Monte Walsh: Writing Tall In The Saddle

TIME HAS COME TODAY...

Daylight savings time. Just the mention of it throws me a bit to the wrankled side. Why do we still do it? Who knows. More important, do we really need to care? Why do we adhere to it? Well, if I had to guess: Baa...Baa...(my best sheep imitation). Why do some states still practice the tradition, if you will, while other states have seen the light (literally) and come to the realization that these days, it is mostly foolish to believe you can save time and or energy during daylight hours by simply setting a clock forward or backward? I guess it may be for the same reason they have those buttons at the crosswalks that you see pedestrians pressing fifty times in a minute, all the while thinking that simply because it's there, it must work. Again, baa baa...

This little ditty isn't an in-depth look as to why we should continue to fallback and spring forward. Speaking for myself, I could probably make a case that the Wall Street big boys are keeping the daylight savings time thing alive because in the fall, it gives them an extra hour to figure out more ways ways to fleece us, and in the spring, they can get an earlier start at it. Conspiracy theorists, where are you when we really need you?

The point to this story, if there is one, is how one man, myself, is managing to work around the imposed time change by reluctantly following it at times, only when necessary mind you and happily disregarding it with a stubbornness born from a life time of springing forward and falling back, when I can get away with it.

My horses are the biggest reason for my time-yank rebellion. You see, they know nothing about daylight savings time. When it comes to feeding time, they do not respect, observe or have any patience for springing or falling. Back when I was participating in the 9 to 5, me and the boys(my horses) had no choice. At the particular time of the time change, they either got fed an hour earlier or later in the morning and an hour earlier or later in the evening. My job adhered strictly to the savings times rules so me and the ponies sucked it up and endured the time manipulation madness. Neither the horses or myself minded the feeding being done an hour early of course but the hour later feeding was always accompanied by an hour of pitiful stares, woeful whinnying and a general disbelief that they could be so quickly abandoned and mistreated by their otherwise reliable and steady owner. At least that's what I felt.

It is my experience backed belief that as humans, we tend to take for granted, the individualized hour. Unless of course we drive up to a store who's hours sign indicates they don't open for another hour or if you are down to the last hour before your dentist appointment. I say this because most everyone adds an "or so" to the hour: "I'll be there in an hour or so..." "It'll only take an hour or so..." But to horse owners and to specifically their horses, an hour can be a lifetime. If you don't believe me, tie your horse to a hitching rail for an hour or stick him/her in a parked horse trailer for an hour. Try riding the horse out for a half hour and then purposefully take an hour coming home on the same trail. Yea buddy, that's what I'm talkin about. Oh, for those horse owners who say: "Oh no, my horse is the best at burning an hour doin nothing but waiting...", you might want to check its pulse. Now, here, I must add that my horse might be fine tied to a rail for an hour or standing in an unmoving trailer for an hour but here's the rub: Training purposes not withstanding, I'm not. I begin to get the ol' equine guilt. Yea, you know what I'm talking about: That "Aw, poor horsey" feeling that creeps into your brain if you're able to imagine yourself in the horses hooves. If you have the ability to shun equine guilt or it is something foreign to you, sorry, maybe you shouldn't own horses.

So, I do everything I can to avoid equine guilt and generally I succeed. Sometimes I get home later than normal at which time the horses get fed later than normal but I don't feel any serious equine crime has been committed and to date, I have not come home to find one or both of the boys laying hooves up on the ground with starvation being the cause. All that said, every spring and fall, the equine guilt is thrust upon me whether I like it or not. One little short human hour. One large equine hour/ lifetime in the form of "Where the hell is our food...?" The horse don't care for the change and every same spring and fall, I become the self-assigned victim, which is to say, I don't care much for the whole notion either.

First, to be able to operate in between the "time was on your side but now it isn't" world, you have to be self-employed. Second, you can only pull off your private little timeless rebellion if youre in the single status. That is to say, if there are others in your household who still have to adhere to the newly imposed time changes, you'll either wind up getting sewn up in a bed sheet and beaten with a broom as you slumber or worse, risk being run over in the driveway if your campaign has caused someone to be late for work. Sure, there is always the possibility you will be deemed completely mad but chances are better you will only make everyone else mad. By the way, being unemployed will work but only if you have given up all hope up of ever finding another job and your only importance of daylight is focused on whether it's light enough for passing motorists to see your "FIXIN TO BE HOMELESS" sign. Being self employed, I've managed to cruise between both worlds. Eventually, maybe I'll succumb to society demand and spring into step or fall into line but for now, it helps me to hold on to what little remaining sanity I possess by just not doing either. And unlike the song, along the way, I can get me some satisfaction...

