GOING FOR BROKE

While listening to the TV news recently, I learned that some "experts" have decided that certain people are compulsive gamblers because of their genetic makeup. That they just can’t resist the impulse to take a chance. And that there is good reason to believe that soon the medical profession will have a medication that will dull that burning urge to wager.

An older friend once told me that those of us whose parents and grandparents came from Europe "have that gambling thing bred right into us." He went on, "Our ancestors were the kind who were ready and willing to take a big gamble. They came to this strange country where they did not have the slightest idea what the future held in store for them. These brave men, women, and even small children weren’t even certain that they would survive the trip across the ocean. They had no idea what they would do, once they had arrived here, or how they would earn a living and support their families. But they were real gamblers. Willing to risk it all. And we have inherited their gambling spirit."

I wasn’t in the mood to really discuss the matter. I could have mentioned that gambling, as such, is usually an attempt to just trust to our luck and to "get something for nothing." I’m sure our ancestors were ready to "pay their way." And anything they hoped to receive from this new land they were ready to earn with much hard work and sweat.

No doubt a medical cure for problem gamblers would be great. But what would come next? A "booster shot" or "Viagra-type gambling pill" for those of us who lack the craving or bravery needed to go after the big stakes?

GOING FOR BROKE


The old man entered the barroom
And sat down on a tall stool,
Searched his pockets, even
Turned them inside-out.

He said, “Fellers, I’m an expert.
For the price of a few drinks
You can learn what gambling’s
Really all about.”

“I’m a rambling gambler and we
Rolling stones gather no moss.
I’m a sucker for all
Kinds of games of chance.

“I’m ready to take my chances,
Quick to lay my money down,
About all I own are
These old denim pants.

“I’ve made and spent lots of money,
Made choices that were unwise,
Bad investments in card
Games and rolling dice.

“None of them have paid much interest
Or big dividends, or such.
Mostly they have been a
Poor deal for the price.

“Shooting for ‘something for nothing’
Is what gambling’s all about.
We may win big, but won’t
Know, if we don’t try.

“Anywhere there is a question,
Betting seems the normal thing.
When we lose we rarely
Stop to wonder ‘Why?’

“I have bet on almost every
Kind of contest known to man,
Even on the date of
The first killing frost.

“I’ve bet on ball games and horses,
Even the Chicago Cubs,
Also on some dead-sure
Things, but still I lost.

“Yet, regardless of the odds, I’m
There, ready to ‘ante up.’
There’s always a chance, if
You know what I mean.

“Every game, contest, or conflict
Is almost sure to produce
Some big winners, though they’re
Few and far between.

“I’ve rubbed elbows with high rollers,
Guys who play for the high stakes.
I pretended to heed
Every word they’d say.

“All we gamblers are alike. We’ll
Never stop dreaming the dream,
And I wouldn’t have it
Any other way.

“I’ve purchased a few casinos,
They’ve all been bought and paid for.
I’m well known in Vegas,
I will have you know.

“But the sad thing is I have no
Deeds or bills of sale. There is
Nothing on paper, not
One damn’ thing to show.”

LIFE’S CAROUSEL

One of my friends has a “catch all” expression that he uses frequently. Whenever anyone does something unexpected, unusual, or inappropriate, we are likely to hear the old fellow repeat, “It takes a lot of people to make up a world.”

He once told me that it is fortunate that we are not all alike. “All types are important. We need thinkers and dreamers to come up with new inventions. We need entrepreneurs to take chances and start new companies and places of business to supply our needs and to furnish jobs for those who are content to punch a time clock and work for a regular wage. Also the world requires at least a few of us who readily tire of a steady job and are always ready and available to fill new positions and part-time jobs.

“There ain’t nothing wrong with working on the same job day after day and year after year, if you enjoy the work and don’t mind the conditions,” he went on. “But if you are a member of a team of Eskimo dogs pulling a sled, you’ll most likely find the job a whole lot less boring and the scenery much more interesting if you can work your way up to being the lead dog.

“Our lives often tend to become quite a bit like a carousel. But I suppose those wooden merry-go-round horses don’t really have it all that bad. They are well cared for and work where there is a good deal of activity. There are always a lot of people around, also lights and music. And they don’t have to worry about a thing. They don’t ever have to be concerned about thinking or making decisions. Like a lot of us, they just keep going ‘round and ‘round.”





