It was a fine day we had for working those calves a couple weekends ago. A cool, cloudy morning which always seems to settle the temperament of those involved (both man and beast) far better than the hot, dry, windy, dusty days. Sorting ol’ Bess, Miss Cleo, Precious, Honey-pie, Gertrude, and all them other momma cows who seemed to get names as we push them along; temporarily separating them from their offspring; it just seemed to go natural-like with the usual ‘git ons,’ ‘yeps,’ and ‘yahs’ providing the right motivation. It went so smooth, ol’ Woodrow just stood and watched, not bothering to interject on proper form or cow etiquette, which was pert’near a miracle in itself.
Working along in that mist and drizzle, the moisture God was sending down on His previously parched earth, soaking thru and dripping down my old cap beneath the collar of my shirt, made me realize why real cowboys wear cowboy hats. I’ve thought about conforming to proper cattle working attire. In fact, I love the opportunity to wear my straw hat, but I have my own tradition in place. That old cap I wear, like a comfortable pair of boots, grew from my good cap, to my everyday cap, to my calf working cap. Just like Josh Deets, I ain’t one to give up on a garment when it still has its use. It’s tattered and threadbare, sweat and dirt stained, stiff as rawhide for the first thirty minutes of work, only being pulled out of the closet on those few days a year that it gets its sacred action. It may not be traditional in the cowboy sense, but with the near fifteen years of experience it earned, it’s traditional in my mind.
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