All my life I've had very little interest in all things political, and no desire whatsoever to throw my hat into the ring. Still don't......
"Jack we think you'd be a great County Commissioner! Why don't you run for the seat that's up in your district?"
It wasn't so much a question as it was a plea from an acquaintance who had just experienced an exasperating hour pleading his case in front of the three men who govern the affairs of our County.
That was eight years ago, and I was fairly new to the County.
I politely declined his request.
Four years later, and more than one person approached me with the same suggestion.....run for office!
Again, it's not that I'm not a concerned citizen, but it just didn't feel right. I was busy with a couple of different business ventures and trying to learn the cattle raising thing at the ranch. I didn't need the distraction of public office.
Once again, I declined.
Here it is four years later, I've sold one of the businesses, and the cattle business is less intimidating to me than it was a few years ago. Earlier this year I was told that the incumbent was planning to retire and it was time for me to get off my duff and run for the seat that was evidently going to be vacant.
I said that I'd think about it....
Now, I've picked up the filing papers and have commenced gathering signatures for a "filing by petition" which I've been told is the best way to approach a political campaign. I have until June 1st to either turn in the papers or bow out gracefully. I suppose I'll turn them in to the Court House, and announce my official candidacy for County Commissioner....
What am I thinking.....
I suppose it still comes around to that old "What do I know?"
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
I swear it wasn't me.....
When I was kid my folks bought a little two bedroom house and moved the family to town. We had always lived in rented houses "out in the country" so everyone seemed to be excited about the move. Now, I can't imagine wanting to leave the country life for the city.
But, I was only four when we moved into the house, and soon learned to tune out the sights and sounds that were far different than the ones to which I was accustomed; the whistle of the train that was hauling crude oil to the refinery, the stink of the refinery itself, and of course the constant rumble of the trash trucks heading past our house to the city dump.
Location, location, location.....I'm not sure my parents were made aware of that rule of thumb when buying their first piece of real estate. But, as a youngster, I learned to appreciate some of the opportunities it provided.
If a person was not averse to risk, he might hitch a ride on the back of one of the slow-moving trains and cut the walk down to the river trestle by half. Then, upon arrival at the bridge, one might learn how to swing down from the outside edge over the river, and drop to the concrete pillars that supported the trestle. Not many people were aware of the 2x12 timbers that formed a little crawl space under the bridge, but for those who were either brave or foolish enough to crawl out to the middle of the river, it was a great place to hang out.
I'm not aware of anyone who had the nerve to jump into the river as it flowed over the rocks below, but it was not because it wasn't discussed at length. For the most part, it was just a good place to escape from everything for awhile, shoot .22s at snakes, turtles, fish, and anything else that happened to float by. Occasionally, you might be "fortunate" enough to experience the tremendous vibration, heat, and noise of the train as it lumbered across the trestle directly over your head.
I recall these things only because they are the stories that were related to me by those rowdy kids of my neighborhood.......I swear it wasn't me who did it.....But, then again, my memory fails me at times, and it's quite often that I simply have to say, "what do I know".
But, I was only four when we moved into the house, and soon learned to tune out the sights and sounds that were far different than the ones to which I was accustomed; the whistle of the train that was hauling crude oil to the refinery, the stink of the refinery itself, and of course the constant rumble of the trash trucks heading past our house to the city dump.
Location, location, location.....I'm not sure my parents were made aware of that rule of thumb when buying their first piece of real estate. But, as a youngster, I learned to appreciate some of the opportunities it provided.
If a person was not averse to risk, he might hitch a ride on the back of one of the slow-moving trains and cut the walk down to the river trestle by half. Then, upon arrival at the bridge, one might learn how to swing down from the outside edge over the river, and drop to the concrete pillars that supported the trestle. Not many people were aware of the 2x12 timbers that formed a little crawl space under the bridge, but for those who were either brave or foolish enough to crawl out to the middle of the river, it was a great place to hang out.
I'm not aware of anyone who had the nerve to jump into the river as it flowed over the rocks below, but it was not because it wasn't discussed at length. For the most part, it was just a good place to escape from everything for awhile, shoot .22s at snakes, turtles, fish, and anything else that happened to float by. Occasionally, you might be "fortunate" enough to experience the tremendous vibration, heat, and noise of the train as it lumbered across the trestle directly over your head.