Being on time and still remaining timeless... I have 2 clocks in my house- the house clock and the alarm clock. I keep the one in the house on "horse time" which is the actual time it was before the time masters said I should spring forward or fall back. That way, I keep the horses happy and I avoid the equine guilt thing. I also refer to it as "real time". The trick with the house clock is with it always being an hour off, I need to commit to faithfully applying the hour addition or subtraction when and if I need to be somewhere in the real world, otherwise I'm obviously going to be an hour early or an hour late. Hey, no one said it would be easy. Begrudgingly, I reset the alarm clock to the new and approved time or what I call "sheep time". I only do this because if I happen to wake up in the middle of the night, I want to know exactly what time it is, just in case I have an early appointment in the real world and how fast I need to fall back to sleep if I have time left before actually having to get up. Other than that, the alarm clock is shunned and in my mind, depending on the time of year, it's an hour off either way. The clock in the truck is also reset simply because if I'm in the truck, I'm traveling which means I'm on "sheep time" and it would be foolish to impose my beliefs and principals on those who are operating on a different time schedule and really just don't have the time for my untimely issues.

So, there you have it. My time is up, and depending on where you live, I finished either an hour early, an hour late or maybe I'm right on time. The bottom line is my horses are getting fed on equine time which keeps them happy, I avoid the equine guilt blues and when I venture out into the world, I adhere to the "other" time. Am I crazy? Perhaps. But it does keep me from going completely insane and at a time when an hour or so might be all it takes to insure a timely arrival...

Monte Walsh - ArizonaTerritory 2012

~She Rode from The Heart~

As far as I know, she came from Wyoming. Some say it was Montana. She rode one of the finest mustang paints to ever be roped off a prairie, leastways that I had ever laid eyes on. As we would come to learn later, the horse had originally been a part of the wild mustang herd in the Pryor Mountains south of Billings along the Montana-Wyoming border. She had gentled the stallion herself and the end result was not being able to tell where the cowgirl began and the horse left off or even the other way around. Together, the two shared a bond in both mind and body that most cowboys could only envy. It was always something special and a near true marvel to watch her and that big mustang work a stray cow back to the herd.

Her rigging and saddle were plain at a short glance but a closer look revealed a style and taste bred from knowing and it would only be my humble opinion but I'm inclined to believe any self-respecting cowboy with good sense would feel the same. The headstall and bosal she preferred were a custom made combination of woven leather and horse hair and while both fit the mustang like a soft work glove, they were also crafted in such a fashion as to give commands without harshness or strain, not that the horse needed either. Her saddle displayed a ribbon of small, hand-tooled roses along the rear of the cantle, with a matching loop bordering the edges of both fenders, each one beginning and ending above the stirrups which were both shrouded with a set of tapaderos, hand made from deep in the heart of Mexico, testament to Spanish saddle makers and leather workers who still carry on time honored and old world traditions. At the middle of each tapadero was an inlaid flowering rose, about the size of a small child's hand, with an embedded silver concho, hand carved as the center of the flower. A few of the boys thought her riggings were a bit frilly with all them roses but the plain truth was, when the lady would finish pulling the cinch tight, gather the reins and climb aboard that dancing mustang, to this old cowboy, frilly just never came to mind. And besides, I admired all them roses although I didn't know entirely why but it was enough just to admit to myself that I did.

The five weeks she spent working with us during a cattle roundup in the Santa Fe mountains a year ago last spring was a time me and the boys still talk about like it was yesterday. She won our hearts, our respect and while she was at it, I'll be damned if she didn't go and change our way of thinking too when it came to just being a cowboy. In plain and short words, to a man, we all felt inspired to give an honest account of ourselves by doing the work better than just fair because our way of life was something worth being darned proud of doing and doing right. Something I reckon most of us had forgotten until she came along. And none of that came about because she was a woman or that any of us felt our cowboy pride was somehow being threatened, I reckon it was mostly from working next to someone who truly loved the occupation, understood it's values and held close its traditions, and with no questions asked.

Working along side the lady from Wyoming, Montana or wherever she hailed from, that spring of 1970 is a memory I find pleasing. Me, the men and her, day after glorious day a-chasing down strays, fetching out critters tangled deep in the sage, along with sorting, calf branding and such. At night, around the campfire, she spoke about her admiration of cowboys she had met, those she worked along side and could even tell you why one ranch was better operated or how it was worse than the next. She would recount stories of summer roundups below the Great Divide in Colorado, winters on the rugged plains of Nebraska and even time spent with the Dakota Indians in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Hell, it was if she came out of some western dime store novel and we were like a bunch of kids, asking one question after another. Night after night our cowboy pride was quickly set aside for another story.

