Old Ruts and a Boy Named Pork

   Christmas break this year could mean only one thing for me: returning to the ranch and family farm to live the cowboy lifestyle I love. 

          

    Unfortunately the life of a rancher, farmer, and or cowboy in the winter time is far less glorious than that of a summer lifestyle.  The thrilling hours of breaking colts, peaceful and reflective afternoons of riding pastures, and long nights spent pursuing the ever elusive pond sharks (aka monstrous catfish) are now replaced with multiple hours chopping ice to free waters, cruising around in an old beat up ford rolling out hay, and occasionally attempting to destroy your back by shoveling roughly thirty tons of snow out of feed bunks.  Even though all the grandeur of going to evening rodeos, and “coaxing” the neighbors bull back to his pasture are long gone, the winter jobs still need done and I still love them. 

         

     You may call me crazy for enjoying these jobs, but when you look past the physical labor involved a life lesson may jump up and bite you.  My lesson jumped straight out of the snow when I was rolling out hay to my girls, which are thirty head of the most spoiled cattle this side of the Saline River.  As I finished off yet another cup of hot, jet-black coffee and prepared to cut the strings from a bale I looked over towards a dry creek bed and noticed a set of old and deep (I’m talking Marianas Trench deep!)  truck ruts.  These ruts were put there when a much younger, and believe it or not more foolish Cole Michael Smith, was cutting firewood one afternoon.  It was the perfect setting; a blizzard was coming in and I was just finishing playing Paul Bunyan/Texas Chainsaw Massacre on a large set of dead fall trees.  (I mean what 16 year old kid doesn’t love chopping stuff up with a saw?)  After I had loaded all my logs on to the bed of my truck, keep in mind we are talking about enough wood to build a two story cabin, I got in my truck and prepared to leave. As I backed up I looked in my mirror at what I thought was a dry creek covered in snow, so naturally I kept backing: until my rear tires disappeared under some ice, snow, and a lot of water. Now I’ve never gotten the good old Ford beast stuck before, but I have also never backed over ice and broke through.  With no cell service I hiked the three miles home in the snow, and got help and got my truck pulled out.  It was after I saw those ruts the other day that I had a small epiphany and realized the less obvious lesson they held.

         

     I backed over that icy crick because to me it looked like nothing but snow; the outside image overpowered my judgment.  In everyday life people are always judging one another based on what they see on the outside.  Whether it is the color of someone’s skin or the clothes they wear, most of us fail to take the time to see what is underneath. (Especially when what is hidden may be the most influential or most amazing person you meet and definitely not a concoction of mud, snow and ice that will swallow the rear end of your truck and get you a great look from your mother and father)  That exterior can easily hide a truly wonderful individual, much like my snow hid a fairly deep and impassable crick.  So the next time you begin to form an opinion based solely on what you see from the outside I encourage you to stop and think about what could easily be hidden underneath.

     My other story stems from my visit to Plainville High School.  I returned originally to see my advisor, and get a pair of jeans and boots which had been left in my welding locker since last spring.  Now while I did happen to forget my jeans and boots again, I brought back a greater respect for a very special young man. 

         

     When I saw Trevor during my visit he grabbed me in a bear hug that I doubt even the Hulk could top, then hurried back off to class.  As I laughed and wandered into my old English teacher’s room she informed me that Trevor had written an essay about the first time we met, a story that truly warmed my heart.

           

     See I had forgotten about this day he wrote about, which in short amounted to Trevor being picked on by a group of boys near the bathroom and me stepping in to break it up and “rescue” him.  I did this mainly because I remembered being a freshman, and getting picked o.  Whether it was for my disproportionate facial features or the fact that I wore boots every day, I too had experienced what Trevor did, and I also found a friend in a senior who had my back and became a friend any friend would like to have.  After that day Trevor and I became great friends; especially after he quoted Gabriel Iglesias and informed me that “if you live by the cake, you die by the cake”.  This was obviously a sign that this kid and I would get along.  It wasn’t until the other day though that I realized something I should have learned from Trevor long ago.

