Tag Archives: Varian Ranch

I’ve just got to get out of this place: A Memoir

Have you ever wondered what life before the day of your birth was like?
Well I experienced it once and it’s all coming back to me now. My beginning started in a cave and I was cared for by my mother who was very attentive to my every need and what comes to mind was how safe and secure I felt. My new apartment was located in my mother’s womb and at first it was very spacious except that I was tethered to her by a piece of rope which was rather annoying, as any self respecting cowboy to be knows it should have been tied around my neck with a Bowline knot. That way you can’t choke but my mother had other plans and she stuck the dammed thing to my belly which was quite humiliating for a cowboy to be. My tie rope was pretty long and from time to time I would get tangled up but with a few twists and turns I learned that I could free myself quite easily so it was a solvable problem. My real issue was fast becoming wiggle room and as each week came and went my once spacious digs got more uncomfortable and it became self evident that I would soon have to find new quarters. I was growing like a weed and by the ninth month I had used up every last inch of space and I was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic (it’s probably why I don’t like to ride in elevators today). I told my mother that I had had enough and I was getting out of this overcrowded dump. I started kicking and that’s when I felt something break which started a lifetime of “dam it you broke my favorite vase”, “how could you be so careless you broke my 2nd favorite vase”, “you’re like a bull in a china closet” and “now you’ve really done it, my third favorite vase is gone”.  My mother sure had a lot of vases. Anyway back to that breaking noise I heard, well at the same time there appeared before me a tunnel. I didn’t see any exit sign on it and the opening looked awfully small but I was desperate to get out of this place and much to my surprise, I felt my first case of rejection as my mother told my father that she wanted me out of her house, the sooner the better. Well the next hour was pretty scary as my father was trying to go as fast on the land as the airplanes he flew in the sky. I was bumping around inside my cage like a cork on white water when my mother started to yell four letter words which I didn’t expect to come from a proper English lady. Well we made it to the San Luis Obispo, California General Hospital in time to hurry up and wait. I had grown up to be a big walloper over nine pounds and at seeing the opening in front of me I thought, “This is not possible”! But mom was determined. She wanted me out of her nest right now. So she started pushing and shoving and it seemed to me the polite thing to do was to help out. Well it was slicker than Goose Grease in here and there was no place that I could get traction so I wasn’t much help.
About that time a new guy arrived on the scene and he started yelling “push!” and my mother would push then would yell out new four letter words and I would scoot a little farther up the tunnel. Then it happened. There appeared a light from above. When I was just beginning to see the light, that fellow that kept yelling push, well he grabbed me by the head and started tugging and out I came goose grease and all.
Now that’s not the end of this story. He then proceeds to grab me by the ankles and hang me upside-down and give me a whack across my back, made me cry, well he still wasn’t satisfied that I had made him get up in the middle of night so he asked a big lady standing next to him if she had any scissors and sure enough she did. Well this guy grabs those scissors and in the blink of an eye he cut off my tie rope and then he had the nerve to doll up my dinger and didn’t even ask my permission which I thought was real rude of him. By now I was getting real tired but we still had paperwork to do. First they tagged me then they foot printed me, then more paperwork which humans can’t seem to live without. But out of it all I got a certificate that said I entered this world on September 7,1935. This is how I remember it so don’t confuse me with facts.
See Ya
Jack
P.S.
I’m back and I can’t blame my iPad for my blog site going blank. But several months ago I came down with a case of “The Best of Intentions” because my “resolve” kept getting mired in a mud puddle of laziness. Well I’ve washed off the laziness and I am now committed with a new SPIRIT to start blogging again about anything and everything. I guess what ever happens to bubble to the surface of the old brain!

Waiting for the Endorphin to Kick In

Hi all,

Happy Thanksgiving.  My thoughts today for some unknown reason are not of our late afternoon feast where we disembody a turkey so we can add girth to our bodies, but rather when will my endorphins kick in and will I know it when they really do?

On my iPhone there is an App that is called Map My Hike.  I thought I would never end up inhabiting some of the same space that  our present day Millennials do, but believe me I haven’t gone so far as to wear one of those giant watches that will tell you all you might want to know about how well the old body is functioning.  At my age I will cast my lot with the old motto  “ignorance is bliss.”

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My iPhone startles me into the here-and-now, with the order Begin Workout.  I’ve got our 6 cow dogs all exited to get going but I wonder if they are a little perplexed as to when I traded my horse Fuzz for hiking poles?  I’ve decided to leave my coat at home so I won’t have any extra weight to carry.  And also it could give me reason to “weanie out” and  cut my hike short if I might possibly feel the slightest bit of discomfort.