After the spring round-up, she loaded up the mustang and headed off to a wild horse gathering over near Wells, Nevada. The day she left, all the men including myself, gathered around while she was packing away the last of her tack. We each took turns shaking her hand, wishing her good luck and made her promise to come back for another stay. I remember the last thing she said to me as she was putting that rose covered saddle away : "Always ride from the heart cowboy, and the rest is roses..." And damned if she wasn't right. I reckon it ain't the worst thing, being a cowboy... or a cowgirl.

Monte Walsh - ArizonaTerritory 2006

~Monte's Lament~

If youre not who you say you are, then who are you...?

I'm no cowboy, just a country boy. Adequately educated and somewhat regulated. A student of life, no pilgrim to strife and quite familiar with a fork and a knife. A fairly good boy, seldom coy and always pass on bein a boy toy. A teaser, a pleaser, surely no Ebenezer, I try to keep fit, have an abundance of wit, seriously funny, have my own money and I never call the neighbor’s wife, honey. I don't go with the flow, pretend I do when I really don’t know, hang with the crowd, and for the most part, I'm past getting too loud. A jack-of all-trades, a master of some, I’m handy, often dandy, and then every so often, I can be just plain dumb. A positive thinker, I can be a stinker but try not to fall hook, line and sinker. I have a good mind, I'm fair and I’m kind, have a decent behind, and I do believe a good man is hard to find. I know lots of songs, am sometimes wrong, but honest as the day is long. I don’t always like the company I keep, I believe what ye sow so shall ye reap, old trucks are cool, and so goes the same for the Golden Rule. I admire those who go the extra mile, wear a friendly smile, not afraid to dream and use less sugar and more cream. I find cities too cold, cowgirls bold, dog-years unfair, and cornbread is good, round or square. I like spirited horses, uncharted courses, not sure of unknown forces, admire those who walk the walk after talking the talk, old-fashioned ways, rainy days, a job that pays, and a dog that stays. A well-oiled saddle, a good fiddle without faddle, someone else’s cattle, and wars without battle. Life when it’s good, not being misunderstood, a handshake for a deal and the deal being real. Knowing eyes, true lies, short good-byes, legitimate alibis and laughing with a friend. No bounds, old hounds, cowtowns, bird sounds, and of course, true love that has no end...

Monte Walsh ~ Arizona Territory 2003

~Joe Cowboy~

We love ya, Joe

You might see me in a rodeo down in Dallas or a saloon out in Phoenix. Packin' high into the Colorado mountains, or wanderin' a deer trail thru the badlands of New Mexico. I'm the one mommas warn their daughters about and the one she always hoped they might bring home. Hard to hold, damn harder to set free. I've had the love of a good woman and child, the pride of a good horse. My boot soles are thin from life's enduring trail and the knees of my britches worn thru from prayin'. I've known the good and the evil from bars to bedrooms and always willin' to trade a tomorrow for today. I've laughed at danger and wept at the sight of a newborn calf. I've got tattoos from tequila nites on the border, bruises from pickin fights with fence posts and scars from doin both at the same time. My hands are calloused from the work, my face tanned from the summer sun, but my touch is soft to a woman's cheek. My heart is strong like the mighty oak, but weak in the shadow of a female smile. I've had it all, and had nothing. I've been knocked down, I've been helped to my feet. I'm in your cities, your towns, the backstreets and feedlots. I've fought the weather, waded into war and mended a broken heart or two. I've been in some wrecks, I've had some good rides. If ya havent met me yet, I'm Joe cowboy...

Monte Walsh Arizona Territory 2004

~Friends Forever (Or until I cant stand you anymore...)~

With friends like mine, who needs enemies...?

I have a million friends. Ok, maybe a couple hundred. Truth? I count 3 or 4 good ones. Can I really count on the 3 or 4? Not really. Can they count on me? Absolutely. I take pride in being counted on. Incidently, I'm not sure my Facebook friends can be counted at all. After all, I dont really know most of them.

Facebook, for me, seems to be more like a ficticous score card when it comes to having friends. I mean really, can someone maintain true, quality friendship requirements with 2000 friends? Even 100?

