Absolutely, totally, without a doubt, nonpolitical
Mar 11, 2014 23:17:37 #
Thats not a sheep
Back in the 1940s at the very advanced age of seven, I along with several of my closest friends and partners in minor local disturbances considered yours truly to be the greatest bull rider east of the Arkansas River and west of oh say Charleston, which is also in Arkansas. That must cover at least 20 miles.
I had obtained this distinction as the worlds greatest bull rider by successfully riding our two milk cows not once, but several times over the course of that summer. Milk cows may not be Brahma bulls but it was the only substitute I could come up with and riding those two cows was a dangerous undertaking. It wasnt exactly dangerous because of the cows disposition. There probably werent any two more docile animals in the world. It was more a matter of dad telling me to stay off the cows. They were, after all, milk cows and riding them did something to the milk production. At least thats the lecture I got several times over the course of my short life to that point and according to dad, if I kept doing some of the things Id been doing he was going to make sure I didnt get to see the ripe old age of eight.
In the small Arkansas town where I grew up one of the basic forms of entertainment was the quarterly town rodeo. Now in a town of about 1,200 souls counting dogs, cats, and the occasional white tail deer that wondered into town, a rodeo held once every three month was a big deal. Picnic lunches were brought as well as a barbeque that seemed to be ever present at any town function. Ive forgotten who did the barbeque but it was probably the VFW since my dad seemed to be one of the main cooks at the thing. The men of course had their adult beverages served in a quasi-inconspicuous manner since our town was supposed to be dry or at least thats what the various churches had ordained. It was funny though, the same men preaching the evils of demon rum on Sunday were the same fellows slipping into the shed where bootleg booze was sold by of all people, our town sheriff. To someone reading this and not from a small southern town it may sound goofy but the process worked in a way. The procedure kept the town free of dirt floor saloons and the various evils that go along with them and the men could go to church on Sunday with a clear conscience even if some had a bit of a hangover. Yes sir and they could boast that unlike some of the towns to our north and west, our town was dry.
The stock for the rodeo was simply rounded up from the numerous farms and ranches in the area and was nothing more than some of the wilder animals. Most of the stock was really wild but, some were so old the glue factory was their next stop. Participants of the human kind came from the local townsfolk, but it was usually the same guys every time. There were always broken bones or dislocated shoulders, knees, backs, etc., etc. at these events but that didnt seem to stop or even slow the frequency of participation by the same guys rodeo after rodeo.
There was one part of the rodeo that everyone seemed to enjoy more than any other and that was the kids event. The kid event was for guys in the seven to ten year old group and it usually involved riding sheep with an occasional bull calf thrown in when there werent enough sheep to go around. There was a five dollar prize for the kid with the longest ride unless the sheep or calf just walked out into the ring and then made a circle or two around with the kid trying to get it to do something. In the case of that happening the judges gave the kid a chance to pick another ride or just call it quits. Usually you got to select the sheep or calf you wanted to ride by going to the stock pen and pointing out the one you wanted.
I had watched a few of the rodeos without riding while I analyzed the whole thing. I wasnt the brightest penny in the roll, my dad along with half the town plus my third grade teacher had told me that, but I wasnt stupid either. There might be a chance of getting killed so caution was in order when it came to animals other than our two cows. I wasnt exactly a coward either and to illustrate let me relate one of the games me and the gang had invented.
There was a creek about a quarter of a mile from the house and we would select a tree that looked big enough to hold one of us in the top but small enough that we could tie a rope on and pull it down like a bow. The object was to get in the top of the tree with it pulled backwards and tied off. Once we were ready we gave the signal and one of the guys cut the rope and hopefully we would be flung across the creek into an open area. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didnt but it worked often enough to make it worth the risk and so far no one had been killed or even maimed for life. Most of the families had several other children anyway so we were well not exactly throw a ways but we were probably expendable. As far as I was concerned our family did have one throw a way even if there was only two of us. I had this human hairball of a brother who I thought would make a perfect cannon ball but I could never find the right tree for him to ride. The tree I was looking for was one that would fling that cow patty clear out of the county or into the Arkansas River, whichever was further. At nearly four years old he was becoming a real pain and I was sure as he grew older, if he managed to survive that long, he was going to get even worse. He hadnt actually acquired the nick name cow patty at this point; he picked up that name the following summer when he became a moving target.
