“Rain makes the grass grow.”

That’s good from every regard, way better than the opposite.

“When have the crops looked any better in the second week of August?”

Appreciating the sufficient rains on the home front, another rancher just 30 miles down the highway instantly contradicted. “We really do need a rain.”

Weather analysis not particularly disgruntled or even disagreeing always brings comment. It depends on locale, certainly. A field just down the road from another might have a bumper crop, compared to mediocrity.

Semblance, overall majority of crops appear lush driving by, but it’s not always the accurate picture. Several days earlier when temperature exceeded 100 degrees, curling plant leaves were most apparent. Yields undoubtedly hampered, although difficult to calculate extent.

Date of planting has direct influence on grain in the bin. Date of rains, temperature during stage of growth, it’s all left up to the power of nature. Just a few days make the difference between profits, loss.

Native grass in most pastures seen daily truly is stirrup high on a 16-hand horse. Even those intensely grazed generally have comeback of lush green, ample to turn more cattle out.

As importantly, ponds are full, many overflowing the spillway. Creeks running, as draws and wet weather seeps supply water, too.

Depending when and where, tame hay tonnage set records, as other was reported average, even low.

“It’s impossible to be everywhere at the same time.”

Something has to give, and it’s a major decision deciding which that’s going to be. More so, determining the one of many things wanted to do in a day.

What is the most important? Whatever selected means missing out on all of the others. Always in the busy life conflicts arise among opportunities.

It seems to strike harder than ever as calendar schedule overflows the lines. Life was supposed to be simpler in maturity, but opposite it’s become.

Reality of that has definitely moved to forefront in recent days. With a fulltime off-ranch job to assure bills are paid, evenings and weekends are packed with catchup chores.

Add to the complexity, so many “social” activities one desires to partake. Saturday, there were two “important” horse shows that needed to be participated in for valuable yearend points.

After serious deliberation determination made to attend the one with most events, efficiently using horse, rider, dollars, and time. Just “gave the winnings” to the competition at the other show, because couldn’t be there to try to beat them.

“Hogs are mortgage lifters for farmers.”

That philosophy commonplace in agriculture for decades has changed. The fact came to mind during a hog show at the county fair.

Most farming operations included hog production for many years. It was because hogs generally earned some profit when other aspects of agriculture were losing money.

Nearly every farm had hogs, chickens and milk cows in the first half of the previous century. While poultry and dairy became specialized quicker, hogs remained on many farms longer. Now they’re much fewer and farther between.

Even if there weren’t larger numbers, many farmers kept a few sows to raise pigs. They’d either sell them as feeders or finish to market weight. Others specialized in buying and growing the pigs, perhaps considered easier than farrowing.

Hog enterprises appeared so enhancive in the final quarter of the previous century that many farmers built elaborate facilities. Some reaped good profits for several years. Others soon found demands to produce pigs’ profitability far less glamorous than those selling buildings claimed.

The industry’s changed completely. Vast majority of pork today is produced by “corporate hog factories.” Similarities to any other workplace except caring for live animals from mating through dinner plate. Well almost, as processing is still separate entity for most hog production.

“You can’t take it with you.”

That comment comes to mind again with recent passing of a college judging team mate.

“Live life to the fullest. One never knows when it’s coming to an end on Earth.”

Another repeated remark hits home when 20 percent in a class of 100 have already gone beyond.

“Checked the obituaries again today and name wasn’t there, so still alive.”

One more observation heard on occasion.

Morbid as might be, second page death reports generally the first thing read in the daily newspaper.

Tongue and cheek, not actually checking for own announcement as such. Yet, as lifelong newsman with bred-in nosiness, truly am interested in those who have died.

Sadly too many are acquaintances. Plus always like to learn about others’ stories, big timers, and especially the common folk.

Still, date of birth is always of special note. Those who’ve lived into their 80s, 90s and 100s are true inspiration.

Why are they different? Did they eat better? Exercise more? Work harder? Is it in their genes? One wonders?

Of greater alarm is the number of those dying who aren’t even yet 65. Almost every day, there are some. Many don’t reach what as a retiree one could consider “maturity.” Cause of passing is notable, and if not reported question arises, why?