I recall these things only because they are the stories that were related to me by those rowdy kids of my neighborhood.......I swear it wasn't me who did it.....But, then again, my memory fails me at times, and it's quite often that I simply have to say, "what do I know".
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
A spectacular start to a spectacular day!
It's nearing the end of February and I cannot believe how mild this winter has been. Seriously, we've only had one measurable snow, and it barely covered the ground. The ponds have remained unfrozen for the livestock, and for me too, as I've been spared the chore of chopping holes in the ice. Yes, I know it's much too early to gloat.....after all, we've had some significant snowstorms in March, but the nice thing about those spring storms is that they are short lived.
About a week ago we had our first calf of the spring, the first of seventeen. He was born on Valentine's Day and was aptly named Valentino. Since then we've had three more here at the ranch, and four others that were delivered "down the road" where a friend of mine monitors the deliveries of my first-calf heifers.
It's my favorite part of ranching....and even though it can sometimes be trying, there's nothing quite like walking up to a newly born calf and watching it struggle to its feet as it tries to figure out the intricacies of "life on the outside". It's a rude awakening I'm sure, but made much more tolerable when the weather is mild.
Yesterday I was up early. The sky was clear and the sun was inching its way over the hills to the east of the house. There had been a light frost overnight, and the sun was creating thousands of diamonds across the pasture as the sunlight reflected off the grass. It was going to be a spectacular day!
As usual I started the coffee, then stepped to the windows to enjoy the view. The cows were meandering across the pasture, headed to the feed troughs where I would soon reward them for their cooperation. As I stood in the living room I caught a glimpse of smoke. No, it wasn't smoke, it was steam rising out of the tall grass on the side of the hill about 200 yards from the house. Time to go check it out.
I would usually jump in the Ranger, but it wasn't far so I walked. The sun was warm and we were headed to another day pushing sixty degrees.....in February!
I hadn't walked a hundred yards when the mama cow stood up from where the steam was still marking the spot. They're a little nervous right after giving birth, and I always approach slowly, talking quietly as I go, trying my best not to spook them.
I never tire of the sight. New life is a gratifying thing, and being able to witness it on a regular basis is God's gift to me. This one was a little bull calf, black with a partially white face.....almost identical to his mother, and she was very proud. I stood back as she licked him dry and nudged him until he stood on his wobbly legs and began the search for nourishment.
Just another day at the ranch......but, one with a spectacular start wouldn't you say? I think so, but as always, what do I know?
About a week ago we had our first calf of the spring, the first of seventeen. He was born on Valentine's Day and was aptly named Valentino. Since then we've had three more here at the ranch, and four others that were delivered "down the road" where a friend of mine monitors the deliveries of my first-calf heifers.
It's my favorite part of ranching....and even though it can sometimes be trying, there's nothing quite like walking up to a newly born calf and watching it struggle to its feet as it tries to figure out the intricacies of "life on the outside". It's a rude awakening I'm sure, but made much more tolerable when the weather is mild.
Yesterday I was up early. The sky was clear and the sun was inching its way over the hills to the east of the house. There had been a light frost overnight, and the sun was creating thousands of diamonds across the pasture as the sunlight reflected off the grass. It was going to be a spectacular day!
As usual I started the coffee, then stepped to the windows to enjoy the view. The cows were meandering across the pasture, headed to the feed troughs where I would soon reward them for their cooperation. As I stood in the living room I caught a glimpse of smoke. No, it wasn't smoke, it was steam rising out of the tall grass on the side of the hill about 200 yards from the house. Time to go check it out.
I would usually jump in the Ranger, but it wasn't far so I walked. The sun was warm and we were headed to another day pushing sixty degrees.....in February!
I hadn't walked a hundred yards when the mama cow stood up from where the steam was still marking the spot. They're a little nervous right after giving birth, and I always approach slowly, talking quietly as I go, trying my best not to spook them.
I never tire of the sight. New life is a gratifying thing, and being able to witness it on a regular basis is God's gift to me. This one was a little bull calf, black with a partially white face.....almost identical to his mother, and she was very proud. I stood back as she licked him dry and nudged him until he stood on his wobbly legs and began the search for nourishment.