We had a pasture where we kept our two cows and a neighbor kept three cows there also. Cows do a couple of things really well. They give lots of milk while eating tons of grass and they deposit large quantities of cow manure in the form of disks that look sort of like a flying saucer.
In the hot sun of an Arkansas summer these manure piles bake a hard crust on the outside but remain soft on the inside. You can sail the heck out of them, which me and the guys had learned to do with great accuracy. You have to remember, this is Arkansas in the 40s and there simply wasnt a lot going on for kids to do so the sport of slinging cow manure seemed a good way to stay out of trouble well sort of.
One day me and the guys were slinging cow patties at a large bolder in the pasture when the human hairball and his only friend, String Bean Foley made an appearance at the north end of the pasture and began walking toward our end. I dont remember if I sailed the first cow patty at them or maybe String Beans brother, Wayne, did or it could have been Sam or Larry Paul but someone chunked one and it nearly hit the Bean. The hairball and String Bean began running across in front of us and the game was on. As I said before, we had developed some proficiency and accuracy with those cow patties and it wasnt long before the hairball and String Bean were pretty well covered in wet, sticky, smelly cow manure.
It was quite a game and was a lot of fun until I got home a few hours later. Apparently, mom and dad didnt think the game was all that great accuracy or no accuracy. By the time dad finished with me if it had been Christmas Santa could have used my behind to guide his sleigh and Rudolph could have stayed home. So thats how the cow patty got his nickname and I got to sleep on my stomach for a couple of nights.
Now lets get back to the rodeo and my decision to become a sports legend.
Having determined that with my experience as the greatest bull rider east of the Arkansas River and west of Charleston, I should be able to handle any critter with fuzzy hair. I mean after all, what the heck was a sheep to the greatest bull rider east of the Arkansas River and west of Charleston.
So with great conviction I told my dad I had decided to ride that Saturday. I watched as my dads chest visibly expanded about three sizes. I had heard that in his day he had been quite a bare back bronc rider but all those years in the coal mines and the fact that he was well into his fortys by then, the rodeo was out for him, but here I was about to take up where my old pop had left off. The pride on dads face was all I needed to dispel any further qualms I had about becoming the next worlds champion sheep rider. I marched off to see Mr. Johnson to register and pick out my furry ride.
At the stock pen I looked over a really small assortment of sheep and calves plus this one monster of a bull calf and decided on a small sheep that looked like I could probably pick it up and carry it off under my arm. I figured if things didnt turn out as I planned when we came out of the chute I could just put my feet down and let the sheep run out from under me. A little embarrassing for sure but Id still be alive and have all my teeth. Mr. Johnson kept pointing out that large bull calf that looked like a young version of Mr. Lewis prize bull. He wanted me to ride it and seemed to think because no one had picked that beast I should be the kid to get killed by it. Well that wasnt going to happen and I let Mr. Johnson know which of the furry little critters I had decided on being my ride into the history books. With my selection made I wondered back to join up with the guys, let them know I was about to become the worlds greatest wild animal rider, and watch some more rodeo.
In Virginia and probably any other civilized state in the union there is a certain riding attire worn when you crawl on the back of some animal, usually a horse. However, in my little town in northwest Arkansas, when youre seven years old your riding attire consist of a pair of blue jean overalls with the legs cut off about thigh high. The overalls dont come cut off thigh high they get that way because youve worn the knees out once and the patches over the holes twice so mom finally gives up and just cuts them off thigh high. The fanciest things on those overalls were the wire buckles on the shoulder straps. Boots may be the fashion footwear of the Virginia set but a pair of US Keds tennis shoes with holes nearly worn completely through the bottoms are what pass for the footwear of a seven year old sports legend in Arkansas. Today I suppose a kid would be required by some federal or state law to wear an OSHA approved helmet with wire face guard, knee and elbow pads, steel toed shoes, and a chest protector capable of stopping a .357 magnum round from twenty paces. Maybe kids today are just worth more as a standard deduction on the income tax form than we were back then.
