Comes that time of year when
the hay is cut and stacked
and the aspens have yet to turn yellow gold.
Then it is Roundup time.
I suppose out there on the ranches
cattle were rounded up, branded and
some subjected to loss of gender identity.
But in my hometown, Roundup
was an urban event.
It was the time to parade the
cowman alter ego.
Time for once–a-year clothes and Stetsons.
The banker in snakeskin Tony Llamas
took to heels about the way a 15 year-old
princess did to high heels
for the junior prom.
His gabardine Gene Autry suit
came out of the closet
the same size it went in.
But banker hours and business lunches
changed the September cowboy
and made the waist
more than a bit tight.
The white Stetson, always white,
covers a balding head,
one more gift from a generous father.
Silver and turquoise bolos
on a hand-embroidered silk shirt
made the costume complete.
The big palomino gelding he rides
looks like a fence-breaking romance
between a Morgan and an Arabian.
He carries himself as proud as an Arabian
and he is necessarily as strong
and patient as a Morgan.
As always the once-a-year cowboy
leads the parade
followed by a flat bed truck,
a stage for the Frisco Canyon Ramblers
playing long-remembered melodies.
Three high school bands follow this,
the 4-H float and
the vets marching in old ill-fitting uniforms.
It is a short parade and
fathers fool their children by
moving down a block to view
the passing parade a second time.
Few memories are as clear to me
as this annual event.
The parade is over and
the real cow people come stage front.
They ride, rope and tackle
as the crowd cheers.
Western adulthood is celebrated
by men in the arena
and barrel-riding ladies.
Off in the green and white world
of the exhibition barns
children become adults
through the toughest
of initiating ceremonies.
Each cow is a pet, each pig has a name
and each goat is a long-time shadow.
Blue and red ribbons hang
from the stall slats.
Then green and whites lead
their friends
to the auction ring where friendly
butchers bid too much
for prize stock.
Green-and white-kids become ranchers
when no tear is shed.
And no watching parent has forgotten
when they too had to become ranchers
this way so long ago.
Doug Minnis
May 3, 2010