Makin' Christmas At the Ranch, Part One
reckoned by Johnny Rawhide at 1:23 PM
I ain't exactly sure how it fell to me to be the one what got to string up Christmas lights across the Main House here at the Stinkhorn Ranch, and across the rail fences of the corral and find the tattered remains of a couple of old cardboard boxes which was alleged to be the last place any or all of the old Rodeo Christmas decorations was knowed to be. Me and electricity ain't exactly of the same cloth.
Still, I do what I can here to the Ranch to help out and Concha said I was the one to fetch 'em up, so I set about doin' it. Odd thing is, once a feller sets to a chore, he is prone to keep at it until the chore is done, even if the chore can somewhat chafe a feller.
Some years back, afore I hit the Ranch, you was more like as not as to find me and my horse Huston takin' our ease from the bitter wind of winter and drifts of snow up along the Calf Killer Mountain, where they was this cave that offered plenty o' room and nary any critters to compete with fer housin'. I'd provide a ripe and juicy apple fer Huston and he'd provide me with ... well, just companionship - somethin' most folks get to seekin' this time of year. Once way back in time when I was just a sapling, and livin' with my pa and ma over on Forgotten Stone Plateau, we'd have us a decorated tree and a handful of bright packages fer each other and maybe a steamin' hot table of good grub and that was Christmas and I found it to be a Horn of Plenty.
I recall once pa and me went out travelin' the edges of the Forgotten Stone in a quest fer us a nice lookin' pine to fetch home to be decorated with popcorn strings and ribbon and paper ornaments ma had made over the course of time. They weren't no TV to watch, nor any radio or record players stacked up with Christmas carols or ballads or none such at all. Pa would take the guitar outten the back of his room, and he'd commence to strummin' whatever carol-like tunes he could recall, though it seems they all kinda started the same way but then he'd just kinda strum away findin' cheerful and pleasin' notes that was mighty easy on the ears. Guess he just made it all up but fer us and the two younger toddlers at the house and it all seemed like we was a' joinin' in on all the thoughts of Peace and Goodwill toward others.
Well anyway, it had snowed fer a few days by the time pa and I went to fetch us a tree, and the snow banked up against my waist as I attempted to follow the steps left in the snow by pa, where the snow barely came to his boot-tops. He kept a' askiin' me iffin I was taking a chill, but I said no, even though it felt like my face was a block of ice and I had no idea if my toes had done broke off in tiny frozen pieces. This was a quest we was on and I wouldn't about to turn tail and head home and leave pa to fetch a tree by his lonesome.
After an hour or so, we came to a high slope overlookin' a small stand of trees, all lined up like little green soldiers wearin' snow on their shoulders. Happy to know these here might do and I could go back and thaw my frozen parts in front of a roarin' fire, well, I headed down that slope in one hell of a hurry. Didn't take but a second to start tumblin' ass over heels down that slope. Now, at the bottom of the hill, just circlin' the stand of trees was a dang hedge-fence of sticker-bushes, somewhat dried in the winter time, but loaded with enough sharp points and branches to snag a herd of horses. In an instant, I was wedged deep inside them bushes, plumb caught up upside down and hanging on the razor sharp barbs of them stickers. I could feel them dang things jabbed into my flesh through all my winter garb and the wind whipped around so I could swear my blood was freezin' solid along my arms and legs and especially hurtful was the ones what had stuck into my youngish face.
Pa had to take the ax he was totin' to knock away the dried but deadly branches of the sticker bush 'til he could reach my upside-down body and he says, "Hang on, I'll have you out in a moment, but it's gonna hurt to get you free some." He was right. In a moment I was on my own frozen feet, tenderly grasping at the winter-hardened barbs to draw 'em out and away from my flesh. Probably was a good thing it were so cold out, else I bet I would seeped blood for hours from a few hundred holes.
Pa then said to just stay put fer a minute and with just a stroke or two of the ax he chopped free a fine full pine about four feet tall that seemed like a perfect-shaped picture of a Christmas tree.
We trudged back to the wagon and then made our way home once pa had me wrapped up in a big old blanket that had been servin' as out seat cushions on the way to fetch that tree. I remember bein' mighty proud of that there tree which had tried to kill me and was now a sight of much beauty sittin' near the table and shelterin' what seemed to be the biggest stack of presents I ever saw. 'Course I had scabbed up so bad, I kinda looked like a bowl of cranberries, but it all made me aware that even a small amount of Christmas cheer arrives only with a bit of sacrifice.