What is one of the best things about Trevor is the fact that he is very much his own person.    He wears what he feels like wearing and does things that he enjoys.  He even fully embraces his nickname of “pork” or “pork mcnug.” Even though he also beats back conformity by occasionally not turning in homework, he made me realize something I had failed to do.  During my senior year I was an all-state football player and Pork was JV, I had a girlfriend and Pork was single, I was wrestling team captain and pork didn’t play a winter sport, I was part of a returning state qualifying golf team and Pork was in his first year of golf, and I was Plainville FFA's Chapter President/ District Officer and Pork was a Greenhand. 

Now most people would automatically assume that I would also be a better happier person and this is where they were wrong.  Trevor was able to do something that trumped any medal I won or office I held, for like a honey badger (yes I just went there) Trevor didn’t care what others thought.  While I sported T-Shirts that people gave me and said were “in” or didn’t wear certain things because people hassled me for wearing them, Trevor wore what he thought was comfy and was his style.  I can maybe count on one hand the amount of times Pork ever frowned in the morning or showed up to school in a bad mood, while I regularly showed up ranker than any colt I had ever ridden.  At times I even snapped at my little protégé for no reason other than I was a grouch.   Whether I was anxious and irritable waiting for all-state rankings, having relationship issues, cranky from cutting a lot of weight, or fretting over what people thought of me if I lost my wrestling match that night or didn’t golf my best, I was consistently less optimistic than Trevor.   Even though i did care too much just exactly who I ran with, I still lacked the ability not to bow up when someone made a derogatory comment about me.  It was easy to see that I had a much poorer disposition.   Because I was too caught up in worrying about how I was perceived or whether or not certain people approved of how  I looked and or acted.

Now I am not saying that we shouldn’t try to be our best or we shouldn't want to perform at our best level, because effort is key to being successful at any endeavor.  I am merely saying that what we do should be done because it is who we are .  In a day and age where individuals are constantly worrying about who fits in I believe we could all use a little more Pork in our attitudes and try harder to be true to ourselves, for if we do that than maybe, just maybe we too can be as optimistic and happy as Trevor.

         

Great Family, Good Food, and a Grand Reminder

Great Family, Good Food, and a Grand Reminder

          The sound of heavy gunfire filled the air. The smell of burnt gunpowder hung as thick as a fog, as I found myself thinking shoot, shoot, shoot, reload!  Only to find once again throwing lead as fast as I had reloaded.

          This may sound like an excerpt from a WW II  movie, but in reality it’s something much less exhilarating.  This is actually the daydream I found myself in the middle of when I was supposed to be learning about the principles of agricultural economics last Friday.  This daydream about the opening day of pheasant season fascinated me far more than supply and demand, and all I could think about was the amount of birds I would see that next day.  Even as I drove home I began formulating my battle plan for the next day. 

          But all of these thoughts dwindled as I unloaded my truck, and proceeded to walk upstairs to see my mother, little demon…I mean brother, and father.  To my surprise as I made my way to the kitchen I was greeted by not only my mother, but also my grandparents who I hadn’t seen forever.  After a solid round of hello’s and hugs I went to the garage where even more guests awaited, these guests were all members of the North American Limousin Foundation.  These men, my father included, are all respected cattle men who were looking to have a good weekend of hunting just like me.  That evening was filled with cleaning a couple turkeys the NALF guys had shot, and of course attempting to put myself into a food coma afterwards.  As I ate roughly three times my body weight in pinwheels, noodles, brisket and pie jokes and stories were passed around almost as quickly as the plates.The rest of the weekend followed a much similar pattern, and before I knew it I was once again sitting behind the wheel of my Dodge truck bound for Manhattan.  This drive gave me a chance to reflect on the whole weekend.  After recounting the roughly one million miles I had walked, the amazing shots made, and of course the food, I began to dig even deeper into the meaning of this joyful getaway.