Just another day at the ranch......but, one with a spectacular start wouldn't you say? I think so, but as always, what do I know?
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Life in the slow lane.....
As a young man, fresh out of college and working my very first job in corporate America, my dreams were big, but the salary was lagging behind the dreams. As is the case with most entry level jobs, the wages were low, the hours were long, and most of the assignments were monotonous.
In addition to the tedium of the job, I was faced with the first rush-hour commute of my life. For some reason, every major corporation felt the need to have their corporate offices within the confines of "downtown". Therefore, at approximately the same hour every morning, thousands of people driving thousands of cars, converged onto the two major arteries wending their way to town.
Not only was the commute time consuming, it was also quite expensive for a fledgling corporate drone. Fortunately for me there were many others sharing the same dilemma, and it was not unusual to see the bulletin board filled with notes....."ride needed"...."carpool opportunity"...."pay to ride". All one needed to do was find the right address, make a phone call, and voila.....instant carpool.
Soon after I made that fateful phone call, Jim, Charlie, and I were sharing the driving duties from the southeast suburbs into downtown. The expressway of choice was the most direct route into downtown, but it seemed to be constantly undergoing some type of construction, narrowing from four lanes to three lanes, then to two lanes as it dumped thousands of cars onto the one-way streets leading to acres of asphalt parking lots.
We were seated three abreast in Jim's old Ford pickup. The fan for the A/C was working great, but the air was blowing hot, just like outside.....Ugh, summer in Oklahoma. We were nearing downtown and gradually making our way over to the right lanes as directed by the signs and orange barrels.....slowing to a crawl....sweating and thinking about another day at the office. Suddenly a very old, very large, very dirty car swerved to avoid the barrels and cut us off short! Tires shrieked on the hot asphalt, and expletives filled the air, adding to the already overheated cab of our ride.
Jim Saporito was Italian, and Italians are sometimes known to have short, volatile tempers......I glanced over at Jim and watched his neck and face begin to redden. His lips were thin and drawn tight. Then, the driver of the very old, very large, very dirty car raised his hand to give a little wave of thanks for allowing him to cut in.
Wrong move.
Jim's equally old, large, dirty pickup suddenly lurched forward and "gently bumped" the car being driven by that ever so polite man who had waved at us. Dirt that had been caked underneath that old car for years raised little puffs of dust as it hit the roadway. Meanwhile, a smile slowly crept across Jim's face as he said, "I was okay with the SOB until he had the nerve to give us that little wave."
The next time you're tempted to race up to the front of the line and cut someone off in order to save yourself a couple of minutes, you might want to remember the story of Jim and his old pickup....It might just happen again, but what do I know.
In addition to the tedium of the job, I was faced with the first rush-hour commute of my life. For some reason, every major corporation felt the need to have their corporate offices within the confines of "downtown". Therefore, at approximately the same hour every morning, thousands of people driving thousands of cars, converged onto the two major arteries wending their way to town.
Not only was the commute time consuming, it was also quite expensive for a fledgling corporate drone. Fortunately for me there were many others sharing the same dilemma, and it was not unusual to see the bulletin board filled with notes....."ride needed"...."carpool opportunity"...."pay to ride". All one needed to do was find the right address, make a phone call, and voila.....instant carpool.
Soon after I made that fateful phone call, Jim, Charlie, and I were sharing the driving duties from the southeast suburbs into downtown. The expressway of choice was the most direct route into downtown, but it seemed to be constantly undergoing some type of construction, narrowing from four lanes to three lanes, then to two lanes as it dumped thousands of cars onto the one-way streets leading to acres of asphalt parking lots.
We were seated three abreast in Jim's old Ford pickup. The fan for the A/C was working great, but the air was blowing hot, just like outside.....Ugh, summer in Oklahoma. We were nearing downtown and gradually making our way over to the right lanes as directed by the signs and orange barrels.....slowing to a crawl....sweating and thinking about another day at the office. Suddenly a very old, very large, very dirty car swerved to avoid the barrels and cut us off short! Tires shrieked on the hot asphalt, and expletives filled the air, adding to the already overheated cab of our ride.
