The mid morning sun burned brightly in a cobalt blue, cloudless sky. It was hot, as only the Texas brush country in August can be. Milling cattle raised a roiling cloud of dust that hung heavily in the air. It clung to the men and cattle in and around the corral--a thickening layer of tan powder. The sound of hoofs created a constant rumble as the stock bolted back and forth. Cattle bawled their displeasure at being crowded so. Cutting gates worked open and shut, separating yearlings and smaller calves from the larger herd for branding and castrating. Cowhands called to one another as they whistled at and cajoled the cattle. One man on horseback pushed and crowded the stock as necessary. His horse focused on the cattle, and occasionally huffed when a sudden burst of speed was needed.
The Dutchman was in the corral alongside the outer fence as the cattle milled and lowed. Rivulets of sweat rolled down his face, leaving dark tracks through the dust and dirt caked there. He tapped a sideboard of the outer fence, asking me to pass his stiff lariat through to him. He grabbed the rope in his left hand, built a small loop, and sailed it out just ahead of a yearling trotting quickly past him. The yearling's head passed into the loop as he moved forward. Johnny popped the rope to draw slack and tighten the loop securely around the animal's neck. Then he quickly dallied up on the short, upright steel bar he had welded to the left arm of his wheelchair. That done, he jerked the chair sideways and set himself against the coming instant when the slack in the rope would disappear, hoping to stop and turn the calf while a cowboy ran in to leg it over so it could be worked.
The rope snapped taut, pulling the chair over on its side with a sudden, irresistible force. The Dutchman wrapped his gloved hands into the coils of the lariat and held on as he was dragged through the corral, rolling wildly in the wake of the yearling as it lunged ahead against the weight and resistance it now pulled. His lower body was limp and useless, but Johnny held the rope with a fierce determination that amazed us all. Two of the hands ran to the animal in desperate, lunging strides. One, heading the calf off and the other legging him up and over, off his feet to be worked.
Uncle Johnny chuckled, despite what he had just been through as two men, one lifting under each shoulder, brought him up and back into his battered old chair. He thanked them for their help and turned his attention back to the work unfolding around him. His shouted instructions and encouragement soon had things flowing smoothly again.
Years earlier, Johnny had started the herd buying canners and cutters from some of the Jersey herds at dairies in the area. He had saved and bought fine Beefmaster bulls from the breed's foundation herd on the Miller ranch southwest of Falfurrias, Texas. Johnny Friesen had now bred up a bunch of cattle that were as fine as any to be found. He was proud of his cattle, and I was proud of him.
The Dutchman had been raised near Premont by a hard working family. His father was a truck farmer who raised tomatoes and other vegetables that he hauled to market in the larger surrounding cities.
As a young man, World War II pulled Johnny into its embrace with countless other young men of his generation. He joined the Navy and served in the Pacific as an ensign on a submarine. During the Battle of the Coral Sea, depth charges repeatedly rolled off the hull of their ship. He was infinitely proud of that service and time in the Navy. He once told me a story of being on leave in Honolulu during the war. He and some other crew members were celebrating in a local bar. A group of marines came in demanding space and attention. Johnny asked the men who they thought they were? "United Stated Marines," came the proud reply!
"Oh," Johnny smiled. "You mean the Third Marines," he exclaimed.
"Whaddaya mean, the third marines?" the rowdy asked.
"Well," Johnny mused. "The First Marines are the Submarines," he smiled. "The Second Marines are the Merchant Marines, and the Third Marines are the U.S. Marines!" He hooted! A grand fight ensued that he obviously still remembered fondly.
Johnny was injured just after the war and paralyzed from the chest down, but he never slowed down. He farmed, ranched and lived life fully, never conceding a thing to his injury. He irrigated crops, plowed, bailed hay, worked cattle and drove himself wherever he needed to go. He was a devoted husband and raised a fine family and had grandchildren whom he loved dearly. The Dutchman was one of the people who touched my boyhood in a profound way. Uncle Johnny was, and remains, larger than life in my world. He was a man confined to a wheelchair, but never, in any way, defined by it.