          When I really broke it down, this weekend gave me insight into my character.  The gentleman from NALF, my father, and grandfather all represented the kind of men who I respected and to some point idolized.  They were the kind of man I hoped I would someday be, whether they were cowboys, successful businessman, or just all around amazing men like my grandfather.  They all represented the ideals that I held close at heart.  My mother and grandmother represented the value that family held in my life and Jonah, well he covered all the miscellaneous fun things I enjoy. 

          This past National Convention carried the title “I Believe”.  For people to be able to believe in us we must first know exactly who we are.  Being a believable person all starts with knowing your personal character, knowing what you stand for.  This past weekend allowed me to hone in on several things that build up my character, things that make me who I am.  So I ask you: What causes others to believe in you? What makes up that rock known as your personal character?

         

         

Live, Laugh, and Love Like an Eight-Year-Old

What’s approximately 4.5 feet tall,  weighs 95 pounds,  and has an undying love  (aka an addiction) for riding horses and playing football?...  My little brother that’s what.

          Jonah Lee Smith is my 8-year-old little brother who thinks he’s 18.  He is constantly telling me how when he’s in high school he is going to wear my jacket for FFA, then borrow my district jacket because he is also going to be the district secretary.  He has also made it his life’s goal to torment me and pester me whenever possible. (Like any good little b should) Whether he is “borrowing” random items from my room, or finding new creative ways to inflict bodily harm on me, he is constantly going nonstop. Jonah has also already successfully mapped out both of our futures, and those of every animal on the ranch.  However, when this little minion isn’t scheming and keeping his energy level below that of a cheetah on red bull, I have come to realize that there is much I can learn from him. (No matter how much it hurts my big brother pride to admit it)

          You see, Jonah has competed in the county horse show for the past two years and has experienced great success in doing so.  Not because my parents hired him a special trainer, or bought him a ridiculously nice saddle complete with hand tooling, shiny conchos, and a GPS.  Jonah has experienced success because he put in countless hours practicing.  I can’t count the amount of evenings I would glance up from working with a colt to see him running poles or barrels on his mighty steed Sandy.  I do recall one night in particular though where little pooky as we call him, rounded a pole only to somehow catapult from the saddle and land with a mighty thud in the arena dirt. He hit hard enough that if you would look in the arena I’m pretty sure there is still a crater where he landed, but rather than get mad or cry, Jonah simply laughed and jumped up to hobble over and catch his runaway pony.  Jonah laughed because to him this wasn’t practice, and it wasn’t work, to him it was just good ol’ fashion playing.  Playing: something that we seem to forget how to do as we get older.

          After county fair season, it is flag football for Jonah.  Being away at college, I have been unable to watch any of his games.  Thankfully I got a call from him awhile back to keep me up to speed.  After he sadly informed/apologized to me that he wasn’t filling my shoes as a lineman, and playing quarterback, Jonah went on to give me the play-by-play of all his games.  After this recap he went off on a tangent about college and professional football.  This recap rivaled that of any ESPN commentary I have ever watched. What was even more impressive to me was the fact that he not only knows roughly 80 times as much as I did at age 8, but knew more than I know about collegiate ball even now.  He could tell me every play from the K-State game and what our QB could have done better. (This stems from the fact that Jonah thinks he could play for K-State today) This conversation has shown me one thing in particular: Jonah has a true blue passion for this sport, and I know as long as this passion continues he will be 5 times the athlete I ever dreamed of being.

          So what can we learn from Jonah?  We can see the obvious importance of laughing and playing; two things that should never have been left on the playground.  “Playing” is a dying way for us to get away from stress, and a way for us to make mundane or monotonous tasks fun and enjoyable.   We should also note how much passion his small stature contains.  All too often I catch myself doing things half-heartedly, which leads to average results.  If we would approach the things we love in life with half the amount of heart that my little brother has it would be shock us all to the core to see what we never knew we were capable of. 

So the next time you’re in class, on the field, court, mat, or in the arena think of Jonah and never forget to Live, Laugh, and Love Like an Eight-Year-Old.