The rattle of horse trailers coming down the county road, pickup doors slamming, and hoofbeats as the crew lines out for roundup. It sounds like branding day.
We had visitors from Texas, and the grandsons gave up their beds for company, so last Friday night I had six teenaged boys in my dormitory style basement. One grandson told me that he’d try to keep his buddies quiet when they came in, but I said no worry, I’ve lived through a lot of teenagers. Amazingly, they were at the house by 9 and I barely heard a peep after that, though they said they didn’t shut down for a couple more hours. All appeared in the kitchen for a quick pre-sunrise breakfast, and they were out the door before 6, but not without a word of thanks to granny. Our community is blessed with a bunch of hard working, polite, youngsters.
Times have changed, as time will do. Years back, the neighbor women all converged in kitchens on branding day to help with meal preparation. When women began to put on spurs and pick up ropes, any able-bodied person deserted the kitchen for the pens. Meals are planned to cook while work is done, with only a couple of grannies left to stir an occasional pot and set up table ware, or rock whatever new baby is left at the house.
No new babies this year, so it was just me and one neighbor who sat sharing memories of our parents, our kids’ growing up years, and peeking across the meadow occasionally to gauge how much longer before the crew would head in for refreshments and rest.
One of my sons brought a family from Georgia who came to be present at his branding the next day, so there was, as always, a concern for making sure no one was in the wrong place and got injured. We consider ourselves lucky when nobody gets hauled off to the medicine man.
Branding is hard, dirty, dangerous work. We still drag to the fire in our neighborhood, although a few people have changed over to mechanical assistance that requires fewer people and less mouths to feed.
I remember vaccinating calves at a neighbor’s branding when some of my grandchildren, who were toddlers, wanted to help. Their mom was working her town job, so my son and I took the kids along. I made one sit on the fence where I could see her, and let the other one hang onto my belt loop as I went around with the needle. They had to take turns, “helping,” so we switched off every now and then with dire warnings of having to sit in the pickup if they didn’t mind. Both of those girls are married now, and next year their babies will be the ones left at the house.
Branding is also known as the season of lost coats. It’s generally chilly when the work begins, but coats get discarded in the darndest places as the day goes on. I used to spend weeks trying to ascertain the owners of strays; sometimes successful; just as often, not. Once, I went to a branding where another helper was wearing a coat I had been missing for a year. I didn’t reclaim it. After all, I was wearing one of the strays from the previous branding season.