Back to my unaccountable 3 or 4 friends. I'm not sure 'bout anyone else, but my little bevy of friends, all separate from each other, tend to irritate me as if they held a corporate meeting to decides ways and means to piss me off. Their main and collective platform for this is not being truthful to themselves. When and if they possess this annoying tendency, friendship harmony for me, becomes an inner struggle of patience and I might add, fighting back the strong desire to choke the snot out of them.

Now, before you say: "Gee Monte, sounds like you just need some new friends..." or "Oh Monte, you demand to much of your friends..." or the 'ol friend standard: "A person can be measured by how many friends he has..." Stop. Please, just stop. I say: " While strangers only have the opportunity to take advantage of you once, friends can be relentless. There, I said it.

I know my problem. I'm getting older. As such, I demand more in the form of "just the basics" from my friends. Truth, sincerity, honor, reliability to name a few. Not only to me, but to themselves as well. And I reckon, I do want to be measured by the quality of my friends. But not by others. For me. Why? Because when I see a friend, I need to know that he or she is my friend because of personal qualities that I also bring to the table. I guess I just need to feel good about myself.

So, here's my solution. Even though I'm on the down hill side of life, my friendship standards will remain high. I will not be afraid to say to a friend: "Friend, you suck, and I want you off my friendship bus..." simply because I fear someone at my ultimate passing whispering to a fellow griever: "Damn, ol Monte didnt have a lot of friends, did he?" And my life being on the short side, I will not fear losing those friends I have carried and coddled over the years. In fact, I'm removing the seniority clause from my friendship plan. If you havent gotten the true friend concept by now, I cant help you.

Friendship Disclaimer: I'm not angry, depressed, drunk or medicated. I just prefer, no, I demand and will not accept anything less...than true friends.
Monte Walsh ~ Arizona Territory 2011
Copywrited/All rights reserved

~A Cowgirl's Handshake~

Humbled In Salinas-1996

The first time I saw her she was on her second go. Concentrating on the calf ahead, she was backed into the chute, rope held high and at the ready. I must admit, I was admiring the look of her, as I suppose any man with fair wits about him generally would and never gave much thought as to whether she could actually rope. As it turned out, she caught and spun the calf, while the heeler, a fellow with a bit of a reputation for being quite steady, missed miserably.

Thinking she'd be quite the catch herself, my ego led me to her truck and trailer where, after the competition had ended, she was busy loading up her horse and gear. I've always fashioned myself as a bit of a ladies man and felt quite sure she'd be no match for my charm. When I arrived at her rig, she was kicking at the trailer hitch, muttering a few choice words as she went. I remember thinking to myself, my timing was perfect. The classic damsel in distress. I introduced myself and needless to say, I was sorely disappointed when she politely refused my assistance. Normally, I would have taken her refusal of offered help as an indication she was perhaps one of those overly independent type women, but before I could assess her as such, something happened for which I was completely unprepared. She halted her ongoing assault on the hitch, stood up, removed a well-worn glove from her hand and as she reached for my mine I remember at the time thinking: I have just been outclassed. She told me her name and added a simple but polite, "But thanks anyway."

As I shook her hand, I was immediately aware of several things. Her hand, although very feminine, was firm in it's grasp of mine. Not like that of a man, mind you, but rather that of a very confident woman. The other thing I couldnt help but notice was the way she looked at me while shaking my hand. For a brief moment, it was as if she were forcing me to look into her eyes, wanting to see me more clearly. Right then, I found myself remembering back to when, as a boy, my father taught me the importance of a handshake. He said "You look into a man's eyes when you shake his hand son, it will tell you everything you need to know about him." It just never occurred to me a woman should or would do the same.

Now, every time I shake a man's hand, the words of my once forgotten father's advice always comes to mind. That and the memory of a cowgirl's handshake....
Monte Walsh ~ Arizona Territory 2005
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~Consider The Horse~

Somedays, I plum feel like a rented mule...

Have you ever had one of them days when life's saddle was feelin' a bit too snug? Experience the irritating feeling that somebody, without rhyme or good reason, was holdin the reins too dang tight on you? Want you to do something you havent been taught and arrogantly mistake not knowing for rebellion? Prod you with meaness instead of asking with kindness? Inflict anger instead of patience upon your body? Blame you for things gone wrong but quickly take credit for something you did right? Pit their power against your unrecognized giving will? Impose silly and ill-conceived notions of higher intelligence upon you? Take you for granted? Under-estimate your abilities? Over estimate your abilties and all too soon, give up on you? The next time you saddle up, consider the horse.....
Monte Walsh ~ Arizona Territory 2003
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