So I was definitely dressed for my ride into the history books and the announcer had just called for the kids to assemble for our event. I was not the least bit apprehensive (thats grown up talk for scared enough to cause a dark spot in the front of my cut off overalls) because Ive picked out the smallest sheep in the pen. I watch three kids who must have been from some other town because I didnt know who they were ride and only one managed to stay on for the full eight seconds. Suddenly I heard Mr. Johnson calling my name and I headed to the chute and my ride into history. When I got there I noticed to my horror, that isnt a sheep thats that damned calf that looks like a miniature bull and not that miniature either. There must have been a dozen or more people standing around and as they saw me walking toward the chute they begin applauding and who is in the front leading the cheering mob but my own father. A number of thoughts ran through my mind with the leading candidate being that it is only a little over a mile to my house and if I take off at a dead run I can probably make it there before anyone catches me, crawl under the house, and not come out until Im a little older - - - like maybe 35. If only dad wasnt there but he is and Ive got to go through with this. Ill bet this is dads way of getting back at me for the milking incident but I was only four then and surely he hasnt held a grudge for three years or has he?
I climbed up the side of the chute and threw one leg over the beast from hells back. He didnt move but he did look around and I got the distinct feeling the look in his blood shot eyes was saying, Im going to stomp a mud hole in you kid. One of the town toughs, a fellow about twenty or so was holding up the end of the rope that went around the calfs belly and he was asking me which hand I wanted to use. I wanted to use both hands and I didnt want to hold a rope either, I wanted something like a nail gun to put me permanently on that calfs back. I finally decided I could probably do without my left hand and arm since Im right handed and I think I said Id use my left hand. Or I may have just held up my left hand since I had no saliva in my mouth, bailed cotton has more moisture in it than I had in my mouth about then so there wasnt a lot of talking being done by me.
Now this fellow leans down by my ear and whispers, How bad do you want to stay on this calf kid? I wanted to scream, I dont want to be on the damned thing at all!!! but with dad still there I told him I wanted it pretty badly. Instead of handing me the end of the rope he pushed my hand under the rope, pulled the rope as tight as he could pull it across the palm of my hand and then wound the rope twice under my hand but on top of the calfs back. I later learned this is called a suicide wrap. I am now locked on the back of this bull calf for what I suppose is the rest of my life. Mr. Johnson looks down at me and asked if I was ready. I must have made some kind of body movement that told him I was ready, I know I didnt say anything because I still had an almost terminal case of dry mouth.