Ok, now this here is the end of part one of the story about Christmas at the Ranch and I'll finish up my tale for ya'll tomorrow. Right now, I gotta get back to some chores. But don't fret - they's more story on the way.
--------------------
About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.
Still, I do what I can here to the Ranch to help out and Concha said I was the one to fetch 'em up, so I set about doin' it. Odd thing is, once a feller sets to a chore, he is prone to keep at it until the chore is done, even if the chore can somewhat chafe a feller.
Some years back, afore I hit the Ranch, you was more like as not as to find me and my horse Huston takin' our ease from the bitter wind of winter and drifts of snow up along the Calf Killer Mountain, where they was this cave that offered plenty o' room and nary any critters to compete with fer housin'. I'd provide a ripe and juicy apple fer Huston and he'd provide me with ... well, just companionship - somethin' most folks get to seekin' this time of year. Once way back in time when I was just a sapling, and livin' with my pa and ma over on Forgotten Stone Plateau, we'd have us a decorated tree and a handful of bright packages fer each other and maybe a steamin' hot table of good grub and that was Christmas and I found it to be a Horn of Plenty.
I recall once pa and me went out travelin' the edges of the Forgotten Stone in a quest fer us a nice lookin' pine to fetch home to be decorated with popcorn strings and ribbon and paper ornaments ma had made over the course of time. They weren't no TV to watch, nor any radio or record players stacked up with Christmas carols or ballads or none such at all. Pa would take the guitar outten the back of his room, and he'd commence to strummin' whatever carol-like tunes he could recall, though it seems they all kinda started the same way but then he'd just kinda strum away findin' cheerful and pleasin' notes that was mighty easy on the ears. Guess he just made it all up but fer us and the two younger toddlers at the house and it all seemed like we was a' joinin' in on all the thoughts of Peace and Goodwill toward others.
Well anyway, it had snowed fer a few days by the time pa and I went to fetch us a tree, and the snow banked up against my waist as I attempted to follow the steps left in the snow by pa, where the snow barely came to his boot-tops. He kept a' askiin' me iffin I was taking a chill, but I said no, even though it felt like my face was a block of ice and I had no idea if my toes had done broke off in tiny frozen pieces. This was a quest we was on and I wouldn't about to turn tail and head home and leave pa to fetch a tree by his lonesome.
After an hour or so, we came to a high slope overlookin' a small stand of trees, all lined up like little green soldiers wearin' snow on their shoulders. Happy to know these here might do and I could go back and thaw my frozen parts in front of a roarin' fire, well, I headed down that slope in one hell of a hurry. Didn't take but a second to start tumblin' ass over heels down that slope. Now, at the bottom of the hill, just circlin' the stand of trees was a dang hedge-fence of sticker-bushes, somewhat dried in the winter time, but loaded with enough sharp points and branches to snag a herd of horses. In an instant, I was wedged deep inside them bushes, plumb caught up upside down and hanging on the razor sharp barbs of them stickers. I could feel them dang things jabbed into my flesh through all my winter garb and the wind whipped around so I could swear my blood was freezin' solid along my arms and legs and especially hurtful was the ones what had stuck into my youngish face.
Pa had to take the ax he was totin' to knock away the dried but deadly branches of the sticker bush 'til he could reach my upside-down body and he says, "Hang on, I'll have you out in a moment, but it's gonna hurt to get you free some." He was right. In a moment I was on my own frozen feet, tenderly grasping at the winter-hardened barbs to draw 'em out and away from my flesh. Probably was a good thing it were so cold out, else I bet I would seeped blood for hours from a few hundred holes.
Pa then said to just stay put fer a minute and with just a stroke or two of the ax he chopped free a fine full pine about four feet tall that seemed like a perfect-shaped picture of a Christmas tree.
We trudged back to the wagon and then made our way home once pa had me wrapped up in a big old blanket that had been servin' as out seat cushions on the way to fetch that tree. I remember bein' mighty proud of that there tree which had tried to kill me and was now a sight of much beauty sittin' near the table and shelterin' what seemed to be the biggest stack of presents I ever saw. 'Course I had scabbed up so bad, I kinda looked like a bowl of cranberries, but it all made me aware that even a small amount of Christmas cheer arrives only with a bit of sacrifice.
Ok, now this here is the end of part one of the story about Christmas at the Ranch and I'll finish up my tale for ya'll tomorrow. Right now, I gotta get back to some chores. But don't fret - they's more story on the way.
--------------------
About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.
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