The Dutchman was in the corral alongside the outer fence as the cattle milled and lowed. Rivulets of sweat rolled down his face, leaving dark tracks through the dust and dirt caked there. He tapped a sideboard of the outer fence, asking me to pass his stiff lariat through to him. He grabbed the rope in his left hand, built a small loop, and sailed it out just ahead of a yearling trotting quickly past him. The yearling's head passed into the loop as he moved forward. Johnny popped the rope to draw slack and tighten the loop securely around the animal's neck. Then he quickly dallied up on the short, upright steel bar he had welded to the left arm of his wheelchair. That done, he jerked the chair sideways and set himself against the coming instant when the slack in the rope would disappear, hoping to stop and turn the calf while a cowboy ran in to leg it over so it could be worked.
The rope snapped taut, pulling the chair over on its side with a sudden, irresistible force. The Dutchman wrapped his gloved hands into the coils of the lariat and held on as he was dragged through the corral, rolling wildly in the wake of the yearling as it lunged ahead against the weight and resistance it now pulled. His lower body was limp and useless, but Johnny held the rope with a fierce determination that amazed us all. Two of the hands ran to the animal in desperate, lunging strides. One, heading the calf off and the other legging him up and over, off his feet to be worked.
Uncle Johnny chuckled, despite what he had just been through as two men, one lifting under each shoulder, brought him up and back into his battered old chair. He thanked them for their help and turned his attention back to the work unfolding around him. His shouted instructions and encouragement soon had things flowing smoothly again.
Years earlier, Johnny had started the herd buying canners and cutters from some of the Jersey herds at dairies in the area. He had saved and bought fine Beefmaster bulls from the breed's foundation herd on the Miller ranch southwest of Falfurrias, Texas. Johnny Friesen had now bred up a bunch of cattle that were as fine as any to be found. He was proud of his cattle, and I was proud of him.
The Dutchman had been raised near Premont by a hard working family. His father was a truck farmer who raised tomatoes and other vegetables that he hauled to market in the larger surrounding cities.
As a young man, World War II pulled Johnny into its embrace with countless other young men of his generation. He joined the Navy and served in the Pacific as an ensign on a submarine. During the Battle of the Coral Sea, depth charges repeatedly rolled off the hull of their ship. He was infinitely proud of that service and time in the Navy. He once told me a story of being on leave in Honolulu during the war. He and some other crew members were celebrating in a local bar. A group of marines came in demanding space and attention. Johnny asked the men who they thought they were? "United Stated Marines," came the proud reply!
"Oh," Johnny smiled. "You mean the Third Marines," he exclaimed.
"Whaddaya mean, the third marines?" the rowdy asked.
"Well," Johnny mused. "The First Marines are the Submarines," he smiled. "The Second Marines are the Merchant Marines, and the Third Marines are the U.S. Marines!" He hooted! A grand fight ensued that he obviously still remembered fondly.
Johnny was injured just after the war and paralyzed from the chest down, but he never slowed down. He farmed, ranched and lived life fully, never conceding a thing to his injury. He irrigated crops, plowed, bailed hay, worked cattle and drove himself wherever he needed to go. He was a devoted husband and raised a fine family and had grandchildren whom he loved dearly. The Dutchman was one of the people who touched my boyhood in a profound way. Uncle Johnny was, and remains, larger than life in my world. He was a man confined to a wheelchair, but never, in any way, defined by it.
2 comments:
Bill,
What a beautiful tribute to an uncle I remember so fondly.
You made me cry.
Your cousin,
Penny
Thanks Bill my friend,
I really enjoy stories like these
that give us a glimps of how our
history was shaped and helps to define a part of who we are.
Your uncle,"the Dutchman",to
borrow a phrase, "was a man of true grit."
Debra
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