

Kaci never really understood why all the boys showered her with attention. She wasn't a cheerleader and seemed to have little in common with those girls who had big hair, wore their makeup just a little too thick and their necklines way too low. She had freckles and always thought of herself as skinny with no boobs and at 5'9" too tall. Her genes had conspired to make her a late bloomer.

Her senior year, Kaci joined the staff of the yearbook at the suggestion of her best friend Katy Jo. It wasn't a hard sell considering Mr. Jackson's enthusiasm and his desire to take the yearbook to a new level of school pride. He wanted to expand the yearbook to 200 pages, big for a a high school of 500 students. To do this he knew he would have to find the funds in the community. Llano ISD offered little in the budget for this activity, football was king and had a never-ending supply of financial support. He put Kaci in charge of selling ads in the community.

Reluctant at first, Kaci's confidence grew when she sold her first ad to Emma Jean at the Lone Star Bar-B-Q Restaurant. Sure, it was a business card size ad, but it was a start.  She sold a full-page ad to Mr. Carter over at the at Llano Feed and Supply. In time, she sold ads to just about every business in town, including one to the well-known tightwad, Dr. Johnson, the only chiropractor in town. She was good and the merchants liked her soft sell technique and her attention to detail. She had found her niche. It didn't hurt that by now her genetic potential was beginning to express itself full force. Her skinny frame filled out to become a stunning young woman. Her breasts had grown full and supple, her cleavage noticeable under her v-neck t-shirts. Her 501 jeans fit nicely over her shapely hips. Her belly was almost flat except for that faint little pooch left over from adolescence. She worried these days that she was too fat.

Mr. Jackson was amazed. Each day Kaci would return to class with hand full of new ads. She enjoyed Mr. Jackson's compliments. She worked hard to please him. She felt a special bond with his free spirit and personality that was different than the other teachers on campus. He got her in a way the others did not.

Post Eight

With graduation and summer fast approaching, Tucker wasn’t sure what to do next. The truth be told, he was tired. Baseball season had taken its toll on his arm and the Giants dented his psyche. Losing the championship the way they did left a sour taste in his mouth. On one hand he wanted so much to prove he was a better player than the outcome, but on the other he was sick of the grind baseball required. With his dad pushing him hard, he had been competing at a high level ever since he was 12 years-old. A shortstop now, when he played Little League and Babe Ruth ball he was scaring the shit out of the other less athletic little boys as a pitcher. His fastball left them standing like frozen statues too afraid to swing. His nasty curve had them bailing out of the batter’s box dazed and confused. Each season he was an all-star.

Now that the season over, all he wanted to do was hang out with his buddies drinking beer and listening to Hank Williams, Jr., Jerry Jeff Walker, Marshal Tucker Band and George Thorogood cranked up loud. As the sun set on springtime Saturdays and the feeding chores done on the farm, they would gather at Harter’s Slough north of town, sit on the tailgates of their pick-up trucks, pound ice cold Budweisers and brag of their exploits with Sarah Snyder, the loosest girl in school. Tucker abstained. He never had a girlfriend in high school, much less a night with Sarah. He did, however, go to the Prom with Alyn Monroe his junior and senior year. They were good friends, more like brother and sister, except Alyn had long had a secret crush on Tucker. She never acted on her feelings and Tucker was oblivious to her desires.

Post Nine

Tucker's dad Mace was upset. Not so much that he had given his son poor advice about the draft, but more so that the scouts had blown sunshine up his ass about Tucker's prospects. It wasn't the first time he had received bad intelligence. 

The last time someone gave him less than accurate information it nearly got him killed. 'Nam, 1967. He remembers well his days in the jungles of Vietnam as an enlisted man in Admiral McDonald's Navy. Crisscrossing the rivers of the Mekong Delta on swift boats he helped keep the Viet Cong off guard or so he thought. One sweltering morning as he and the other sailors were on patrol deep into the tentacles of the brown water Delta, they were ambushed by a sneaky, quiet band of  North Vietnamese gooks the US troops had come to despise at a level deeper than the war. They had relied on communication from Rear Admiral Zumwalt's commanders indicating the enemy was in retreat along the Cambodian border.

In a fierce firefight, the sailors- not prone to the same combat engagement of the Army soldiers and the Marines - held their ground and killed eight of the nine gooks who opened fire. Two of their detail were wounded, but would survive. The ninth bastard they captured.  They were surprised at how young, scared and ill-equipped the little communist was once they got him in the boat. In some ways they felt pity on him. He was probably just a rice farmer in his village before the civil war in Indochina broke out. Even so, this little son of a bitch, could kill you in ways unimaginable to a trained military man.