I have to remind myself that there are two parts to today’s hike.  One is to keep mind and body from wearing a hole in my favorite recliner chair and the other is keep up the search for those elusive endorphins.  Sally, that’s the name I have given to the iPhone lady that startles me every time I pass a mile post.  Well, I have just been startled by Sally telling me I have put 1 mile behind me.  And what a mile it was, the wind was blowing enough to let the sissy side of me say “wish I had my coat” and just maybe this is reason enough to give up my search for those elusive endorphins and settle for my recliner.

Not on your life you “wimp!”  I’ll be off this windy ridge in a few more minutes and our Pine Canyon Lake will come into view.  It’s where I can sit a spell and count the ducks that use the lake as a resting place before they journey farther on to the South.  Here I am waiting for my endorphins to kick in when the real joy is in marveling at Mother Nature’s handy work.  I wonder about all these ducks that have just flown from Canada and Alaska to our lake.  Do you suppose they found their endorphins?

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I’m just about home now and Sally rings her bell and announces that I have just passed mile post 3 and my recliner is waiting in the living room.  I not sure if a peaceful easy feeling and a comfortable smile on my face spells endorphin but it’s close.   I hear the dinner bell ringing at our daughter’s house; it’s time to take in more calories than I used to fuel my hike.

It’s now Friday morning and my waistline has put on an inch or two. My phone rings and son John is on the other end. “What’s up John? Barbara and I and two of your granddaughters, Kathryn and Kayla, are going hiking want to go?”
“Where are you going to hike?” John says.  “On a part of the ranch you can only get too by walking?”
That intrigued me as I’m sure that I’ve ridden a horseback over every other acre on the V6.

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My, my , my, the views are absolutely spectacular as are my companions.  Who could ask for more?  The hike according to Sally was 3 miles again.  The value to my joyful place is immeasurable. Getting my 2nd wind sure feels good (endorphins), but plays second fiddle to a very satisfying Thanksgiving day and a radiant Friday.
See Ya
Jack

There Are Raccoons in My House

Those lovable little rascals have a way of knowing when you’re gone, leaving your house free for them to go exploring.  Well, I think our government is much like a pack of raccoons that are always into mischief.  While our friend the raccoon is busy looking in the refrigerator, opening all the cupboards, finding and snacking on whatever he can.  The end result is similar to a bull in a China closet.

Now, enter our government.  They have a different way of opening my front door and inviting themselves in.  They do it with our U.S. census that the constitution says that all the government need do is to get a head count.  The I.R.S. not only  wants your dollars, but there’s much to be learned in the way our tax forms are constructed. Then come all your regulatory agencies each with their own kind of information to collect.

We’re down to: “How is Uncle Sam going to save me from all the poor choices I’ve made?”  First of all, you have to have a problem. That means we need an agency full of bureaucrats to define the problem then do what they were hired to do, which is write regulations that may help and may not.

My favorite problem that Uncle Sam says he will fix for me is all that pesky rain that falls from the sky.  They quite correctly determined after many studies and conferences that it was unlikely that they could control the flow of rainfall from a storm cloud.  But, after it hit the ground, a rain drop is fair game to be regulated, to be charged a fee for crossing a state line and taxed if Mr. Drop finds himself stopped in a government  reservoir.

The government agency that was lucky enough to win this very sought after boondoggle was the Environmental Protection Agency. I’m sure that all the top bureaucrats in government wished they could have been the chosen one as the potential for legions of workers at all levels to put Mr. Drop where he belongs for the greater good.  So, as long as rain still falls from clouds and regulators maintain their zeal to regulate, this agency can have eternal life. Wouldn’t you know that the EPA has picked a name that nobody can be against: The Clean Water Act.  This act dictates that the waters of our country be restored and maintained and their chemical, physical and biological properties be upheld.  Again, who could be against cool clear water?  So how far do you carry a mandate like this?  After attending one of EPA’s hearings and reading extensively about the act, I’ve come to the conclusion that the EPA feels that everybody of water from the smallest puddle to every blue line stream on a topographical map is included in the Act.

What troubles me the most about government at all levels today is the total lack of trust that land owners could possibly also want to do what’s right.  I can’t stand this idea that regulations, to be just, must paint all stewards of the land with the same brush that we paint the bad apple with.  What we should be doing is rewarding those that are “slowing down water” as Mother Nature does.