The next thing I saw was the gate of the chute swing open and the calf takes off at a dead run headed for the far end of the arena. There was no bucking we were just whizzing by the spectators lined along the wire fence. Hey, this isnt such a bad ride after all. Just as I finish that thought and probably no more than thirty or forty yards from the chute the calf planted his front hoofs in the dirt and slid to a very abrupt stop. I kept going or at least as far as the lose skin on the calfs back would let me and just as I get to the end of my short slide the beast decides to get rid of me and begins bucking. I lasted for exactly one buck. The suicide wrap only partially worked. It kept me attached to the calf but it let me slide off his back and underneath where all the legs are located. The calf is still bucking frantically because he remembers that he is going to try and stomp a mud hole in me and I cant turn lose of the rope. Well Ive turned loose of it but with it wrapped the way it was Im locked onto the calf. With all the jumping around the calf is doing he somehow managed to get one of his back legs down the front of my overalls but he is still thrashing away with the three free ones. It has now turned into a real free for all underneath that calf with his three free legs going a hundred miles an hour, the one in my overalls trying to get free, and me trying to get lose from the rope. I somehow managed to stagger to my feet but the maneuver throws me and the calf to the ground with him still kicking to beat the band. He and I roll around in the dirt for what seems like an eternity until some men get to us and get us untangled. I couldnt see all that well but I did aim a punch at the calf as he loped off to the far end of the arena and what I hoped would be to the slaughter house. I was bleeding from both sides of my nose, my lower lip was split, I had two black eyes forming with my left eye nearly shut from a cut over it, but as I began walking back toward the arenas gate people began throwing nickels, dimes, quarters, and even a couple of half dollars. I was running around like some kind of idiot picking through the horse apples and cow patties to retrieve as much loot as possible. I made exactly three dollars for a ride that lasted probably three seconds. Man oh man, think of it, a dollar a second and once I healed up I might just try this rodeo thing again. I could become rich at a dollar a second. On later reflection and the amount of time it took me to heal however I decided maybe I needed to consider another profession. But I was three dollars richer and with the three dollars Id made as a bull rider combined with my previous savings, I now had a grand total of three dollars and fourteen cents. Not bad money for the greatest bull rider east of the Arkansas River and west of Charleston.
Back in the 1940s at the very advanced age of seven, I along with several of my closest friends and partners in minor local disturbances considered yours truly to be the greatest bull rider east of the Arkansas River and west of oh say Charleston, which is also in Arkansas. That must cover at least 20 miles.
I had obtained this distinction as the worlds greatest bull rider by successfully riding our two milk cows not once, but several times over the course of that summer. Milk cows may not be Brahma bulls but it was the only substitute I could come up with and riding those two cows was a dangerous undertaking. It wasnt exactly dangerous because of the cows disposition. There probably werent any two more docile animals in the world. It was more a matter of dad telling me to stay off the cows. They were, after all, milk cows and riding them did something to the milk production. At least thats the lecture I got several times over the course of my short life to that point and according to dad, if I kept doing some of the things Id been doing he was going to make sure I didnt get to see the ripe old age of eight.
In the small Arkansas town where I grew up one of the basic forms of entertainment was the quarterly town rodeo. Now in a town of about 1,200 souls counting dogs, cats, and the occasional white tail deer that wondered into town, a rodeo held once every three month was a big deal. Picnic lunches were brought as well as a barbeque that seemed to be ever present at any town function. Ive forgotten who did the barbeque but it was probably the VFW since my dad seemed to be one of the main cooks at the thing. The men of course had their adult beverages served in a quasi-inconspicuous manner since our town was supposed to be dry or at least thats what the various churches had ordained. It was funny though, the same men preaching the evils of demon rum on Sunday were the same fellows slipping into the shed where bootleg booze was sold by of all people, our town sheriff. To someone reading this and not from a small southern town it may sound goofy but the process worked in a way. The procedure kept the town free of dirt floor saloons and the various evils that go along with them and the men could go to church on Sunday with a clear conscience even if some had a bit of a hangover. Yes sir and they could boast that unlike some of the towns to our north and west, our town was dry.
The stock for the rodeo was simply rounded up from the numerous farms and ranches in the area and was nothing more than some of the wilder animals. Most of the stock was really wild but, some were so old the glue factory was their next stop. Participants of the human kind came from the local townsfolk, but it was usually the same guys every time. There were always broken bones or dislocated shoulders, knees, backs, etc., etc. at these events but that didnt seem to stop or even slow the frequency of participation by the same guys rodeo after rodeo.
There was one part of the rodeo that everyone seemed to enjoy more than any other and that was the kids event. The kid event was for guys in the seven to ten year old group and it usually involved riding sheep with an occasional bull calf thrown in when there werent enough sheep to go around. There was a five dollar prize for the kid with the longest ride unless the sheep or calf just walked out into the ring and then made a circle or two around with the kid trying to get it to do something. In the case of that happening the judges gave the kid a chance to pick another ride or just call it quits. Usually you got to select the sheep or calf you wanted to ride by going to the stock pen and pointing out the one you wanted.