LIFE’S CAROUSEL

Mostly I try not to think
Of how low folks’ hopes can sink,
How depressed and sad, at times,
People can feel

When they’re not winning life’s race,
But kind of “taking up space,”
Each, just one more bent spoke in
Time’s rusty wheel.

Years can surely take their toll
On the spirit and the soul.
Time can grind one’s confidence
Into the ground.

It wears down more than a few,
And the same thing must be true,
For each painted horse on a
Merry-go-round.

In a large amusement park,
From morning till after dark
Beautiful horses run with
Smooth grace and pride.

Their home, the merry-go-round
Has a cheery, tuneful sound.
For many children, it’s their
Favorite ride.

On it, the circle of steeds
Of uncertain wooden breeds
Have shiny hides and hooves that
Reflect the sun.

Whites and blacks, spotted, and bay,
Carry the children all day,
’Round and ‘round in a daylong
Circular run.

They all move equally fast –
There is no first place or last –
All day long these steeds make their
Appointed rounds.

Running, as long days drag by,
Never pausing to ask “Why?”
The calliope cheers them on
With jolly sounds.

’Way back when I was a child,
Of those horses, fast and wild,
One big blaze-faced bay was my
Favorite nag.



“Thunder” had great strength and speed,
More than any other steed,
But I have never been one
To boast or brag.

We’d gallop around that track,
Close behind a speedy black,
With Thunder’s head high, and me,
Bursting with pride.

I was dead certain, of course
That mine was the fastest horse,
And we could pass them all if
We really tried.

Today I can only pray
Thunder’s still happy today,
Content with how his life’s race
Is being run.

And when each evening sun sets,
My old horse has no regrets
And, for him, running with the
Pack is still fun.

BUTTERFLY

For the last several years the big talk in the farm seed industry has been about new technology that makes possible the biological engineering of plants in ways that make them vastly superior to normal versions produced by natural means. One of the most successful has been the new “Bt” corn that is now planted on many acres here in the corn belt. The ability of a specific type of bacteria to produce an insecticide has long been a matter of great interest. Modern plant engineering has now made it possible to incorporate that factor into the corn plant, to design new Bt hybrids that can create their own “insecticide,” and actually kill the European corn borer larvae that would feed on, weaken, and destroy them.

Many serious environmentalists, along with numerous other assorted individuals and groups, take a dim view of this sort of progress. They all warn of the possibility of creating a Frankenstein-like monster. Some even put a religious spin on it, saying that when we bypass God’s natural laws we are sure to create many new problems that will vastly outweigh any gains. They like to use

Atomic-fission and atomic-fusion as horrible examples, often adding quotes by famous people such as Gen. Douglas MacArthur and the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King.

This summer, someone came up with data indicating that pollen from the tassels of Bt corn, when landing on the leaves of milkweeds, can weaken and even kill the monarch butterfly larvae that feed only on these leaves. I discussed this with an old friend, a corn breeder who has recently received a good deal of well-earned recognition for helping develop a corn hybrid that is currently one of the more successful in the state of Iowa. We kind of lamented: Of all the insects and other assorted bugs in the world, why did it have to be the monarch butterfly? What other bug is as widely known and universally loved as is the monarch? Scotty didn’t seem to take too kindly to my suggestion that the next move would have to be an attempt to develop a Bt-resistant monarch butterfly.

In late July a group of us visited the Olbrich Botanical Gardens in Madison, Wisc., to see their special show, “Butterfly Bonanza.” Thousands of butterflies of assorted species were turned loose in the Bolz Conservatory, an indoor tropical jungle, where they fluttered and flitted about to their hearts’ content among the banana, breadfruit, and countless other rain-forest trees and plants. Giant Swallowtails, Monarchs, Queens, and Viceroys; Painted Ladies, Zebras, White Peacocks, Julias, Malachites, and many others gave us a colorful show of their flimsy, faltering aerobatics.

Arrangements were made to supply a variety of flavors of nectar for them to sip. In a special “birthing area” many chrysalis hung in rows, giving viewers a chance to watch newly-formed butterflies emerge, to dry their wings, and fly away.

The enthusiastic crowd that enjoyed the lively display included many family groups. Small children bustled about, searching the plants beside the paths for the brightly colored insects, anxious to report their finds to their parents and grandparents. Together they would try to identify each newly-found butterfly by comparing it to the 24 colored photographs in their beautiful brochures. Those with cameras recorded their sightings of various “Lepidoptera” on film.