A reward system would have a budget to operate with for pennies on the dollar compared to bureaucrats in Washington D.C.
“TRUST ME,” I say and we will all win.  Do I think that this is a realistic solution?  Yes.  Do I think this approach could be adopted?  I think it would be marked dead on arrival at the EPA.
See Ya
Jack

The First Step is Always the Hardest

Hank Williams was a famous singer/song-writer back in the 1940s and ’50s.  If the lyrics of one particular song fit your lifestyle then this blog is probably not for you.   One of the the stanzas goes like this: “live hard, die young and have a beautiful memory.”

I translate this to mean in today’s world: “get a beer, dive (the dangerous part) for the couch, turn on the TV with the remote, and watch a football game.”  For you ladies, the drill is much the same, only you might want to watch The Ellen Show.  Now, at the end of the day whatever hour that is, if you can sit upright on your couch and smugly say “what a great day, who could want for more,” then this very lopsided view of mine on how to have a beautiful day is most assuredly not for you.

I subscribe weekly to Time Magazine.  Quite often, their pages are full of words that make me grind my teeth and salivate at the absurdity of what some left wing journalists has written to solve each our individual or our country’s or the world’s problems.  I think he or she dreamed their gibberish up while diving for the couch!

But this article that made the front page of Time was about a miracle cure for what ever ails us.  First, it’s necessary to pay homage to the legal profession by stating: don’t do this at home.  Don’t pour all your drugs down the drain.  Don’t quit drinking that evening bottle of wine.  Don’t leave the couch.  So what is this miraculous cure?  It’s called EXERCISE.

What gives me the right to crow about this?  Well, I’m into the early years of my 8th decade on earth, and still standing upright on the ground.  I take comfort in likening my body to and old car.  You have to put gas in the tank.  My engine runs best on Regular.  Premium grade gives me a sugar high.  I’m not much on having my body all bright and shiny as it takes too much of my time doing something that’s only going to get dirty again.  Although, I do like a clean windshield so I can see where I’m going, in life, that is.

Now, finally, I’m going straight to the point of all these metaphors.

Take on a little nourishment, then, get off your ass, off the couch, out of the shade, into the light of day and shake your booty.  It’s called exercise.  Let it lead you to the sunny side of the street.
See Ya
Jack

Melding Reality and Perception

Is this much ado about nothing?  Well, I happen to think that the citizens of this wacko land spend way to much time in the province of perception and way to little in the land of fact.

I once wrote a blog about a school  administrator who must have perceived  that our children of tag-playing-age are so delicate that the slightest sight of a bloody nose is worthy of a trip to the local emergency room.  What about the reality that children need exercise?  They need to laugh and giggle, and they especially don’t need some administrator who is more afraid of possible criticism that he or she might sustain than the proven benefits of  playing TAG! Reality takes a hit; score one for perception.

I love horses and dogs but, like me, they are going to die one day.   Maybe those of us who have had a chance at life need to step aside and allow a new generation their chance to shine.  When is that time?  Well, for me it’s when there’s no quality left– only pain and infringing on others.  The horse or dog  will suffer the ravages of time and when their lives have been well lived, reality tells those that are truly compassionate it’s time to let them go.  This is where reality takes another hit.  In the case of the horse, by law we have closed all the abattoirs in the United States by just not funding U.S.D.A. inspectors ensuring that the harvesting of the horse is both humane and sanitary.  Instead, most old horses are sent to Mexico or Canada to meet a very uncertain end.  The people and the legislators that think they’re doing something wonderful should hang their heads in shame.  The same goes for those of us that keep others among us from passing because of our advancements in technology that allow the narcissistic people that legislate this technology to prolong our lives even when the quality of this life is reduced to a beating heart and lungs that go in and out.

Reality has to win at least one time, giving me hope that 2+2 still = 4.
See Ya
Jack

Living on the Bright Side, Just for Fun

There are so many people walking around almost stepping on their lower lip and wearing a look that says l’m not very happy.  When I get to talking to one of these sad sacks their outlook on life is pretty bleak.  For a moment, I want to give into my merciful side and give these folks an excuse.  It wasn’t their fault to be in a bad gene pool that gave them directions to the “it’s not my fault” trap.  This is where people go that have given their pursuit of happiness away to a friend, or enemy, a situation, bad luck, the weather, you-name-it. Their happiness is never in their control.  Happiness for these people is like trying to catch a falling star: not totally impossible, there is a chance.  Because of this ray of hope  I don’t believe people should be relegated to the junk heap of “it’s not my fault” with no chance to escape.  What I do believe is that no matter how difficult change may be, change is possible for each of us.  We have the right to make choices.  If you embrace the good ones and try to side step most of the bad ones, you will find yourself where hope, love and laughter,   self-esteem, and all the other words that define happiness  resides.
See Ya
Jack

Free, Free at Last

I think Dr. Martin Luther King uttered those words.   My use of these stirring words are trivial to say the least when you hear what I have been freed from.