Then, when it’s a child, teenager or young adult, there’s even more intense grief. How come? They have missed so very much here.

“You need to act your age.”

Uncertain exactly how that comment was meant to be interpreted? So, it was taken as a compliment.

Doesn’t really matter, but likely referred to being in every horseshow class could get in.

Even those where most entries were young sprouts, especially compared to wannabe’s maturity.

Expense to get to a competition so great; philosophy is to participate in everything.

It takes a long while for things to soak in a thick head. Mom always encouraged, “ride in pleasure.” Never did, with excuse: “Nellie won’t back.”

Really didn’t even realize horses were supposed to be in a certain “lead”; hardly knew what “gait” was. Thought if horse could walk, trot, canter on command, was doing pretty doggone good.

Story out of school here, hadn’t heard the word “lead” until after first professionally judged horseshow years later. For unknowing, “lead” is “which set of legs, left or right, leads or advances forward when a horse is cantering, the same as loping, or galloping.” The horse has more coordinated balance in the correct lead.

Anyway, now do what Mom said to do: “Ride in every class.” Some shows that’s 25 events.

“All on one horse?” somebody asked. No, two. One for “performance” classes, a misnomer word in itself, and another for “speed” events, self-explanatory.

Summer heat is here, help someone stay cool

By Raylene Quaney

There has been more than 30 households sign up to receive fans, however donations have been down this summer and we have only been able to give out 22 to date. There is a lot of hot weather left during July and August, so if you can donate either a new fan or make cash donations to purchase a fan for someone, please mail your donation to Help House, PO Box 356, Lyndon KS 66451; please note “Fan Club” in memo.

United Way donations can help locally

Jamie Reever, with United Way, attended the Help House board meeting on July 11. Last year’s United Way campaign raised $582,000. They will begin this year’s campaign in two weeks. The United Way of the Flint Hills serves eight counties. Help House is blessed to be a recipient of United Way funds that can be used to purchase food for the food pantry as well as other emergency services.

Did you know that if you work in Shawnee County and contribute to the United Way through your employer that you may mark on your contribution slip that you want the contribution to go to Help House in Osage County? It will then process through the United Way of the Flint Hills and back to Help House. The employer matching funds will remain in Shawnee County, but your part will come back to Osage County to help out locally.

Fill the barrel, summer food drive

A countywide food drive through Harvester’s is being held July 15-July 22. Look for the large blue barrels at each of the three Thriftway grocery stores, in Carbondale, Overbrook and Osage City, during the week. While you are shopping if you could pick up just one or two non-perishable food items and drop them in the barrel on your way out, your neighbor in need would be most grateful. All donations will go to the Help House food pantry.

“It wasn’t just flat on one side.”

There was barely a shred of rubber showing anywhere on the wheel rim.

Already going six-miles-an-hour under the speed limit, honking from behind wasn’t initially heeded. Intrusive blaring continuing; whippersnappers with big ornery grins pointed to the attached trailer while whizzing by.

Still unaware of what was wrong, an intersection not far ahead allowed stopping place for the checkup. Finally obvious, the left trailer tire rubber had been destroyed as highway was grinding on the rim.

Uncertain how much earlier the blowout occurred, but an extended time, for sure.

The 12-foot, single-axle stock trailer used for hauling show horses was bought new six years ago. Typically taking two horses, sometimes one, occasionally three, it’s been a number of miles.

Inflated rubber tires always go flat sometime, but it was the first one on this trailer.

There was a spare, still no comprehensible way to get it changed. There is a jack and wrench someplace, but uncertain where in the pickup.

Notwithstanding frequent derogatory comments about cell phones, sure glad had one that worked.

“Life’s easier in maturity.”

Of course, many disagree emphatically, and there are plenty of downsides certainly.

However, when it comes to hay season, there’s sure lots less labor required than half century plus ago.

Well, first off, a younger generation is in charge of the task. If the hay doesn’t get put up, it’s their fault – definitely not getting in the way.

Never had the ability to do much except lug the square bales, and tried the best to get out of that whenever could. Haven’t lifted a single bale this year, and won’t because the small square baling is completed.

