My corrals are a mess, and frankly, they’ve been in a dismal state of repair for quite some time. We’ve got a pile of 21-foot pine poles, some fairly decent old railroad ties and 300 feet of stout old drill casing, all of which is lying around the place for the intended purpose of eventually refurbishing the working corrals. Until now, my basic modus operandi has been to grab one of the good poles and tie it up with orange baling twine over the latest spot where some old rank cow crashed through.
But the trashiness can eventually become too much for even the trashiest among us to bear. Hence, there has been a mediocre sense of urgency this fall to get ahead of it a little bit and at least get the lead-up alley to the chute completely rebuilt. I’ve enlisted the services of my son, the welder, but he lives an hour away and can only come out every so often. So the chore of tearing down of the old stuff falls mostly to me and Grandpa.
One hot, early fall afternoon, I was busy with my crowbar and hammer as I trudged along with the mundane task of tearing down pieces of the old pens. I was tired of the drudgery, so I managed to convince myself that I needed to hop in the pickup and make the 6-mile trip down the road to Oakley’s only gas station, where I figured I could find a cold, caffeinated beverage that might help rejuvenate my waning enthusiasm. I figured I could justify my trip because I needed a gallon of gas for the chainsaw and some diesel to start a fire to burn whatever corral poles I couldn’t recycle.
When I pulled up to the diesel pump in front of Farmer’s Corner, my hometown’s appropriately named gas and goodies stop, a couple of things nonchalantly begged for my attention. The first thing was the price of diesel, which was once again flirting with that dastardly five-dollar mark. As is my natural reaction to any vomit-inducing situation, I instinctively cussed at the absurdity of everything in the world that seemed to conspire against me to make the price of doing business so ridiculously high. The second thing I casually noticed was the circa 2001 Toyota Camry with the off-color passenger side door and the slightly unkempt driver parked at the opposite side of Farmer’s Corner’s single fuel pump.
While I didn’t immediately recognize the guy as someone I should know, the familiar 4C, signifying my home county, on his Idaho plates suggested he may be at least semi-local. He wasn’t dressed as most of the folks who run in my circles. Instead of Wranglers, long sleeves, pearl snaps and spurs, a wife-beater tank top hung loosely from his tatted-up shoulders. His mohawk-styled hair was in need of a trim, yet it still offered a plain view of his ears, each of which was decorated with two or more pieces of cheap-looking jewelry, including a small gold cross dangling from his left ear that glinted as it caught a ray from the late afternoon sun. He wore a baggy pair of dirty black shorts, and his bare feet were shod in old loose-fitting flip flops.
As I jumped out of the pickup and tipped my hat back on my head, I instinctively and intentionally caught this stranger’s eye, gave him a slight nod and a smile and greeted him with some sort of innocuous and generic salutation. He nodded and smiled back at me but said nothing as I walked past him and headed back to the fountain drinks on the south wall of the tiny store. There were a couple locals at the deli counter, and I got the scoop on one of my neighbor’s struggles to get his second crop baled as I loaded up with 44 ounces of Dr Pepper and a package of Zingers and then made my way back to the counter to pay.
As I reached for my wallet, the guy at the counter, who was fairly familiar with my all-too-often snack routine, held his hand up and informed me that the tab was taken care of. I was cheerfully stunned. When I inquired as to the identity of my surprise benefactor, he just shrugged and said, “I don’t know the guy, but he just pulled off in that old white car with the purple door.”
I’ve scarfed down mountains of chocolate junk food and chugged down gallons of sugary, caffeinated garbage over the years. None of it has probably done me much good. The victuals I partook of that day, however, nourished my soul as well as the best Thanksgiving dinner ever could. A stranger took me in and fed me, and all it cost me was a few seconds of simple, costless yet priceless, kindness.
