Whispers of the West : North, South, East, West ~ The Spirits of the West Whisper on the Wind

Whispers of the West
North, South, East, West ~ The Spirits of the West Whisper on the Wind

~RIDING DRAG~

Debra's column Riding Drag is featured in publications across North America and is available to local presses through Old Yellow Slicker Productions.

Column: RIDING DRAG

Article title: Snakes in My Decolletage

When it's cold I dress in the height of rural western fashion Carhart® insulated overalls and coat. Though my insulated underwear beneath may not match, I am totally coordinated in tan canvas as I make my way to the barn through mud and ice. As I go about the morning feeding of horses, cattle, goat, cats and dogs I consider myself fortunate to be living my life as a ranch woman.

I like to think that I do my chores efficiently, using as few steps as possible and wasting little time. To save a trip back to the barn I often leave the shoulder straps of my overalls loose forming a sort of chest pocket into which I stick tools, feed supplements, etc. I then go about my morning feeding of the mares nearest the barn.

This particular morning I walked into the feed room, reached up and pulled down a square bale of hay. Stretching higher up for a second bale I pulled it towards me, tilting it against my chest for balance. It was early morning and it was dark...but not dark enough that I couldn't see the bull snake on the other end of the bale. I started to step back to let the bale just fall when my legs encountered the previously dumped bale. I sat down with the second bale square against my chest. As the snake slid forward, I swear to you, not since Eve in the Garden had a snake smiled in such a mischievous way.

I am not afraid of snakes. I have a healthy respect for them, especially when I have a hoe or shovel in my hands. As I pushed the bale away from me the snake slid tail first into the "pocket" of my overalls. At this point I would like to tell you that I was very calm and used lady-like language; however, that would be a bold faced lie. Falling off the first bale onto my back I had a sudden flash of what it must be like to be a turtle. Thick, insulated clothes make it very hard for short, round women to get back up once they are in a prone position. Grabbing the wire of the bale, I managed to turn myself over and get to my feet. Once standing I began "the zipper dance". You know the steps...pull, tug, pull, stomp, pull, pull, pull!

I made my way out of the feed room and into the small corral. Gathering my wits, I grasped the top of the zipper and the tongue and moved the zipper on the front of my overalls about halfway down. Unfortunately, this also loosened them at the waist and instead of falling out as I had hoped; Mr. Snake proceeded down into the left leg of the overalls, which fit me just snug enough that I could feel his every movement. But hope springs eternal when you are in a desperate situation; I figured he would go on down and would simply fall out the bottom of the leg of his insulated prison. That, however was entirely too optimistic on my part. It was wet and muddy and I had pulled on my big rubber boots, with the bottoms of my overalls securely tucked inside.

As I danced about my son came around the corner of the barn. Throwing myself onto my back in the muck of the corral I shouted, "Quick, peel me out of these overalls! Snake! Snake! Snake!" Kicking and struggling with the side zipper on the leg, I awaited his help; but he was no where to be seen! The mental image of a turtle on it’s back once again invaded my mind. Screaming his name I saw my son coming from the barn with a hoe and looking at the ground. "Where Mom? Where?!" he kept asking.

"IN MY OVERALLS! GET ME OUT OF THESE!"

Grabbing my boots he tossed them aside and began to tug at my overalls, which were still secured by their straps over my shoulders, inside my coat. I was grappling with the coat while my son dragged me around the muddy corral. I had the sudden realization that I was a turtle on its back and had the irrational thought "What would a turtle do?" (Pulling my head in and ignoring the situation was not an option at this point.)

"COAT!" I screamed, "OFF!" Fortunately for me my son speaks fluent screech and was able to translate my cries into directions. Sitting me up and jerking my coat off, he returned to tugging at my overalls. With one industrious yank the overalls came off and as they flew into the air, so did the snake.

I have always loved old Roadrunner and Coyote cartoons, especially when impending disaster is played out in slow motion. This is the first time in my life that real time took on all the qualities of that poor Coyote having a rock fall off a cliff onto him. The snake flew up, went into a stall, hung momentarily (still smiling, I assure you), curled into position, straightened out like an Olympic diver and propelled himself straight onto my stomach! My son, also in slow motion, watched the snake go up and down and made one comment, "Duh-ang!"

Rolling to one side I dumped the snake into the mud, grasped a panel, scrambled to my feet and grabbed the hoe. I would like to tell you again that I was very lady-like and magnanimous and that I allowed Mr. Snake to make his escape unscathed. This also, would be a lie. I do believe however, that when Mr. Snake got to reptile heaven he told the gatekeeper that he was dispatched from earth by a Marine Corp drill instructor who was wearing only muddy long johns and socks. I will admit I may have overreacted a teeny bit, as Mr. Snake vaguely resembled stir-fry when I was done.