As with majority of today’s producers, bulk of the hay goes into big round bales. It’s much easier and more convenient all the way around.

Still reflect having no baler, mowing with a seven-foot sickle mower, and operating a dump rake. After grass dried, manpowered-pitchforks went to work piling hay onto the pickup.

To the shed, it was pitched off and into stacks. Never was but only a few acres, yet enough to know the hard work required in large haying operations.

Work slackened when a small square twine baler was acquired. However, for years there was no hay wagon, let alone an accumulator and frontend tractor loader for stacking.

Bales were dropped on the ground while pickup followed behind and each bale loaded manually onto it. Many times that was one man driving, stopping, loading and going to the next bale.

“Technology demands are cause for stomping the floor, pounding the desk, maybe even screaming.”

No end to it seemingly from every direction and no clue what much of the modern-rigmarole is all about.

Telephones have become outdated, according to logic of many, family included. Email works for some, yet already “old hat,” too. “Just text me” is becoming common reference to making personal contacts.

Very grudgingly, effort has been made to learn that “messaging” system. It seemed to work with son, grandson, a couple others.

Then corruption approached vulgarity when 15 “texts” of unknown numbers, were on the cell phone.

No idea who they were from or what they were about, no findable-messages.

Worry prevented anything else from being accomplished so just gave up and started calling each of the 10 digits.

After figuring out who some were, with guidance from knowledgeable coworker, names were punched into cell phone for future.

Worse thing about dilemma was an important meeting the night before was missed. But, younger board members got the “text” and attended.

From now on, every “text” received is going to be called unless “message” is clearly stated.

After hearing “it’s on Facebook” many times, also finally gave into that one of several “social media” invitations, too. It was fun at first signing up hundreds of “friends.”

“Cowboys aren’t made to be tractor drivers.”

That’s personal view, obviously contradicted by many ranchers baling hay this week.

A good number are quite professional and really enjoy the job essential to feeding cattle and horses.

While sometimes called into the task, it’s certainly not a likeable forte, hazardous to driver, vehicle, anybody, and anything around.

Called into recent action, the only way to get weeds and raggedy roadside grass cut was do it to it.

Aboard the “new-half-century-ago” John Deere 1020 with tightwad rotary mower knocked down the ample moisture-thrusted growth.

Monotony of chore-at-hand brought reflections of the Allis WD that Dad bought for the little farm 55 years ago. It was hard to steer, nearly-impossible to start, and beginning of low-appeal for tractor driving.

Mechanically-inclined Dad couldn’t get along with the orange verge-of-junk contraption either. Don’t recall what happened to it, but a nine-year-older 1939 John Deere B was replacement.

Nothing anything easy about driving the “B” either, but with frontend loader it was even tougher job. Then put the eight-foot drag disk on behind, hardly enough muscle for teenager to get turned around.

Yet, the rusting green machine stayed around dozen-years-plus seldom called into use.

Dad’s decision to get the new “1020” even brought tiny heart-flitter to teenage-want-a-be cowboy.

“Say, I have a couple of broncs I got from a rodeo contractor up northwest. They wouldn’t buck, and I want you to break ’em to ride!”

That was first introduction to Keene more than a dozen years ago. It was beginning of a real cowboy friendship, great camaraderie with a most unique, talented individual.

Only realizing he’d passed last month, after seeing an estate auction advertisement – it was truly heartfelt loss.

All of the Keene experiences were instantly reflected. Smile automatically, uncontrollably spreads just remembering.

Roaring into the ranch yard, diving out of the pickup, Keene was all grins unloading those horses to train. “Rodeo broncs” was no exaggeration, at least in appearance.

Don’t know how old, but big, rugged, scarred, branded, rough hair, tangled long manes, tails, untrimmed at-least-shoe-size-four-feet, roan, draft horses.

Tales of the horses, his life’s adventures flowed as now-broader-grinning Keene aired meager expectations. “You get ’em started, and I’ll ride ’em,” promise taken lightly.

