Hanks: How much crow can you eat?
Gentle readers, I discovered at an early age how much crow I could actually eat. Yep, and it was all caused by my mom of all people. I know we should never speak ill of our parents, but heck, they are only human and make mistakes just as we do.
I’ll give you an example: In the fourth grade while on the playground at recess I told some of my classmates that my mom said, when I was younger a Shetland pony bit me on the side of the face and just ripped out a chunk of my face! Well now, I never ever considered that my mom might, just might be living some sort of fanatical episode that never happened the way she described.
The little girls had a look of horror on their faces and the boys seemed skeptical and one boy with arms folded across his chest gave me a stern look and said, “yeah, well I don’t see no scar, so it didn’t happen!”
Boy did that ever take the wind out of my sails. I never considered the fact that I should have a scar.
Well, that ain’t all. In a fifth-grade science class, the subject came up about the Great Depression. My teacher had lived through it and was trying to convey to us how difficult life was back then and it wasn’t that long ago. I popped up and replied, “my mom told me that I gathered up all the shoes in the house, filled the bathtub with water and tossed them all in!”
My teacher looked at me in a sort of pitiful way and said in a quiet voice, “young man, you weren’t even born during the Great Depression.” Here is my second large portion of crow to eat.
I was so embarrassed that I had made such a fool of myself on those two occasions. I just never dreamed that my mother was not shooting straight with me. Then there was that time she rode her horse across the Yellowstone River when it was almost frozen holding her first born child in her arms! Didn’t happen!
Nope, when I relayed that story to one of her brothers later on in life he just “laffed” and said something to the order of, “yeah well, yer mom has been known to spread it on a little thick at times. Pass the crow please.
The very last thing any cowboy want’s strung around his neck is that he is a B———r. From the time I realized that mom was just not being truthful and who knows for what ever reason, I have burdened myself to always tell it, whatever it is, the very best way I remembering it happening.
I recently wrote about an old cowboy at a branding they called “Windy.” He came by that handle for a reason.
Although he was fun to listen to and be around he was just “play acting” as far as I was concerned. Folks like my mom, God rest her soul, have a reason for living their lives the way that they do. My brother and I have discussed this subject many times and we think we have it sorted out.
As for mom, she had a stroke in her early 80s and was unable to speak, other than say two words, “main thing.” How goofy did all of that turn out to be. Karma? Who knows? There is a time to tell “little white lies” if it means one’s not losing a friend or maybe even his life.
“Hon, does this skirt make my butt look too big?” White lie, tell a little white lie and everyone will feel better.
I have eaten all of the crow I ever wanted but did it in an honest way by just not knowing the circumstances. By the way, my friend Larry says, “the reason a crow never gets run over while eating road kill is because his buddy is on the high line above him saying, kaw, kaw, kaw!” that’s funny my friends.
Well now, it’s time for me to tell you to stay calm, check yer cinch on occasion, spring is here and wind is gonna’ blow for a while. Hug yer kids and if a white lie is needed, do it gently and I’ll c. y’all, all y’all.❖
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