Watching the fragile-looking creatures flutter slowly from plant to plant, it seemed difficult to believe that a monarch butterfly can attain a speed of 20 MPH, or fly as high as 10,000 feet above the ground. Much less survive a 2,000-mile migration from Canada to Mexico.

A large banner proclaimed: “A world filled with the magic of butterflies is a world of natural diversity!” All of the happy, smiling faces at the “Butterfly Bonanza” convinced me that many people have a soft spot in their hearts for the flutter-bugs. And that butterflies do have their own brand of beautiful, colorful, magic.



BUTTERFLY



Pretty butterfly,
As you flutter by
On your hither-thither way,

I sure hope you know,
As you come and go,
That you brighten up my day.

What a jolly sight,
With your colors bright,
As you clear my garden wall!

Soft, warm breezes blow,
You come and you go
Even above trees so tall.

You’re a welcome guest
(The one I like best)
In my garden by the lane.

Tomorrow, at noon,
If that’s not too soon,
Please, flit by this way again.

If I could but be
Light, footloose, and free
As you, off, away we’d fly

On our wings of gold,
We would flutter, bold,
Exploring the broad blue sky.

Air-borne jewel bright,
In the summer’s light,
Thrilling mere earthlings, like me,

Once some girl or guy
Much wiser than I
Reasoned: “Butterflies are free”

TELLING IT LIKE IT WAS

Every now and then a reader asks when I’m going to write another “cowboy column.” Maybe all the boyhood time I spent playing cowboy didn’t go to waste after all. Or the time spent watching cowboy movies and TV shows.

I can never qualify as a real cowboy poet. That requires a writer to actually be a working cowboy or cowgirl, or to at least own and operate a ranch. But at least I can try to think and write about the Wild West.

I’ve met a few real working cowboys along the way. And a whole passel of rodeo cowboys, including several of the very best. I’ve met only one real cowgirl. Last fall I wrote a column titled “Roman Rider.” It told the story of Prairie du Chien’s Elaine Kramer who once thrilled rodeo and circus audiences all across this country and Canada with her fantastic daring and exciting Roman riding act. I’m more than happy to say that this month Elaine will receive a great and well-deserved honor, when she is inducted into the National Cowgirls Hall of Fame down in Fort Worth, Texas .

Here is the tale of a barstool-riding cowboy:


TELLING IT LIKE IT WAS

“Rusty” Clayton is a cowboy,
Right out of the old Wild West,
Wearing hat and boots and Levis,
Jingling spurs and sheepskin vest.

He has a Southwestern accent
And can talk the cowboy talk.
He saunters into the barroom
With a John Wayne style of walk.

He tips his hat and says, “Howdy.”
No one feels it one bit strange
If he calls somebody “Pilgrim,”
That’s how it’s done on the range.

When people listen, he takes them
Back to his “cow punching” days
He tells about big fall roundups
Where they gathered up the strays,

And about those long nights when the
Dry, hard prairie was his bed,
When one small blanket warmed him and
His saddle pillowed his head.

Fighting rustlers is just one of
The risks a real cowboy takes,
Along with the prairie dog holes
And sidewinder rattlesnakes.

One night a short-tempered drinker
Snarled, “Tex, I think you’re all mouth.
Why not close your trap and mount your
Stick-pony and ride off south?

”For two hours I’ve sat and listened
To you till my ears were full.
I think your big cowboy talk is
Nothing but a load of bull.

”I’m sure I’m not wrong when I say
You’ve never herded a cow,
Or roped and branded young dogies,
Hell, I don’t think you’d know how!

”You ain’t killed any sidewinders
Or so much as a horned toad.
That barstool you’re straddling is as
Rank as any bronc you’ve rode.

”I’m declaring you’re no cowboy,
Here’s one thing that makes me sure:
You’re fancy old cowboy boots ain’t
Never tasted horse manure!”

Rusty slowly got to his feet,
Sneering, “I don’t take no lip
From no greenhorn who ain’t never
Slept west of the Mississip’.

”There’s just five guys who have tried me.
Three healed up, after a spell.
The fourth one still walks with crutches
And the fifth woke up in hell!”

The bar owner grabbed big Rusty
And rushed him right out the door,
Shouting, “Rusty, you’re just trouble,
You ain’t welcome here no more!”

Once outside, he whispered, “Rusty,
You know this is just an act.
That wise guy leaves town tomorrow,
And I know that for a fact.

”You know you’re the most consistent
Patron that we have, by far.
If you stayed away, we’d miss you,
You’re a fixture in this bar.