Never “gentle giants,” the “broncs” were rideable with enough cowboy try. Keene had that. Not perfect, they did everything: cattle work, trail rides, fox hunts, pulled wagons, whatever their big cowboy-owner decided.

Actually, that’s the best way to really know Keene. There wasn’t anything Keene couldn’t do and not much he didn’t do in his most colorful life, not all realized until reading eulogy.

“Show stall area is a beauty shop.”

That’s certainly a fact when one is getting horses ready to compete. Thick red lipstick, heavy powder, rouge and eye shadow are common nowadays for young cowgirls competing at horseshows.

It’d never influenced placings on judging cards days gone by. However, now realize getting the cowgirls all decked out is a major ordeal. No less than a half-dozen cowgirls were seated in chairs strewn down three alleyways of the stall barn.

Seemed to be mommas mostly as the beauticians or cosmetologists, whatever they’d be. Each had small tightly-packed makeup cases with the necessities, and portable working tables at side.

Never heard any “sit still,” or “quit fidgeting,” but raised chins and squinting eyes seemed common pose for the primping rigmarole.

Hairdos were included, too, with hint of old-fashioned-ism, as typically long styles were pulled tightly into buns bottom back of necks. Evidently doing that’s so hair didn’t fly wild with rough horse gaits. Sure took special knack too, so hats would fit over the hair yet look appealing.

Hats are another tale for sure, but today’s show participants better understand importance of well-shaped, proper-fitting head cover to the overall picture.

That’s different than decades ago when cowgirls, and definitely cowboys, often seemed to be competing in the “ugly hat contest.” Ill-shaped, dusty, sometimes looking like they been slept in, used as a cushion, or stored under the pickup seat.

“They’re all marbles in the jar.”

Comment said frequently around the office helping customers coordinate efficient advertising.

First, must reflect the marble collection six decades ago. A quart jar in grandma’s closet about half-filled with marbles. Little plastic bags with half-dozen marbles came in cereal boxes for a time, and accumulation grew.

Never a champion, marbles were played during early schooldays. Teachers disallowed playing for “keeps,” meaning winner got the other’s marble. Of course, that rule was broken, just for the sake of not following rules. Sure wonder what happened to all of those marbles in the jar?

Subject at hand, there are so many ways to communicate today compared to even a few years ago.

Newspapers began in the late 1600s, continuing, contrary to some saying, “Newspapers are dead.” Admittedly, circulation and hardcopy readership are lowest in a long time.

The United State Postal Service in 1775 grew from horses to trains, through new technologies delivering mail worldwide. Modern inefficiencies are another yarn.

Since 1844, telegrams hand-delivered messages anywhere on the planet, yet almost impossible now.

“Build a better mousetrap, and the world will beat a path to your door.”

There’s controversy who said that and when the comment was made. Originally quoted in the 1880s, it’s a true statement, known for certainty.

Still nobody’s come up with that perfect mousetrap. That has to be because those little furry varmints are so doggone smart.

Whatever the trapping method tried, those ornery pests keep scampering across the kitchen floor. Perhaps a seasonal dilemma when the light-grayish-tan menaces come most frequently. Recent wind, hail and heavy rain sure brought more into protective cover.

A half-dozen “old reliable snap-traps” were set all around baited with cheese, butter, even peanut-butter.

“Snap” gave relief of successful kill, until checking revealed bait gone, but no catch. Oh, once there was a young mouse without wisdom enough to shy away.

It’s those old fat ones that find stealing trap food easier than scrounging for table drops.

There’s some success with expensive glue-traps. Problem with them more than once ended up on the house-shoes when stumbling around.

For several days, that mischievous nightly intruder evaded every effort to catch. Big glob of whatever-nutritious-enhancer was always gone from the snap-trap, as it seemingly just sashayed from those gluey-supposedly-snares.

Finally, a mouse-trapping-maze was rigged. Glue-traps were set all around heavily-baited snap-trap.

Success at last, the plump invader with midnight supper in mouth sure enough snapped tight into the old-trapping-rigmarole.

Footprints in the glue-traps plain evidence he’d stepped right through only to still get caught. There is always tactic to outsmart wise-old-freeloaders.

