I'm past 60 where life seems a little quieter, more patient, less demanding, less contentious. Folks long gone are more remembered; childhood is more missed, youth is forgiven. With the grey hair, that I'm still vain enough to dye, has come the understanding that life isn't forever and if I have something left to do, I better get with it.
My cowboy never had a son (we tried . . . hard. I had 6 miscarriages trying for a boy for him). Instead we had three of the cutest little girls that have grown up to be beautiful, capable women. We just enjoy everyone else's sons now. One of the neighbor boys has wanted to be a cowboy his whole life so, of course, one of his heros would live at our house.
Today he and one of the other neighbor boys came to give us a hand moving a small herd across the creek at the north end. It was a hard move because of the horrible boggy ground down by the creek. There are some places the horses just can't go with out poking through and sinking up to their bellies. It scares me but boys"go where angels fear to tread."
The boy on the bay horse gave us a pretty good chuckle. His mare got down into the creek, all four feet and then jumped so hard he ended up in front of the saddle clinging to her neck. I was so worried about him I forgot to snap a picture. It would have been priceless; his eyes were big a saucers. Boy, did he get teased.
I hate to sound like a broken record, but those Charolais bulls, 2 of them, sneaks, in the wrong herd. My cowboy's whip cracking (not hitting) was enough to to make pussy cats out of them today. (Note: Roxy is swimming.) It was the highest and fastest moving I've ever seen that creek.
Another good day on the range and it was almost like having sons of our own. They even complimented me on the sandwiches I made them for lunch (at 3:30). Nice boys, both of them.