I had watched a few of the rodeos without riding while I analyzed the whole thing. I wasnt the brightest penny in the roll, my dad along with half the town plus my third grade teacher had told me that, but I wasnt stupid either. There might be a chance of getting killed so caution was in order when it came to animals other than our two cows. I wasnt exactly a coward either and to illustrate let me relate one of the games me and the gang had invented.
There was a creek about a quarter of a mile from the house and we would select a tree that looked big enough to hold one of us in the top but small enough that we could tie a rope on and pull it down like a bow. The object was to get in the top of the tree with it pulled backwards and tied off. Once we were ready we gave the signal and one of the guys cut the rope and hopefully we would be flung across the creek into an open area. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didnt but it worked often enough to make it worth the risk and so far no one had been killed or even maimed for life. Most of the families had several other children anyway so we were well not exactly throw a ways but we were probably expendable. As far as I was concerned our family did have one throw a way even if there was only two of us. I had this human hairball of a brother who I thought would make a perfect cannon ball but I could never find the right tree for him to ride. The tree I was looking for was one that would fling that cow patty clear out of the county or into the Arkansas River, whichever was further. At nearly four years old he was becoming a real pain and I was sure as he grew older, if he managed to survive that long, he was going to get even worse. He hadnt actually acquired the nick name cow patty at this point; he picked up that name the following summer when he became a moving target.
We had a pasture where we kept our two cows and a neighbor kept three cows there also. Cows do a couple of things really well. They give lots of milk while eating tons of grass and they deposit large quantities of cow manure in the form of disks that look sort of like a flying saucer.
In the hot sun of an Arkansas summer these manure piles bake a hard crust on the outside but remain soft on the inside. You can sail the heck out of them, which me and the guys had learned to do with great accuracy. You have to remember, this is Arkansas in the 40s and there simply wasnt a lot going on for kids to do so the sport of slinging cow manure seemed a good way to stay out of trouble well sort of.
One day me and the guys were slinging cow patties at a large bolder in the pasture when the human hairball and his only friend, String Bean Foley made an appearance at the north end of the pasture and began walking toward our end. I dont remember if I sailed the first cow patty at them or maybe String Beans brother, Wayne, did or it could have been Sam or Larry Paul but someone chunked one and it nearly hit the Bean. The hairball and String Bean began running across in front of us and the game was on. As I said before, we had developed some proficiency and accuracy with those cow patties and it wasnt long before the hairball and String Bean were pretty well covered in wet, sticky, smelly cow manure.
It was quite a game and was a lot of fun until I got home a few hours later. Apparently, mom and dad didnt think the game was all that great accuracy or no accuracy. By the time dad finished with me if it had been Christmas Santa could have used my behind to guide his sleigh and Rudolph could have stayed home. So thats how the cow patty got his nickname and I got to sleep on my stomach for a couple of nights.
Now lets get back to the rodeo and my decision to become a sports legend.
Having determined that with my experience as the greatest bull rider east of the Arkansas River and west of Charleston, I should be able to handle any critter with fuzzy hair. I mean after all, what the heck was a sheep to the greatest bull rider east of the Arkansas River and west of Charleston.
So with great conviction I told my dad I had decided to ride that Saturday. I watched as my dads chest visibly expanded about three sizes. I had heard that in his day he had been quite a bare back bronc rider but all those years in the coal mines and the fact that he was well into his fortys by then, the rodeo was out for him, but here I was about to take up where my old pop had left off. The pride on dads face was all I needed to dispel any further qualms I had about becoming the next worlds champion sheep rider. I marched off to see Mr. Johnson to register and pick out my furry ride.