Jim Saporito was Italian, and Italians are sometimes known to have short, volatile tempers......I glanced over at Jim and watched his neck and face begin to redden. His lips were thin and drawn tight. Then, the driver of the very old, very large, very dirty car raised his hand to give a little wave of thanks for allowing him to cut in.
Wrong move.
Jim's equally old, large, dirty pickup suddenly lurched forward and "gently bumped" the car being driven by that ever so polite man who had waved at us. Dirt that had been caked underneath that old car for years raised little puffs of dust as it hit the roadway. Meanwhile, a smile slowly crept across Jim's face as he said, "I was okay with the SOB until he had the nerve to give us that little wave."
The next time you're tempted to race up to the front of the line and cut someone off in order to save yourself a couple of minutes, you might want to remember the story of Jim and his old pickup....It might just happen again, but what do I know.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Just another old fish story...
This mild weather has turned my thoughts to some fair-weather fishing. I've heard there are anglers that absolutely live to fish, and a little foul weather never acts as a deterrent to them as they grab their gear and head to the nearest lake, pond, or river to pursue their passion......And, while I really enjoy fishing, I guess you would identify me as an angler "lacking true passion".
If it's too cold, I don't fish; if it's raining cats and dogs, I don't fish; if it's too hot, I don't fish. Sorry, that's just the way I pursue this popular pastime.....thus the term fair-weather fishing.
Lazily floating down a secluded stream, fishing pole in hand, enjoying the sights and sounds of nature as the sun warms my shoulders.....that's my idea of the ideal fishing trip. If I catch fish, that's just a bonus.....okay, maybe not so much a bonus as a distraction. Kind of like golf.....a great walk in the country interrupted by having to chase a little white ball.
Last spring the river was at flood stage when we took our annual fishing trip. The result was a roaring trip down the river with each of us more intent on survival than fishing. Aah, but the year before was perfect, and I look forward to this year being the same.
The morning had been about as perfect as you would ever want. Steve and I had been floating, fishing, and enjoying the spectacular views along the river. A few hundred yards behind us, two of our fishing partners were drifting along in their canoe.....they were actually catching fish, but otherwise following the same course as the two of us. They were the elder members of our group, men with more experience on the river than Steve and I combined, and listening to their stories of a lifetime of pursuing their passion was a delight to all of us.
As we steered the boats over to a shady sand bar for our lunch break, we looked forward to hearing their stories as much as the ham sandwiches packed in the coolers. A few minutes later their canoe scraped to a stop on the sand bar and we pulled it to shore.
"You boys ready for lunch? So are we, so lets get to it."
Of course they made a big show of pulling their stringer of fish up so we could admire their catch,,,,,showoffs.
It's surprising how hungry you get after a morning of floating and fishing so everyone got busy pulling sandwiches, chips, and sodas from the coolers. Then, Steve stood up, walked over to these two grizzled old fishermen, and said, "I've got some hand sanitizer here, you want some?"
I glanced up just in time to see the priceless look on their faces.....I'd wager a very large sum of money that it was the first time either of them had ever been offered hand-sanitizer while fishing, and they were speechless.
I'll never forget that moment in time.....and I'm pretty sure it's etched in their memories as well. My guess is that it will be another fish story those two will enjoy telling for a long time.....I hope so, but what do I know.
If it's too cold, I don't fish; if it's raining cats and dogs, I don't fish; if it's too hot, I don't fish. Sorry, that's just the way I pursue this popular pastime.....thus the term fair-weather fishing.
Lazily floating down a secluded stream, fishing pole in hand, enjoying the sights and sounds of nature as the sun warms my shoulders.....that's my idea of the ideal fishing trip. If I catch fish, that's just a bonus.....okay, maybe not so much a bonus as a distraction. Kind of like golf.....a great walk in the country interrupted by having to chase a little white ball.
Last spring the river was at flood stage when we took our annual fishing trip. The result was a roaring trip down the river with each of us more intent on survival than fishing. Aah, but the year before was perfect, and I look forward to this year being the same.
The morning had been about as perfect as you would ever want. Steve and I had been floating, fishing, and enjoying the spectacular views along the river. A few hundred yards behind us, two of our fishing partners were drifting along in their canoe.....they were actually catching fish, but otherwise following the same course as the two of us. They were the elder members of our group, men with more experience on the river than Steve and I combined, and listening to their stories of a lifetime of pursuing their passion was a delight to all of us.