My husband made it in from his latest job in the Gulf and went out to do the evening feeding. I had not related the day's events to him as I was in the shower for the second time that day. (More mud, a skittish bottle calf, you get the picture.) Fortunately for me, my son was with a friend and had not regaled his father with his version. (Which differs slightly from mine. I did not pummel the snake with my fists nor did I shout, "this is for women everywhere!" Not that I recall anyway.) As my husband came back into the house I heard him ask, "Who killed my snake?"

"What do you mean by my snake, Cowboy?" I asked in that unnerving controlled "mommy" voice that children and husbands fear.

Silence from the hall.

"You knew, it was there?" I asked. "And you didn't kill it?"

"Well, it eats mice and it never causes any trouble."

Wrong answer.

"It slid off a bale and into my overalls."

More silence.

"I think I'll go back out and spend a little time in the barn before supper" he said. Smart man.

Believe it or not, there were lessons learned from this incident. I have learned that children do listen to what we say. My son made me put seven dollars in the swear word fine jar for what he heard and told everyone in the county that his mother can kill a snake with lightning speed once it is outside her clothes. I have learned that it doesn't matter whether not your long johns match as mud co-ordinates everything into barnyard brown. I learned that my husband is pretty savvy when it comes to knowing when to make a quiet exit. I also learned not to repeat this story to friends or Jon will write a song about it.

The snake learned a valuable lesson too…Turtles, are tougher than they look.

* For more information on Riding Drag, CDs, books and personal appearances by Debra go to http://www.oldyellowslicker.com or contact her at PO Box 348, Chelsea, OK 74016.

Column: RIDING DRAG

Article title: YOUR SECRET IS SAFE WITH ME

Friendships between ranch women are solid. Our word is our bond. When a ranch woman tells you she is your friend, you can bet your bottom dollar that she will always do what is best for you. My friend BJ is a ranch woman. She lives in Montana and leads an active life as a horsewoman and teacher. We have a lot in common; kids, horses, cowboy husbands and a rural lifestyle we love.

This lifestyle is not without peril. We each have stories of snake killings, skunk battles, exploding sourdough containers and we both have freezer secrets. These secrets are not easy to explain and are quite frankly, something ranch women don't normally admit to. But I know for a fact that BJ and I are not the only ones hiding dark secrets in the family freezer.

The secrets came to light one day during a phone conversation. The subject had turned to what we would expect of our friendship should anything ever happen to one of us. We each agreed that we would rush to the home of the other and straighten up so when the neighbors came, they would not find the house in it's usual state of "outdoor-people-live-here-ness"; thus alleviating any embarrassment to our families. (You know how people like to talk.) During the discussion BJ asked if I thought cleaning out the refrigerator should be a part of our pact. The most horrible thought popped into my head. "Good grief, BJ, the freezer!" I exclaimed in genuine terror. There was silence on the other end of the phone. "Without question, the freezers come first! Swear it!" was her solemn reply. We crossed our hearts and swore an oath that should anything happen to the other, the survivor would travel post haste to clean out the freezer, thus salvaging the reputation of the dearly departed.

An inventory seemed appropriate. As we began to compile it became obvious that we are real women of rural America. Only another ranch woman would ever understand why in my freezer there are grub worms and grasshoppers in a butter tub (my teen-age son’s winter fishing bait supply), bull semen and a deceased hedgehog in zip-loc® bags (my pre-teen, future veterinarian daughter's science experiments), a duck wrapped in panty hose (don't ask, it has to do with my husband and taxidermy) and two full-feather turkey wings (I'll get around to making that Native American fan one day). BJ never laughed at my inventory, nor did I laugh at her when she revealed that her freezer currently contained their family dog. I totally understood…it was winter in Montan; who can dig a hole when the ground is frozen that hard? Solemnly we spoke the words that all true ranch women know as sacred, "I'll take care of it." Nothing more need ever be said.

I hope each of you has one solid friend in your life on which you can depend. One who will always be there for you no matter what you ask. With this in mind I want to impart this little piece of wisdom, it may very well be that a friend in need is a friend indeed, but a friend who can keep your freezer secrets is worth their weight in frozen grubs.

* For more information on Riding Drag, CDs, books and personal appearances by Debra go to http://www.oldyellowslicker.com or contact her at PO Box 348, Chelsea, OK 74016.