At the stock pen I looked over a really small assortment of sheep and calves plus this one monster of a bull calf and decided on a small sheep that looked like I could probably pick it up and carry it off under my arm. I figured if things didnt turn out as I planned when we came out of the chute I could just put my feet down and let the sheep run out from under me. A little embarrassing for sure but Id still be alive and have all my teeth. Mr. Johnson kept pointing out that large bull calf that looked like a young version of Mr. Lewis prize bull. He wanted me to ride it and seemed to think because no one had picked that beast I should be the kid to get killed by it. Well that wasnt going to happen and I let Mr. Johnson know which of the furry little critters I had decided on being my ride into the history books. With my selection made I wondered back to join up with the guys, let them know I was about to become the worlds greatest wild animal rider, and watch some more rodeo.
In Virginia and probably any other civilized state in the union there is a certain riding attire worn when you crawl on the back of some animal, usually a horse. However, in my little town in northwest Arkansas, when youre seven years old your riding attire consist of a pair of blue jean overalls with the legs cut off about thigh high. The overalls dont come cut off thigh high they get that way because youve worn the knees out once and the patches over the holes twice so mom finally gives up and just cuts them off thigh high. The fanciest things on those overalls were the wire buckles on the shoulder straps. Boots may be the fashion footwear of the Virginia set but a pair of US Keds tennis shoes with holes nearly worn completely through the bottoms are what pass for the footwear of a seven year old sports legend in Arkansas. Today I suppose a kid would be required by some federal or state law to wear an OSHA approved helmet with wire face guard, knee and elbow pads, steel toed shoes, and a chest protector capable of stopping a .357 magnum round from twenty paces. Maybe kids today are just worth more as a standard deduction on the income tax form than we were back then.
So I was definitely dressed for my ride into the history books and the announcer had just called for the kids to assemble for our event. I was not the least bit apprehensive (thats grown up talk for scared enough to cause a dark spot in the front of my cut off overalls) because Ive picked out the smallest sheep in the pen. I watch three kids who must have been from some other town because I didnt know who they were ride and only one managed to stay on for the full eight seconds. Suddenly I heard Mr. Johnson calling my name and I headed to the chute and my ride into history. When I got there I noticed to my horror, that isnt a sheep thats that damned calf that looks like a miniature bull and not that miniature either. There must have been a dozen or more people standing around and as they saw me walking toward the chute they begin applauding and who is in the front leading the cheering mob but my own father. A number of thoughts ran through my mind with the leading candidate being that it is only a little over a mile to my house and if I take off at a dead run I can probably make it there before anyone catches me, crawl under the house, and not come out until Im a little older - - - like maybe 35. If only dad wasnt there but he is and Ive got to go through with this. Ill bet this is dads way of getting back at me for the milking incident but I was only four then and surely he hasnt held a grudge for three years or has he?
I climbed up the side of the chute and threw one leg over the beast from hells back. He didnt move but he did look around and I got the distinct feeling the look in his blood shot eyes was saying, Im going to stomp a mud hole in you kid. One of the town toughs, a fellow about twenty or so was holding up the end of the rope that went around the calfs belly and he was asking me which hand I wanted to use. I wanted to use both hands and I didnt want to hold a rope either, I wanted something like a nail gun to put me permanently on that calfs back. I finally decided I could probably do without my left hand and arm since Im right handed and I think I said Id use my left hand. Or I may have just held up my left hand since I had no saliva in my mouth, bailed cotton has more moisture in it than I had in my mouth about then so there wasnt a lot of talking being done by me.
Now this fellow leans down by my ear and whispers, How bad do you want to stay on this calf kid? I wanted to scream, I dont want to be on the damned thing at all!!! but with dad still there I told him I wanted it pretty badly. Instead of handing me the end of the rope he pushed my hand under the rope, pulled the rope as tight as he could pull it across the palm of my hand and then wound the rope twice under my hand but on top of the calfs back. I later learned this is called a suicide wrap. I am now locked on the back of this bull calf for what I suppose is the rest of my life. Mr. Johnson looks down at me and asked if I was ready. I must have made some kind of body movement that told him I was ready, I know I didnt say anything because I still had an almost terminal case of dry mouth.
