"Showdown at Snowdrift Corral" - Homegrown Ep. #1191

Howdy friend, welcome to Homegrown, I'm your host, R.P. Smith.

We are in the thick of cabbage season, it's going pretty well.

I invested in a couple of portable panels that have gates in them.

That has made our cabin camp much more user-friendly.

Our temporary facilities are looking a little more permanent, but it is making for a much

safer experience for both livestock and the people caring for them.

I did have a case last week where it was not possible to get the cow that needed help

to the corrals, but by taking the time and using her interest in her fresh cleanings, I was

able to position her, the after-birth, and her oversized calf where I could get the calf

started nursing, avoiding the need to go home and talk to a lost room.

Things don't always work out quite that well, but it sure makes a job more enjoyable

when they do.

We seem to have missed our equinoxial weather event this spring.

We would sure appreciate some moisture, but I'm not to the point of praying for a blizzard.

I've been through enough of them to last me a lifetime.

I dread them so much I have a hard time eating at Dairy Queen.

Since we're on the subject of cattle handling facilities and weather events, let's revisit

one that I call, Showdown at Snowdrift Corral.

An equinoxial storm, the sleet did swarm on the day winter gives way to spring.

In wind-driven snow and twenty below, a name changed, don't mean the thing.

A big-titted mama cross, charley on brama, short-tempered and built for pure speed.

The gleam in her eye would make bold cowboys shy, and strike fair in the heart of brave

steed.

That old cow proved her savvy when she had got cabby, hold up by the fence next to the

trees.

Out of the winds blow between two drifts of snow, her calf made its grand entry with ease.

Things quickly got worse when the calf tried to nurse, nature taught him that he would

need fed.

But all that he found were teased too big a round, so he nibbled mom's navel instead.

It had been a long night by morning's first light from my pickup by surveyed the scene.

Somehow I must cope with dog dad and rope like a match in spilled gasoline.

Old Braemer's a snorton as her calves ears shortened by the minute in the bone-jilling

cold.

The calf's in a pickle, a cream-colored calf's sickle.

Should I call the cow's bluff or just fold?

I sent out my dog through the snow she did slog.

Braemer's attention she had it complete.

Tink red that old cow, and instinctively now turn tail and return to track seat.

Dad sang a new tune.

Let's come back in June.

Do nothing, and hope it goes well.

I jumped from the rig with no plan too big.

It was showdown at snow-drift corral.

The cow came my way, saying, punk, make my day.

Fill in my heart with pure dread.

Her ears they did snap like a semi-smud flap till they slapped on my backside instead.

I felt some less bold through the snow I was rolled, then tossed like a toy thrown away.

I tried to repel as down what I fell, her head snagged my loop in the fray.

From the rig dad ejected like he'd been rejected, he thought things were going too fast.

The cow turned around and exit she'd found.

Dad stepped in the coil as she passed.

It looked bleak, my friend, till I grabbed the ropes, and then dallied to dad's other leg.

Braemer started to slow as we scooped up more snow, and I knew that success we would

beg.

What happened next left me some perplexed, she leaped from a snow-drift and flew through

the sky.

I thought she was toast as she lit on a post, and dad screamed that the old cow would die.

His theory seemed right as I gazed on the sight, a phenomenal let the physicist explain.

That cow ballets there.

All four feet in the air, like a three-quarter tonne-weather vein.

When you're in doubt, just milk them on out, fresh logic in that old western code.

With each frothy squirt her hooves near the dirt, and flailed as I lightened her load.

Dad's freed from the rope, Braemer's off on a lope, her ballast drained to the last

drop.

With three strands of wire spurring her flight's desire, she went quite a ways for she stopped.

The calf ate its fill of our ill-gotten swill.

We left him knowing the cow would return, and when she soon did, in the pickup, we

hid, who says that an old dog can't learn.

Dad said you've had fun, but there's work that needs done.

He spoke clearly now on, my behalf, son if you had been thinking, instead of just

dinking, you would have put a tag in that calf.

I'm very excited to be part of this year's Old West Days in Nebraska Cowboy Poetry Gathering,

coming up April 23rd through the 26th.

I will be performing on the Friday night show, along with Texas Songbird, Gene Prescott,

and her husband Gary, South Dakota True Bedore, Paul Larson, and Yvonne Holland back of

Clarefield, South Dakota, is coming out of retirement to host the Friday night show.

This is going to be a great weekend of Cowboy Poetry and Music.

If you've never attended, please don't miss it.

If it's been a few years, please come back for a visit.

For a full schedule and tick information, visit the Old West Days website.

Thanks for riding along on Homegrown this morning.

That the Lord blesses you real good today, that He is raining on your place, and that

are our happy trails.

Cross again soon.

I'm RP Smith.