Shootin' the Breeze

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Archive for the tag “Fort Worth Stockyards”

My Delayed But Inevitable Entry Into The Cowboy Hall of Fame

Many of you dear readers have undoubtedly wondered when I would be admitted into the Cowboy Hall of Fame.

You might have criticized the nominating committee.  You might have felt the process was unfairly rigged.   In defense of the committee, I want to remind you that Peyton Manning is not yet in the National Football League Hall of Fame.  The reason is that Peyton is still playing.  When his career is finished, there is a waiting period for eligibility before his admission into the NFL Hall of Fame will be voted upon.  I believe that his induction is inevitable.  He must be patient, as was I concerning the Cowboy Hall of Fame.

My career as a cowboy is not concluded.  Nevertheless, the waiting period since I won a competitive event has been sufficient for eligibility.  If I make a comeback, it will just be icing on the cake.

Last Friday, I was pleased to get there, finally, as captured in the photo below, taken in Fort Worth, Texas, at the Texas Cowboy Hall of Fame, located in the historic Stockyards.

I would have gone inside too, if only I had the $5 for the admission ticket.  I think next I will see if I can get into the NFL Hall of Fame, then the Baseball Hall of Fame.  Heck, I have never taken performance-enhancing drugs.  I better start saving up for the price of admission.

Texas Women

There is, or used to be, a TV show called Texas Women.  In each episode, the four particular Texas women who are featured have to come up with activities to demonstrate how interesting their lives are and how wild and crazy they are. 

Their activities frequently involve drinking alcohol and using foul language that has to be bleeped out.  They like to go to bars in the Fort Worth Stockyards.  There they get in fights with each other and engage in generally immature and contrived drama.

I am personally familiar with the Fort Worth Stockyards and like to go there when we visit Miss Sugar’s family in that area of the world.  I have ridden the mechanical bull there, gone to Billy Bob’s, and wandered through the many stores with cool western stuff, including a Stetson that I purchased.  I particularly like eating at The Cattlemen’s Club.  I highly recommend the place.

I am not impressed with the young women who are featured on the show because they are not ladylike.  I happen to be related to several Texas women who are ladies, so the ones on the show embarrass me.  On the other hand, classy ladies might not make for good ratings on “reality tv.”  Just ask the Kardashians!  They are the experts.  (Did you see the enema episode?)


              It was high noon.  Miss Sugar, my trophy wife, was fussing in the kitchen when she hollered, “Big Bronc, they’re coming!  Lots of ‘em.  You better be ready.  I’m gittin plumb nervous.”

           Soon they commenced to coming up our lane to the ranch house.  Dozens of folks arrived in waves.  We was surrounded.  

            Me and Texas Bob took our stations, him by the cantina, me peeking out from inside the house.  We was ready, providin’ there warn’t too many of ‘em.  I lost count at 65.  That seemed about right for me and the little woman and Texas Bob.

            Also, Texas Bob had brung a woman with him, as was his way.  She was a spunky redhead, a fancy dresser, name of Ginger.  I’d seen her before.  Once down in Fort Worth Stockyards, at the Cattlemen’s Club, Bob and Ginger was there with me and Sugar and we had a good old time.  Now we four was going to have a different kind of party.

            The womenfolk tried to help, but they was just gals.  Bob and me would have to “do the heavy liftin” as far as taking care of the situation.  The way I looked at it was, we’d done it before so there was no need to think we couldn’t handle this situation just like we done other times.  As you can tell, I don’t scare easy.

             So what are you’all thinking we was facin’?  The people surrounding us had been invited to our annual John Wayne party, this one to celebrate the 105th anniversary of his birth.

              We had a band.  Karen aka Sugar had been preparing food for weeks, baking and freezing a score of pies and all.  She done what she could, but of course I was  the one who set up the folding tables and chairs.  I unloaded the keg.  I dished out the barbequed pork.  Karen only made a dozen or so sidedishes and her special Texas  barbeque sauce.  I appreciated that minor assistance.  Like I said, she done what she could. 

             Texas Bob manned the cantina bar, like the experienced barkeep he is.  He served beer, margaritas, sangria, sweet tea, and lemonade.  He was very popular.  But the meat was my department.   A feller ought not to delegate the biggest job.  That buck cain’t be passed if Big Bronc wants to keep his title of King of the Wild Frontier, assumed by him after the untimely passing of Davey Crockett.

            Anyways, I expect none would argue when I tell ya’all that a good time was had by all.  No brag.  Just fact.

            After the crowd thinned out, Bob and me loaded the chairs and tables into my Ford F250 Supercab shortbox pickup truck.  We picked up the garbage bags too while the little ladies messed around in the kitchen on account of they ain’t no dang good at loading pickups. 

            Sugar and Ginger got along like peas and carrots.  Some say Ginger made her way out West by way of Jugtown Mountain, New Jersey.  If that ain’t true, it should be.  It is well known that Texas Bob is Miss Sugar’s Daddy.  The DNA results proved that.  As for that Ginger woman, the rumors are that she might be Sugar’s biological mother.   Regardless of whether the rumors are true, Sugar treated Ginger just like kin.

            You might be wondering why this tale is called Deadly Dangers at Cross Creek Ranch.  I’m fixin to tell you why or I’ll be a blue-nosed gopher. 

             Recall what I said awhile back about Miss Sugar making a bunch of side dishes.  Well, one of them was something called Three Bean Salad.  (This writing technique is called foreshadowing.)

            I reckon I might not have done a proper job of securing those garbage bags.  A couple days later, Max, our ten year old yellow lab, seemed bloated and was having trouble breathing.  We speculated that he might have been bitten by a rattlesnake.  (See also Sharpshooter blog.)  We took him to a veterinary emergency room where x rays showed that it was not a bite by a snake, but rather, lots of bites by Max as he consumed “leftovers.” 

           He had surgery.  The doctor told us that she recovered from his stomach a couple pounds of deadly Three Bean Salad. 

            As a result, I’m betting that our next party menu will not include Three Bean Salad.


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