The next thing I saw was the gate of the chute swing open and the calf takes off at a dead run headed for the far end of the arena. There was no bucking we were just whizzing by the spectators lined along the wire fence. Hey, this isnt such a bad ride after all. Just as I finish that thought and probably no more than thirty or forty yards from the chute the calf planted his front hoofs in the dirt and slid to a very abrupt stop. I kept going or at least as far as the lose skin on the calfs back would let me and just as I get to the end of my short slide the beast decides to get rid of me and begins bucking. I lasted for exactly one buck. The suicide wrap only partially worked. It kept me attached to the calf but it let me slide off his back and underneath where all the legs are located. The calf is still bucking frantically because he remembers that he is going to try and stomp a mud hole in me and I cant turn lose of the rope. Well Ive turned loose of it but with it wrapped the way it was Im locked onto the calf. With all the jumping around the calf is doing he somehow managed to get one of his back legs down the front of my overalls but he is still thrashing away with the three free ones. It has now turned into a real free for all underneath that calf with his three free legs going a hundred miles an hour, the one in my overalls trying to get free, and me trying to get lose from the rope. I somehow managed to stagger to my feet but the maneuver throws me and the calf to the ground with him still kicking to beat the band. He and I roll around in the dirt for what seems like an eternity until some men get to us and get us untangled. I couldnt see all that well but I did aim a punch at the calf as he loped off to the far end of the arena and what I hoped would be to the slaughter house. I was bleeding from both sides of my nose, my lower lip was split, I had two black eyes forming with my left eye nearly shut from a cut over it, but as I began walking back toward the arenas gate people began throwing nickels, dimes, quarters, and even a couple of half dollars. I was running around like some kind of idiot picking through the horse apples and cow patties to retrieve as much loot as possible. I made exactly three dollars for a ride that lasted probably three seconds. Man oh man, think of it, a dollar a second and once I healed up I might just try this rodeo thing again. I could become rich at a dollar a second. On later reflection and the amount of time it took me to heal however I decided maybe I needed to consider another profession. But I was three dollars richer and with the three dollars Id made as a bull rider combined with my previous savings, I now had a grand total of three dollars and fourteen cents. Not bad money for the greatest bull rider east of the Arkansas River and west of Charleston.
Mar 11, 2014 23:58:03 #
venturer9
Loc: Newton, Il.
Hey... Great story, I love it.... a VERY short story of my "Bull" escapades..
Had a smallish Guernsey bull who loved to charge you and butt you if you didn't turn around and look at him.... My high school buddies didn't know that trick and I would bring them home and challenge them to a "I DARE YA" contest... Last one to cut and run was the winner...
Well I won most of them cause they chickened out early... MOST of the time I got turned around in time, but once in a while I went hind end over top and the Bull would stroll off contented.
Mike
Thanks again for the story, it was great
Had a smallish Guernsey bull who loved to charge you and butt you if you didn't turn around and look at him.... My high school buddies didn't know that trick and I would bring them home and challenge them to a "I DARE YA" contest... Last one to cut and run was the winner...
Well I won most of them cause they chickened out early... MOST of the time I got turned around in time, but once in a while I went hind end over top and the Bull would stroll off contented.
Mike
Thanks again for the story, it was great
Mar 12, 2014 00:20:26 #
Wonderful story. I don't have any bull stories. Well, some BS, but that doesn't count.
However, I've seen a bull.
However, I've seen a bull.
Mar 12, 2014 09:18:27 #
Thanks for the story. Lived in Southern Utah in the early 50's and ever twon with more than 40 eople had a rodio grounds. Was great fun. - dave
Mar 12, 2014 09:24:28 #
We used to do things like this as kids too, but our rides were never this exciting. And that first bull Dad kept in the yard until proper pasture was fenced in became our best friend. None of us could bear to eat it after he sent it to the slaughterhouse so it was the last one he ever let us name. And after the pasture was fenced and they were further away, they, and the milk cows, became a chore to be avoided if at all possible.
