Here’s an excerpt from my book Ground Tied; copyright 2003. It’s an ode to the joys and frustrations of spring and summer on the ranch.
Hayin’ Help
Springtime in the Sandhills is the sweetest time of year
With meadow grasses wavin’ and blackbirds callin’ clear.
The scent of rain and clover comes a driftin’ down the breeze
And there’s lazy singin’ katydids in every grove of trees.
Prickly Pear and Prairie Candlesticks decorate the hills,
Sandstone champagne splashes from gently turnin’ mills.
Sorta makes a body ponder on the blessin’s that he’s got
From choosin’ to stay with the land, and live a cowman’s lot.
‘Purt near seems that I’ve expired and found that pearly gate;
Then comes July, and I remember a thing I purely hate.
Hayin’ time.
It ain’t long hours in the sun that turns my disposition mean,
But those spent tinkerin’ and poundin’ on some dad-blamed machine.
It’s managed to convince me that the good old days sure were,
When cowboys made a livin’ with just a saddle horse and spur.
‘Cause if you can’t do it horseback, it likely don’t need done,
But astride a mount named John, or Allis, the modern west is won.
Instead of sorrel, dun, or pinto, sure footed, sleek and lean
They’re rusty red, or orange, or some faded shade of green!
Which wouldn’t be no problem, if they’d just one time up and run,
But no. It’s a race between the parts man, the rain clouds and the sun.
And the banker.
See, the market bottomed out last week and we’re barely makin’ do,
But you know that in this cow business, hard times are nothin’ new.
And no matter what the troubles, they surely could be bigger.
Still, in times of contemplation, there’s things I just can’t figure.
Like, if I need to bale on Sunday, I can count on breakin’ down
And what I need is non-existent at every dealer in our town.
‘Cause they quit that model in the fifties, don’t make parts anymore.
No call, ‘cept from salvage yards, or some rancher that’s plumb poor.
The neighbor down the valley seems to trade up every year.
Stuff layin’ in his iron pile beats what we’re usin’ here.
He ain’t broke down all season.
If the Lord himself was hayin’ He’d hire on at Charlie’s place!
And lately, I been wonderin’ if that already ain’t the case.
Though I converse with Him some reg’lar, and went to church last year,
The evidence is plain that it’s the devil hayin’ here.