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Cowboy Joe’s
Lesson
By Tom Preble
An Arizona sun crept along
its arc in a dazzling, too blue sky. The sun was keeping its daily appointment
with the shed, comfortably gray and weathered from countless days of sun and
occasional rain. There, leaning against the shed, as if two old friends sharing
old age, stood the shovel. The shovel’s head, burgundy red with rust, seemed to
long for a oneness with earth. For years there had been no digging of holes,
and admitting the defeat of time, it was quietly becoming one with the soil.
Above that head was a handle, gray and deeply weathered as the shed it stood
against. That ancient ash handle seemed almost artistic in the weathered
exposure of its grain.
Both shovel and shed belonged to an old cowboy, a man I admired. Joe was a
cowboy from the very last of real cowboy days at the turn of the last century.
Joe was in his 80s when I knew him; I was in my 20s. I knew him because of our
mutual acquaintance and admiration for my girlfriend at that time.
“If I were even 30 years younger, you’d have some trouble” Joe told me. He’s
right, I thought, I would. Even in his 80s, Joe was tall, blue eyed and
handsome. Joe had built his 6 section ranch from sheer grit and endless days of
dawn to dark work. Joe had proven himself as bona fide. I was a 20 something
still figuring life out. Yup, I would have had some trouble all right, but Joe
wasn’t “30 years younger”, and I was grateful for that.
My girlfriend was the hired caretaker for a quarter section dude ranch next
door, and next door was about 2 miles away from Joe. We’d spent an idyllic
spring, just she and me on that dude ranch surrounded by mountains and trees,
and I was quite smitten. Now girlfriend wanted a garden and figured that I
could do a pretty fair impression of a rototiller. She was right, of course.
I, of youth and high spirits, would have gladly dug to China for my lady. Her
dude ranch’s tool shed was padlocked and she couldn’t find the key. How could I
eagerly become her rototiller if we had no shovel?
Joe said “Sure, I’ve got one around here somewheres. Have a look out back.”
Joe happily entertained girlfriend, and I was sent on a hunt. Rummaging around
Joe’s outbuildings, I saw it there, camouflaged gray on gray leaning on the
tumbledown shed. Smiling, I seized the shovel. Ominously it came up light in
my hand. “Dry rot” I thought, “Damn”. Stopped in my tracks, I cast an eye
toward the ranch house and
thought about girlfriend. Smiling, laughing, vivacious. Good, warm smells of
earth mingled with her own, sweating and working in our garden together. Doubt
fled or was chased from my mind as I trotted back to the house with my prize.
Later in the would-be garden with a *Crack*, the shovel warned me that this was
not how it had planned spending its senior years. I heeded the warning, dug
shallower and gently. I pulled from down low on the handle, avoiding great
leverage. With the garden patch nearly all turned over it yielded. One last
*Crack* and the rusty head, now with a shiny edge, parted company with the
withered handle. “Well, the garden is DONE”, I said with a smile. She caught
the humor in my emphasis on “done” and laughed.
“Joe, I’m sorry about the shovel, but it was dry rotted pretty bad” I said as I
handed him the pieces. Joe said nothing but just looked at me with those
piercing blue eyes. Facing him blankly, I said no more but inside I was
squirming, uncomfortable.
“It was dry rotted” I said to girlfriend as we drove back to her dude ranch.
And indeed it was. “It was all I could do to keep that shovel together to
finish the garden”, I thought to myself. She talked liltingly, happily of
cosmos and corn and squash. I fell into silence and a vague “out of sorts”
feeling. Joe had wanted to tell me something, but he wasn’t a chatty sort.
Later in life I had to learn on my own.
Nearly 25 years had passed since that day I returned the broken shovel to Joe,
and my red headed 17 year old son was vexing me. Some chore or task undone or
done poorly, something borrowed lost or broken - I can’t remember now. The
excuses nattered around my ears.
“Son, in the military I learned a phrase: ‘Sir, no excuse Sir!’ That doesn’t
mean you take the fall for something that you didn’t do, though it might if
circumstances warrant. That phrase means I am a man. I own my actions. I am
responsible.”
Today everyone seems to be a weasel. From presidents and CEOs on down, people
seem to think that if they can just do a little “weasel dancing” and shift the
blame, all is good. But it is not good. We notice, all of us, even the
“weasels” themselves.
Talking with my son, I remembered that day with Joe and my discomfort. I told
my boy the story and explained that my discomfort was the man trying to break
out of the boy. “Boys make excuses; men take responsibility”, I’d said. Owning
up is the first step to making amends. If we don’t own what we do, we lose
humility and a chance to make it right. We think we’ve won, by dodging
responsibility - but we’ve lost. We’ve lost an opportunity to demonstrate
strength of character and to cement a friendship.
“There’s something more”, I told my boy. “Even if it was dry rotted, buy the
man a new shovel. If you borrow it, you’re responsible for it. And beyond mere
responsibility, look for ways to serve those that lend you things - because
these people trust you. Such people are humanity at its best, they honor you
with their trust, never betray it. If you’ve borrowed money, find that lender
and press the loaned cash into his hand, before it is due. If you’ve borrowed
an item, return it better that you got it. Yes, it is worrisome to borrow stuff
with the manly burden of responsibility weighing on you. Borrow carefully.”
The other day at Home Depot I picked up 4 shovels on sale. Beautiful new
shovels, shovels with varnished ash handles that will definitely fit my son’s
and my hands as we do chores together around our ranch. I paused and looked at
them gleaming fresh in my cart and thought: “I wish I could go back in time. I
wish I could make it right with old Joe.” But time has passed and I can’t...
Recently, my now 18 year old son borrowed the van. He brought it home with a
broken mirror. Before I could even speak, he explained the broken mirror and
said he’d pay whatever it cost to make it right.
Thanks, Joe. Just your look on that day so many years ago taught me more than
some folks ever learn. Maybe, just maybe I have “made it right” with you after
all?
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