Mace wasn't ready to give up on Tucker's future in baseball. He had an idea. Having served alongside officers from Annapolis, West Point and a few fly boys from the Academy, he always liked the down home common sense of the cadets commissioned out of Texas A&M University. Those fearless boys were truly "fightin' Texas Aggies." They had a bond that bordered on cultish. Anytime two Aggies would get together they were always yelling whoop and Gig'em. This irritated the shit out of the graduates of the other military institutions. 

Mace found it humorous. 

Having never attended college, he came up through the ranks of service and never had a real affinity for all the school allegiance crap. In Vietnam he became good friends with Herman Schroeder, an Aggie from Throckmorton, Texas who was a commissioned officer in the Army. Herman was a straight shooter, a great solider and a respected leader. Mace and him shared an interest in good hunting dogs, bourbon and fine cigars. They got along well in spite of their military differences and rank.

After Vietnam,  Herman went to the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. and served in a variety of capacities with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He continued to rise in rank. All the while, him and Mace had kept in touch. At the twilight of his career, now General Schroeder,  got his dream appointment- Commandant of the Texas A&M Corp Cadets. Once an Aggie, always an Aggie. 

Mace gave him a call.

What is Important? Really.

It’s been awhile since I last slowed down to make it simple. Perhaps I should do it more often. I don’t know. Time moves pretty quickly when you have things to do.

I guess now is the time to get simple again. With the holidays and all, it is appropriate to remember what is important in life. For me it isn’t fame or fortune; I seem to have enough of both somehow. I didn’t chase it, it came by working hard at something I love to do and humbly, do well. I teach. No, what is important to me is living up to a standard of being a good man; a good father. I have an example to go by. My dad.

He wasn’t perfect and didn’t live life on a pedestal. In fact he had his flaws; private and conflicted as they were, they were his to bear. I give him that. He earned them. After growing up in the Deep South and fighting his way to military honors oceans away, his demons imposed their will in ways only those in the trenches beside him would understand. He saw death and horror reserved for only the most courageous of his generation.

The example he set for me was life. Everyday. Get up, get after it and let your handshake be your guide. Do right by others even in the face of challenges and adversity that would easily grant you a pass. And, so I have. At least I have tried– though it doesn’t always seem that way. We all have times we’d appreciate a “do-over.”

What is important? To who? Well, for each of us we’ll find significance in different ways and different things. It is a personal thing really. A matter of perception and a dose of reality based on an individual set of experiences. Yours and mine will be different given the prisms of life we absorb along the way. That’s ok.

Again, what’s important? Be a good dad.

I find being a good dad easy, in a hard way. I do it alone. Sure my boys have a mom and by all counts she is a good mom. But she is not my wife. Anymore. Things got complicated and I went back to simple. Not the best scenario but it works. It has to. And that too is ok. I don’t have to like it. I have to live it. I get to be the dad I want to be even if it is cluttered with calendars highlighted with days of joy, days of grief and days of every other weekend. The boys know the drill and to their credit have found their “normal.”

The time I spend together with my boys is in some ways better, richer, deeper than what some of their friends get “living the dream” in a more traditional way.

I’m focused.

I am not distracted by the requirements of adult conversations about mortgages, work schedules and “what color should we paint the living room this time?” Instead, I pay the bills, adjust my schedule, don’t buy paintbrushes and laugh like crazy with two kids who seem to like their old man. We have a blast. Our household rules of engagement aren’t hampered by the symmetry of a woman’s touch and a color swatch. We pick up after ourselves and leave the toilet seats up.

We eat pretty good too.

In time things will change. They will grow up and I am helping them to grow out as well. They’ll have to make it on their own someday. They must learn to be independent in life if they want to be truly successful. I won’t be here forever even if I’d like to be here for a long time. The measure of my success as a dad will be the quality of men my boys become. So far, so good.

That, my friends, is important. Now and forever. Simple.

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jsv

Do Good Work

As a kid my dad always told me, "do good work." Sounds simple enough. And so it is, simple, but demanding.


I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer and there are tons of people who are smarter than me. I accept that reality. I am not bothered by it because I know, I too have been gifted with some talents. My talents may be different than others, but I choose to go with what I have been granted. It has worked out pretty well for me over time.


Why?


I do my best to do good work. Everyday I work to make a difference in the world we live in. Some days I feel accomplished, others - well, not so much. Doing good work demands that you constantly learn new skills in a dynamic and complicated world. All the while, you have to use the skills you have honed.


It is sometimes easier to rely on past experiences and enjoy the calming knowledge that you are in your comfort zone. Oh if it was that simple! I'm not wired that way I guess. Perhaps I have an attention deficit. I'm not sure, but what I am sure of is that life is a whole lot more fun out there on the edge of comfortable, routine, mundane. Kinda crazy for a "simple man" to speak of the wilderness that comes with the chaos of change.