As we steered the boats over to a shady sand bar for our lunch break, we looked forward to hearing their stories as much as the ham sandwiches packed in the coolers. A few minutes later their canoe scraped to a stop on the sand bar and we pulled it to shore.
"You boys ready for lunch? So are we, so lets get to it."
Of course they made a big show of pulling their stringer of fish up so we could admire their catch,,,,,showoffs.
It's surprising how hungry you get after a morning of floating and fishing so everyone got busy pulling sandwiches, chips, and sodas from the coolers. Then, Steve stood up, walked over to these two grizzled old fishermen, and said, "I've got some hand sanitizer here, you want some?"
I glanced up just in time to see the priceless look on their faces.....I'd wager a very large sum of money that it was the first time either of them had ever been offered hand-sanitizer while fishing, and they were speechless.
I'll never forget that moment in time.....and I'm pretty sure it's etched in their memories as well. My guess is that it will be another fish story those two will enjoy telling for a long time.....I hope so, but what do I know.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Step forward and sign your name....
In August of 1969 I turned eighteen years old, and like every law-abiding, red-blooded American I hustled down to the Selective Service office and registered for the draft. Yes, the draft.....everyone's favorite way to get matriculated into military service. But wait, I'm going to college and have been granted one of those great incentives for staying in school, a student deferment! No problem here.
Fast forward a couple of years; "Yes ma'am, I'm still in school and should still have a deferment. No ma'am, I have not dropped out. Yes ma'am, I've transferred twice within the last year......What?"
In August of 1971 Miss Elizabeth and I were married and were preparing to move to Tulsa where I would be attending the University of Tulsa. The conversation above took place in October, two months after we had exchanged our vows. Possible change of plans.....
Thirty-four nervous young men from southeast Kansas were huddled outside waiting for the office door to open. We were told to be there by 8:00am. It was now 8:05, and the lady inside finally ambled to the front and clicked the lock to open the door. I was still holding out hope that my student deferment had been reinstated, but I had heard nothing, so I joined the group as we shuffled through the door and into the large waiting area.
The woman walked to her desk, sat down, and said, "You are all going to be boarding that bus parked outside which will then take you to Kansas City for your induction physical. When I call your name, step forward and sign your name on the sign-up sheet." She was very matter-of-fact, and very efficient.
As the names were being called, in alphabetical order of course, I stood near the back, halfway listening and hoping my name had not made the final cut.....Wait, she had jumped right past the Ns, and my name was not called. I knew it, I would be going back home soon. "Westin, David", my good friend's name was called....probably last on the list, poor guy.
"Newcomb, Jack, would you come up here please?" She was looking at me over the top of her glasses. This was it, I was headed back home instead of Viet Nam!
"Mr. Newcomb, you are now in charge of this group of young men! They are your responsibility." she said as she handed me a large manila envelope. Wait a minute, there's been a terrible mistake....I don't even belong here....I'm enrolled in college! She continued, "In the envelope you will find everyone's meal tickets, bus tokens, room reservations"........her voice droned on, but I heard little of what she was saying.
A few minutes later we were on the bus and picking up speed as we headed to Kansas City.....a mistake to be sure, but what did I know?
Fast forward a couple of years; "Yes ma'am, I'm still in school and should still have a deferment. No ma'am, I have not dropped out. Yes ma'am, I've transferred twice within the last year......What?"
In August of 1971 Miss Elizabeth and I were married and were preparing to move to Tulsa where I would be attending the University of Tulsa. The conversation above took place in October, two months after we had exchanged our vows. Possible change of plans.....
Thirty-four nervous young men from southeast Kansas were huddled outside waiting for the office door to open. We were told to be there by 8:00am. It was now 8:05, and the lady inside finally ambled to the front and clicked the lock to open the door. I was still holding out hope that my student deferment had been reinstated, but I had heard nothing, so I joined the group as we shuffled through the door and into the large waiting area.
The woman walked to her desk, sat down, and said, "You are all going to be boarding that bus parked outside which will then take you to Kansas City for your induction physical. When I call your name, step forward and sign your name on the sign-up sheet." She was very matter-of-fact, and very efficient.