However am thinking about inventing an infallible mousetrap. That’ll never happen, records indicate. The world won’t beat a path to the door.

Maternal encouragement is often forgotten yet essential to happiness and success.

Nobody replaces one’s own mother, but motherliness of others’ helping and guiding is often taken for granted.

Of course, Mother’s Day always brings reflections of Mom, who’s already been gone nearly 35 years. Seldom does anything occur that there’s not pondering “what would Mom think, do, advise?”

As elaborated in the past, of all acquainted from every aspect, none compare to Mom’s big heartedness. Yet, that was very sadly overshadowed unapparent to many by her always brashness, perhaps seeming bossy mannerisms. It was quite opposite becoming most evident with passing time.

Yet, need to acknowledge the many other “mothers” through the lifetime providing “nurturing.”

Common likely for many, right after Mom come the Grandma. Two of course, with the paternal cherished as second-mom.

Fondness reflects for her all of 60 pounds before school, after school, always. Remember stringing penny-trinkets, vanilla ice cream cones, even stinky long Kool’s smoke, ashes in the cauliflower.

Several aunts had certain warm specialness, more apparent and appreciated through decades.

Luvella, Dad’s sister, just Lu – no much more than “just”. Perhaps satisfactorily indescribable, forever Aunt Lu was there, whatever. Smart, ornery, loving, knowing, showing, protective, devoted, never critical Mom for her nephew replacing the children she never had.

Unless experienced unusual to most, be remiss to overlook tender, gentle, affectionate, momma-ways of the grocery store customers. Notwithstanding cookies, Kool-Aid and like, their expressions of joy and appreciativeness remain intimate.

Again many likely not understanding is those dozens of coworkers’ devoted maternal understanding. Maybe it’s because boys become men, still acting like boys, cowboys. That seems to develop a certain forgiving, knowing help-is-required, understanding. Men always need Mommas.

Through six-decades-plus, every day, today, amazing the obviously kind care, generosity, helpfulness of women working side-by-side in everything there is to do. Dumb old man appreciates the assistance.

Sometimes acknowledged with scowl, “Mom,” mother of the children, undebatable mothers the spouse. Thankfulness for those cooperating, caring, mechanical-farming abilities, most importantly forgiving attributes in every endeavor.

Certainly, no admittance and definite denial thereof, roper-daughter even provides that maternal goodwill attentiveness, always with downplay smirk.

Mary, mother of Jesus, is the greatest of all mothers.

Reminds of Luke 1:42: “Mary is blessed among women.” So, Luke 1:31: “Let it be done to according to your word.”

Frank J. Buchman is a lifelong rancher from Alta Vista, a lifetime newspaper writer, syndicated national ag writer and a radio marketing consultant. He writes a weekly column to share A Cowboy’s Faith.

It’s actually carrying on a family tradition.

Better than that in several ways. Old high school auditorium Thursday evening, only grandchild, a grandson, was welcomed to the stage several times.

His name called for participating in many agriculture competitions and dedicated work for the FFA chapter.

Strong reflections of almost-half-a-century ago in the then-lunchroom when town kid’s adrenalin was highest ever been.

A really big deal for a grocery store, wannabe-cowboy attending a major agriculture function. At least, heartbeat and thought such a major affair.

After filling out several award applications without much accomplishment to record, hopes were high for at least name to be said.

Contrary to these days, FFA was an all-boy agricultural education organization, no girls allowed then. A formal affair with members’ officially dressed blue and gold jackets, white shirts, four-in-hand ties, moms and dads in Sunday attire.

Sweating throughout the ceremonies and program, reprieve came with announcement to receive the farm and home improvement medal.

That tiny little gold token was pride and joy shown to those all around, with grocery-store-customer-friend Velva Blanton admirably grinning like it really was something. Was and is to the young-now-most-mature recipient as today the worthless-to-most piece displays in a frame on the old home bedroom wall.

Nothing compared to the grandson or that of his dad. Already been a quarter century since the son crossed recognition stage numerous times, making parents beam, too. That now-career-cowboy’s teenage highlight was nationwide acclaim in tools-of-his-trade: horses.