To me good work means you lay your reputation on the line everyday. You get up and you get after it. You move forward. Let your work speak for itself. No need to hoot and holler how wonderful you are...who gives a crap? When I do good work, I know it. Others do as well. That is good enough for me. I maintain my own internal barometer of success. I also know when I have screwed up. Again, I do not need someone to tell me. Trust me, I know, because when I screw up it is usually because I have run too far, too fast. I do that from time-to-time. I get ahead of my skill set or my intellect. Sometimes my calendar.


My dad is gone now. I miss him dearly. But I know he is with me everyday. I hear him softly whispering in my ear, "son, do good work."


And so it is, good work matters. When it matters, it is simple. It is fun. In the end, it can be good.


Do good work.


jsv

A Country Drive

When you grow up on the ranch, driving trucks and pulling trailers becomes second nature.  If you’re going to be any help at all on the ranch, you have to start driving by the time you hit seventh grade.  By that age you take over your mom’s job of driving the truck while dad pushes hay off the back to the cows.  Mom could hardly wait until you got taller than the tires on the one-ton.  Now she doesn’t have to listen to your dad yell “slow down…speed up…quit jerking the clutch.”  It’s your turn to take the abuse.  You learn to drive under the pressure of a “back-seat driver.”  Dad says he is just getting you ready for the time you’ll drive your mom to town for groceries.  He says “she’ll do all the drivin’- you just turn the wheel and push the pedals.”

By the time you’re in the eight-grade you can make turns without knocking down the corner-posts.  Your dad lets you drive on the county farm roads (only from the mailboxes to the cattle guard) and your mom won’t let you near her new Suburban.  Sometimes you confidently drive down dead-end roads with the gooseneck hooked-up knowing you’ll have to back out.  No big deal.  As my dad would say, “no step for a stepper.” Whatever that means.

After a few hundred miles of dirt road driving you hardly notice you have an empty gooseneck trailer behind you.  When it is full of six-weight calves, you just drive a little slower and start hitting the brakes a little sooner.  Piece of cake.  You begin to feel pretty cocky about your driving.  Instead of having both hands on the wheel, you start to hang one arm out the window just like dad.  In time you even begin to talk on the two-way radio with some of the “other hands” on the ranch.  Someday you’ll be the foreman.

By the time you get to ninth grade and start going to high school in town, you’ve driven the tires off of the feed-truck, the bucket-loader, and the quad-runner.  The city kids at school are all jealous of your driving ability.  They still can’t master the simulated driving game on Nintendo.  They ride their bikes to school.  Your mom brings you to town in the Suburban.  You kinda wish she’d drop you off two or three blocks before you get to the school.  It’s embarrassing having your mom drop you off right in front of the flagpole every morning.

Your sophomore year approaches and you become officially eligible for your driver’s license.  It is rather anti-climatic.  Except for the written test.  Dad always just told you to “keep it between the ditches, gun it when you go through the mud, and take the wire-cutters out of your back pocket before you jump in the truck.”  Now all of a sudden, the mean looking lady at the motor vehicle place is giving you a test and asking all sorts of questions about lines and signs.  Yellow lines this, solid lines that, a red sign means what, a picture of a cow on a sign is universal for blah, blah, blah.  Who knows?  Who cares?  You don’t care about the speed limit in a commercial loading zone.  At 16 years-old you simply want to roll the windows down, rev the gas and feel the wind blow through your hair.  Freedom is what you seek, not answers to a stupid test.

When you overcome the written test and you have your license in hand the world changes.  You spend every waking minute thinking about getting a new vehicle.  Your fantasy is owning a three-quarter ton, club-cab truck with a Detroit diesel powerstroke engine, iPod jack and a retractable gooseneck hitch installed by the dealer.  Your reality is getting the 1974 GMC half-ton with a flatbed and a headache rack your dad bought at the last farm dispersal auction over in Waller County.  The paint is faded, the seat has a big hole in the driver’s side, and the blinker switch is a Phillips head screwdriver sticking out of the steering column.  But, you don’t care because it’s yours!

Your new symbol of freedom runs a little rough, but Earl the mechanic at the John Deere dealership, says he’ll help you get it running “smooth as a top.”  Earl’s a good man.  He grew up working for your dad until the bottom fell out of the bean pit, the hog market and the cattle futures all in the same year.  After that he had to get a new job in town, but still thinks of you as his little brother.  He loves your dad and was really the one who taught you how to drive.  And, much to mom’s dismay he was the one who gave you that first pinch of snuff.

Growing up on the ranch teaches you a lot about being a driver in life.  You learn to press the gas and let out the clutch all at the same time.  You learn how to shift gears when the load gets heavy.  You learn that what you drive says a lot about who you are and what you value.  You learn that you care more for people than a pile of metal and rubber.  And, you know you can back a gooseneck down a ditch bank and never turn your head.  You use your mirrors of experience to get you where you need to go.  Keep on truckin’.