It all fell into place this 5th day of May 2013.   Zee and I traveled to Paso Robles today to meet a new intern from France.  Theo arrived by bus from San Francisco and will be riding some of our young horses for the next several months.  As we entered town on Spring Street I thought we should be passing  a vacant grocery store, but much to my surprise there was a dream being brought to reality.  Some fellow was going to put his sweat and his riches on the line to prove that he had a better way to sell groceries than the last guy who closed up shop. That’s what I like about capitalism, when for whatever reason somebody throws in the towel there’s always someone willing to pick up the towel and reinvent it.  We just have to be careful that government which is usually a day late and a dollar short doesn’t enact some law or regulation that kills a new idea before it’s able to walk.  A new sign by the edge of Spring Street announces a grand opening will take place on June 12 for Smart and Final grocery stores who I hope has invented a better mouse trap to sell groceries.

But, I’m on my way to Walmart.  Upon entering this wall to wall stuff with some rubies among the rubble, I zigged and zagged through this  obstacle course to the pet food section.  I found myself standing there disappointed that the shelf space for Old Roy’s High Performance  Dog Food was empty.  How am I going to once again tell my dogs Bob, Tilly, Spider and Bear that Walmart’s inability to keep their shelves stocked, will force them to dine on brand X?  YUCK.  In fact, I was told by a person who stocked the dog food section that they would no longer carry their very own brand of  high performance in a bag.

Smart and Final here I come! Here’s to hoping that you have carts with round wheels that will travel aisles unfettered with stuff and signs to direct me to a dog food that Bob and company will love.  For  tee shirts and shorts that I need on occasion I think I will give Target a try.  Free, Free at Last.
See Ya
Jack
P.S. Update: it’s August 24, 2016.  Smart and Final did indeed invent a better mouse trap as this now 3 year-old store has been a success since it opened for business where you can fill the back seat of your car with a handful goodies or a truck load of canned spinach
to last a life time.  But, I still have to go to Big Wally to buy their high performance dog food as Bob and company said they would strike if I tried to pawn off some other brand on them.  So every couple of weeks you will find me with a shopping cart that is sure to have at least 1 square wheel trudging through Wally’s obstacle course knowing full well that they only thing keeping this mega store alive is their high performance dog food.

6 o’clock News

I was watching the 6 o’clock evening news a couple of nights ago. The news anchors were saying that the Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant has a desalinization facility that runs at only 40% capacity.  They also pointed out that the people of San Luis Obispo county need more water.  The excess 60% could go to a very thirsty county.  Let’s suppose that this amount of water could take care of our needs for five years, or new technology could produce an inexhaustible supply of the wet stuff.
Damn, I’ve already dated myself; it’s not San Luis Obispo anymore.  It’s SLO.  Like SLOW, but that’s not what’s happening.  The kind of slow that is happening is the kind that out strips our resources, our native beauty, our quality of life, and you can add in a little bumper to bumper traffic to remind the many where they just came from.
More  water makes for more growth… but is it sustainable?  With a finite amount of dry ground on the surface of our planet, and if global change is for real, then we can expect rising oceans.  Subtract a few beach front acres from our tax rolls and maybe a city like New Orleans will submerge below an ocean wave.  I know what I’m espousing is only given credence in the land of Polly-Anna, but I firmly believe that we must start debating a sustainable lifestyle where our population does not constantly expand, but remains static.  Static populations are the rule for every other living thing.  When they overwhelm their resource base, Motheer Nature reduces their numbers back to a sustainable level.  And when she does that, it’s usually not very pretty.  So this time around we need to include ourselves in the discussion for a sustainable planet. Because if we leave ourselves out of the equation, there can be no solutions that are workable.
See Ya
Jack

Never a Dull Moment

Spring time at the V6 is really busy with our 3 cattle drives in April and May, gathering and pregnancy testing 250  first calf heifers, and receiving 280 head of Mexican cattle to brand and vaccinate.  Add in the fact that we are in the middle of getting 75 acres ready to plant 11,000 Pistachios trees on, and that’s a full schedule.  However, everything had to take a backseat to the events that unfolded this evening.