”You’re our only entertainment,
Best of all, you work for free.
Be back here tomorrow evening,
All your drinks will be on me.”

SPRINGTIME

The older I get, the more I appreciate our Midwest with its four distinct seasons of the year. Maybe that is because I was born and raised here. I cant really say that I enjoy winter, but I think I would miss it. I am sure I appreciate spring all the more because of it. We often hear that anticipation is at least half the joy of anything. I'm sure that a lot of us begin anticipating spring when the snowdrifts are still hip-high to a tall person (Shucks, there goes another of my favorite old sayings that my politically correct friends wont let me use anymore).

I do occasionally run into folks who don't exactly look forward to the seasonal changes. A few just don't care much for change. And then there are some that are pessimists who aren't really pleased with anything. While complaining about the cold, snow, ice, wind-chill factor, and frosty forecasts, they don't like to be interrupted by someone telling about a newly developed variety of seed potatoes he or she is going to order from that colorful seed catalog that came in the mail yesterday.

Believe it or not, such people really don't look forward to spring. There is all that unsettled weather to look forward to, weeks of mud to contend with, followed by days of hard work raking and cleaning up the winters supply of fallen tree branches and trash and gravel from the lawn. And indoors, how will they ever find time to get all their spring-cleaning done? Then there will be all of that never-ending work in garden. And spring gives them nothing to look forward to but all of that lawn mowing and other hard work and, worst of all, the intolerable heat that summer will surely bring.

And that hot season will give them nothing to look forward to but fall. How could anyone enjoy a busy time of year like that? All of those dry, fallen leaves from the neighbors trees that the wind will deposit on their lawns will have to be raked up and burned, or bagged up and carted off. The garden has to be put to bed for winter. And then there is fall housecleaning. And soon there will be the cold and the deep snow, the icy, slippery, dangerous roads, and the huge fuel bills.

And when winter is finally finished, along comes that busy, messy, muddy season we call spring.


SPRINGTIME


A few drab and shabby snowdrifts
Still insist on hanging round,
But if were quiet, and listen,
From the woodland comes the sound

Of the springs very first robin;
We stop just to hear it sing,
As it does its level best to
Turn our winter into spring.

As that season rounds the corner
Judging by these signs we've seen,
Soon the lawns and pastures will all
Turn from dull, drab brown to green.

Trees and shrubs will all be leafed out
In their lacy finery
As they do their best to please and
To thrill folks like you and me.

We can see the buds now swelling
On the maples branches high,
Praying for warm springtime sunshine
As they brush against the sky.

Waves of snow-white and pink flowers
On apple and wild plum trees
Will fill mild air with fragrance to
Awake winter-weary bees.

The brooks music will assure us
That, once again, spring has sprung,
Nests and dens of many creatures
Will be homes for brand-new young.

In farm fields, the newly plowed ground
Will echo the tractors roar.
Awaiting the new birth and growth
This great season has in store.

As we look around, we cant help
But feel we've been truly blessed:
All these wonders of creation
Displayed at their very best.

Free Spirits

I recently received a welcome e-mail from a reader who had a question regarding the making of wooden willow whistles. He said that when he was a boy his grandfather taught him how to make them, and fe felt the time had come for him to pass that knowledge on to his own grandson, but all of his recent attempts at whistle making had failed. He said he had forgotten some of the details including how to remove a large area of the willow twig's bark without damaging or destroying it.

Several times over the years, I have mentioned these whistles. On one occasion I wrote a published article that contained complete step-by-step instructions for making them. Perhaps the time has come for me to see whether or not I can still practice what I preach. It won’t be long until spring and the “sap will be up,” the time when willow twigs are the greenest and most tender and in ideal condition for whittling wooden willow whistles.

When spring finally arrives, if I can find the time (which should not be too hard) and the ambition (which may be more difficult) I will go out and select a nice straight unblemished willow branch. After sharpening my jackknife, I will cut off a 4-inch length, then whittle the mouthpiece and cut the sound hole. The next task is to make a girdling cut around the piece, making certain to cut all the way through the bark. Then, holding the knife by the blade, the handle of the knife is used as a hammer to bruise the area of bark I want to remove, loosening it from the wood. If everything goes as planned, this area of bark can be slid off the wood in one piece. After whittling away more of the bare wood, the bark is slid back on and, hopefully, we’ll have a willow whistle that whistles.