As the names were being called, in alphabetical order of course, I stood near the back, halfway listening and hoping my name had not made the final cut.....Wait, she had jumped right past the Ns, and my name was not called. I knew it, I would be going back home soon. "Westin, David", my good friend's name was called....probably last on the list, poor guy.
"Newcomb, Jack, would you come up here please?" She was looking at me over the top of her glasses. This was it, I was headed back home instead of Viet Nam!
"Mr. Newcomb, you are now in charge of this group of young men! They are your responsibility." she said as she handed me a large manila envelope. Wait a minute, there's been a terrible mistake....I don't even belong here....I'm enrolled in college! She continued, "In the envelope you will find everyone's meal tickets, bus tokens, room reservations"........her voice droned on, but I heard little of what she was saying.
A few minutes later we were on the bus and picking up speed as we headed to Kansas City.....a mistake to be sure, but what did I know?
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
At age five, words like segregation and integration meant nothing...
Recently, there's been a great discussion among many of my facebook friends regarding race relations in the small community of our youth. It's been incredibly interesting to glean from the posts how each of us came away with a different perception of our lives in the fifties and sixties. Some views are very negative, while others are overly rosy. I fall somewhere in between.
How is it that people who grew up literally across the street from each other in our small town have such different memories? I suppose it all depends on which side of the street you were on.
I started elementary school in 1956, just two years after our elementary schools became integrated. At the age of five, words like segregation or integration meant nothing, and color was something we were trying to learn from the old color-wheel. You know, red, green, yellow, blue.....and yes, black and white.
I guess, based upon the facebook discussion, there was indeed racism, bigotry, and segregation in our small town. Looking back, the Black population resided primarily on the east side of town, although there were some Black families scattered throughout the community. I never really gave that much thought, it was just the way it was.
My neighborhood was quite different. I lived in the far northeast part of town, in a modest house situated within the shadows of the oil refinery and set back about thirty feet from the road to the city dump. The tank cars clanged along the railroad tracks about 50 yards from our front yard. But, most of all, our neighborhood was an eclectic collection of people of color. Within two square blocks I had friends who were Black, Indian, Hispanic, and even a few White folks. That was my world, so when integration came along it was simply an extension of my life.
When I started school, I was joined by the friends from my neighborhood and a whole lot of other kids who looked just like them. Nothing different, just more of the same. I know now that the situation was different in other schools, but at the time, that was outside of my little world.
Sometimes I wish we could go back to those simpler times and live like those kids of all colors who played together, fought together, and lived life without regard to race. I know we've come a long way since then, but the young kids in that fully integrated neighborhood of my youth already had it figured out.....
But then, we grew up and made it complicated. Too bad, but what do I know.
How is it that people who grew up literally across the street from each other in our small town have such different memories? I suppose it all depends on which side of the street you were on.
I started elementary school in 1956, just two years after our elementary schools became integrated. At the age of five, words like segregation or integration meant nothing, and color was something we were trying to learn from the old color-wheel. You know, red, green, yellow, blue.....and yes, black and white.
I guess, based upon the facebook discussion, there was indeed racism, bigotry, and segregation in our small town. Looking back, the Black population resided primarily on the east side of town, although there were some Black families scattered throughout the community. I never really gave that much thought, it was just the way it was.
My neighborhood was quite different. I lived in the far northeast part of town, in a modest house situated within the shadows of the oil refinery and set back about thirty feet from the road to the city dump. The tank cars clanged along the railroad tracks about 50 yards from our front yard. But, most of all, our neighborhood was an eclectic collection of people of color. Within two square blocks I had friends who were Black, Indian, Hispanic, and even a few White folks. That was my world, so when integration came along it was simply an extension of my life.
When I started school, I was joined by the friends from my neighborhood and a whole lot of other kids who looked just like them. Nothing different, just more of the same. I know now that the situation was different in other schools, but at the time, that was outside of my little world.
Sometimes I wish we could go back to those simpler times and live like those kids of all colors who played together, fought together, and lived life without regard to race. I know we've come a long way since then, but the young kids in that fully integrated neighborhood of my youth already had it figured out.....
But then, we grew up and made it complicated. Too bad, but what do I know.
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