Zee and I helped our son John and his wife Barb put on a spur of the moment cattle drive.  This worked for me because I was still about 80 head short of cattle.  Zee and I went along to help out and gather some of our missing cattle.  This drive had 14 guests and family wranglers.

We started on a Tuesday and rode about six hours gathering and riding to our Mustang Camp where we would all stay Tuesday and Wednesday night.  Wednesday was another pretty long day riding for seven hours.  By Thursday, five of our guest had worn their fannies to the bone, so we gave them a ride back to our headquarters in a pickup.  That left five extra horses to lead home.  What we normally do is put them through a certain gate that lets them travel about 6 miles to home.  Well, their leader’s sense of direction must have been off as he led his four friends into a dead end brush alley that engulfed them so tightly that they could not go forward or turn around.  Friday morning arrived and no horses standing at the gate so Zee and I decided to go looking.  No luck but we were sure that by afternoon they would be waiting at our gate. Late afternoon came and went.  Son John volunteered to go back to where they were last seen and track them on foot.  I would wait 15 minutes and then drive to Mine Mountain trail and meet John.

No John in sight, but his wife Barb arrives to meet me with a cell phone message from John to meet at Catfish Camp.  I have my 6 horse trailer in tow,  so off we go to get John and the horses at Catfish Camp.  We arrive to a camp with no John and no horses so we wait and wait some more.  Finally, we decide to go look around and see if he came down a different part of the mountain.  No luck.   Barb and I start to really worry is John is hurt.  Where could he be? This being a no cellphone service area, we decide that we need to go back to where Barb parked her side by side utility vehicle and put the search into full gear.

As we round the last bend in the road and the side by side comes into view, there stands John with one horse in tow.  Barb’s face goes from the look of dread to joy.  John’s cell phone had been dead the whole time.  He told us that the other four horses got away because he only had one halter.  He said that they looked like they were headed back to Mustang Camp.  We load the one horse in our trailer and head to Mustang Camp where we had just spent the last three days.  It’s just about dark now and as the corrals come into view, there stand four horses waiting to get into their pen.  I can’t be mad anymore because all’s well that ends well. 
See Ya
Jack

What a Wonderful Life, Maybe

The eighth performance of the National High School Rodeo Association has just finished and Zee and I have chosen to linger a while in the grandstand to let the crowd move out.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch a gate swing open that leads into the arena were the bull riding has just finished.  Suddenly, into the arena runs all the bucking horses that had just done their best to dislodge future bronc riders– and the not-so dedicated ones that are thinking “I might want to take up another sport.”  The picture that I’ve attached to this story shows the wonderful condition that the stock contractor who owns these horses keeps them in.  I watched as this band of about 100 got  some exercise.  They trotted and galloped for a little while, then broke into a walk.  You could plainly see that this was a happy lot.

These horses are born to buck, much like Thoroughbreds are bred to run, and cow horses make their living working around cattle, and work horses find a place when pulling a plow or wagon.   All horses wear man’s fingerprint in the selection of the genetic traits that will make up our various breeds.  With their D.N.A. code directing them, they can go do what they do best .

Hoses are a gregarious lot that find comfort in numbers.  If left to roam, they will travel several miles a day grazing, playing and satisfying their curiosity as to what’s over the next hill.  Bucking horses are usually kept in big pastures free to eat and roam.  Now, let’s take a look at the bucking horses’ cousins that live in our towns and cities, housed in box stalls by the  thousand.  Many will spend their entire lives in these stalls never free to roam.  If these stalls were used for humans, we would call it a prison cell.  It is just as much a prison for my friend the horse where she must waste away the years being treated as a toy.  She is ether overfed or underfed, but boredom and loneliness soon cause aberrant behavior that shows itself with maladies like cribbing, weaving, and pawing.  When people enter their prison stall you may be greeted with pinned  ears and a hostile eye showing their contempt for the way they have to live their lives.

You mean to tell me that Mr Bucking Horse gets only 8 seconds to show his or her stuff before being sent back with their friends to maybe discuss how they threw that young whippersnapper to the ground?  What about the flank strap that they wear?  Well first, it’s lined with sheepskin.  It’s designed to tickle the same as when someone would tickle the bottom of your foot and you squirmed and laughed.  So what’s left?  The question becomes, if you were a horse where would you like to call “home?”
See Ya
Jack