Who knows, perhaps the whole whittling experience may bring back a few precious memories and at least a bit of that wonderful feeling of freedom a boy felt each spring when he no longer had to attend school. In the woods or in a field or pasture, and armed with his trusty jackknife and perhaps a BB gun, he could be a pioneer, a mountain man, or a cowboy. He was free and the world was his to explore and to enjoy.

FREE SPIRITS

A small boy sitting on a log
Reached out to pet his faithful dog
Both content as
The warm summer day passed by

The boy said, “Shaggy little hound,
No matter where I’ve looked around,
I’ve found no friends
Who are close as you and I.

”If need be, we’ll forage for food.
If forced, we can act crude and rude.
No one’s ever
Accused us of being shy.


”Like me, you can act brave, small hound,
Bark loud and throw your weight around.
We won’t look for
Fights, but we won’t pass them by

”No one can guess, or much less, know
In this world, how far we will go.
We’re much alike,
Friend, as far as I can see.

”We’re kind of like a pair of strays –
Rough, tough, and real set in our ways,
And I know that
You lack a real pedigree.

”At heart, we’re a pair of free souls,
Without any real long-range goals,
Kind of taking
Life the way it comes and goes.

”If fate presents a real tough test,
We won’t just come in second-best,
We’ll rely on
My sharp wits and your keen nose.

”I‘ll bet no one will ever see
Two friends loyal as you and me
Together, we
Make up a real winning team.

”We both find the fresh air so grand,
Out here in nature’s wonderland,
A place we can
Dream the impossible dream.

”But right now, we will have to go.
Lengthening shadows tell me so –
By now, Mom has
Supper ready. Come, let’s run!

”I’ll fill your food bowl to the brim
To maintain your vigor and vim.
Come morning, we’ll
Come back here when chores are done.”

Degree of Education

Quite number of years ago, one of the young professionals at an agricultural research department was showing a summer college internee around and getting him acquainted with the job and with the people. I heard him tell the student, “And Scottie has his ‘post-hole digger.’”

That one had me stumped for awhile. Then it finally dawned on me that in agricultural college boy lingo, a post-hole digger meant a Ph.D. degree. I couldn’t help but wonder how many other such names they had for various degrees and accomplishments. That looked like a fairly fertile field for growing a new poem, so I began rhyming a few words.

At that time I didn’t know of any publishers looking for rural rhyme so today’s poem never was submitted anywhere, but I kept it in my repertoire for public readings. When working with our company’s sales department, I was frequently asked to “loosen up” sales meetings by adding a little humor with a short poetry reading.

Of all the poems I read to farmer-seed dealers and their wives, this one was the favorite:

A young man drove a farm wagon
Down a dusty country road.
He grinned as one of the steel wheels
Almost nailed a lazy toad.

A well-dressed stranger flagged him down
And he said, “As you can see,
My car has a flat tire. Would you
Please install the spare for me?

“I’d hoped someone would come along.
I’ve been waiting for some while
And I’m afraid that changing tires
Has just never been my style.

”Getting down, the young man tied his
Mules so they’d not stray away.
He said, “This won’t take five minutes,
And I’ll have you on your way.”

The older man admired the young
Man’s ambition and his zeal
As he promptly jacked the car up
And removed the airless wheel.

The older man said,“Young fellow,
You should really be in school
With higher learning, no one would
Look on you as just a fool.

“At City College, with a bit
Of alumni help, one can
Pull himself up by his bootstraps –
Be an educated man.

”“You’re tall, and sound of wind and limb;
Plenty broad across the beam.
I’m sure there would be room for you
On our college football team.

The young man smiled a happy smile,
When he’d finished with the car,
He said, “Sir, you just don’ know how
Far off-base you really are.

“My working skills and fencing tools
Make my future very bright.
I’ve all the work I want to do
Every day from morn’ till night.

“I ain’t got much education,
But can write and I can read.
I’m happy and doing nicely,
With all the degrees I need.

“These Muscled Arms are my M.A.
I make a good living and
This Post-Hole Digger’s my Ph.D.
My work’s always in demand.

“This Blunt Shovel and Broad-Axe are
My B.S. and my B.A.
My M.S. is this Muddy Spade
That I use ‘most every day.

“If a sticky problem stumps me
My dad will consult with me.
Like me, he is a Mule Driver,
So he, too, is an M.D.

“I get exercise and fresh air
Without paying no greens fees.
I face right up to my Maker
When I’m praying on my knees.

“You look down your nose and tell me
To just what I should aspire.
Shucks, at least I’m smart enough to know
How to change this gol-darned tire!”