Thanks for sharing your story. I'm sure you were considered the most courageous bullrider there that day!!
Thanks for sharing your story. I'm sure you were considered the most courageous bullrider there that day!!
Mar 12, 2014 19:51:51 #
venturer9 wrote:
Hey... Great story, I love it.... a VERY shor... (show quote)
Glad you enjoyed it Mike, those old memories seem to be really good these days. I'll bet it didn't take more than one or two of those bull encounters before you learned to turn around quicker. :-)
Will
Mar 12, 2014 19:56:00 #
Singing Swan wrote:
We used to do things like this as kids too, but ou... (show quote)
I can see where naming an animal that will one day wind up on the dinner table would be problematic. I'm over 72 now and still haven't lived down that day. Seems when my wife and I go back to see Mother or to a reunion that darn story will surface at least once and I never come out looking good. :oops: :oops:
Mar 12, 2014 20:00:04 #
wilsondl2 wrote:
Thanks for the story. Lived in Southern Utah in the early 50's and ever twon with more than 40 eople had a rodio grounds. Was great fun. - dave
Those rodeos were just about it for entertainment but somehow we seemed to keep ourselves amused and out of trouble - well out of trouble where the sheriff would get involved. Glad you enjoyed the story Dave. :-D
Mar 12, 2014 20:03:09 #
RMM wrote:
Wonderful story. I don't have any bull stories. Well, some BS, but that doesn't count.
However, I've seen a bull.
However, I've seen a bull.
If confession is good for the soul RMM then I suppose I must admit that I have a few of the BS type things in my closet too but as you said, "that doesn't count". :-P
Mar 12, 2014 20:45:23 #
Los-Angeles-Shooter
Loc: Los Angeles
You should put together a collection of such anecdotes. Easy to publish through Kindle and Smashwords.com Wonderful stories.
Cow patties feature in an historical incident. Abraham Lincoln was challenged to a duel, and as challenged party was entitled to choose the "weapons." He chose cowpies at point blank range. The duel was canceled amidst laughter.
Cow patties feature in an historical incident. Abraham Lincoln was challenged to a duel, and as challenged party was entitled to choose the "weapons." He chose cowpies at point blank range. The duel was canceled amidst laughter.
Mar 12, 2014 21:08:46 #
Los-Angeles-Shooter wrote:
You should put together a collection of such anecdotes. Easy to publish through Kindle and Smashwords.com Wonderful stories.
Cow patties feature in an historical incident. Abraham Lincoln was challenged to a duel, and as challenged party was entitled to choose the "weapons." He chose cowpies at point blank range. The duel was canceled amidst laughter.
Cow patties feature in an historical incident. Abraham Lincoln was challenged to a duel, and as challenged party was entitled to choose the "weapons." He chose cowpies at point blank range. The duel was canceled amidst laughter.
That is the first I had heard about Lincoln's duel. Not only a great president but pretty good with humor as well.
There is a book out there but it may be out of print now. It is or was on Amazon called "Toppers" by Darrell Bain and yours truly, Will Stafford. It came about as a result of a bunch of emails between me and Bain, a real author. He asked me if he could put the stories in a book form and I agreed. I don't think it ever sold more than 150 copies. Most of the stories are "War Stories" but not the kind that start, There I Was, Ten Thousand Feet, A Pocket Full Of Nickels, And Not A Coke Machine In Sight - The Flak Was So Thick You Could Walk On It. Most of the stuff in the book is the humor I found in most of the things I got into during the war plus one incident when I tried to do my younger brother in with a birthday present. I once had a commander tell me he thought I was trying very hard to ruin his career. I started Army life as a private and wound up retiring 26 years later as a major. Along the line I became a helicopter pilot but was much better as a tanker, got a battlefield commission to 2nd Lt., and worked my tail off to get a degree in Mechanical Engineering.
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