DIP TURNS PURPLE: IT’S OK by L. Kelly Down |
| Boys I were down at the Bad house last week and me and Carl was a-lying
to these here two pretty fair ladies. They turns out to be outlander schoolhouse teachers
on loan from the English college place called Oxblood, or something like that. They being
history types and at U. of H. they was told by they students to come to our Hill Country,
find a couple of old fools (me and Carl do fit that, don’t you know) and learn cows.
We lied our way from jumping them cows off
Spanish ships, how boots, hats, spurs all come about, even how the shape of saddle and
chaps got to be. I do tell you one thing, they must have a class on how to drink cool ones
in they school—had me and Carl checking our bank balance that be a fact.
Well, we got through trail drives fine, then hit a stump on the Texas Tick Fever. They didn’t believe that folks in the Abeline cut off their nose to spite their face by not letting no Texas cattle come to their town. They ain’t never heard how them Kansas folks finally closed off the whole blame state to live Texas cattle, cause they done carried ticks north. A mad Longhorn bull in their wife’s flower beds and vegetable gardens plus a cow patty on their front porch didn’t help our cause much, I do believe. Cow trail drives was only from 1877 to 1888, you see. We skipped maybe forty years or so by telling how Mr.. Swift got them keeping cow meat cool railroad cars to Texas. Then this pretty blond one hit us with how we stopped the ticks in our Texas cows. She went right by my short tale of how tough our cattle is and straight to dipping vats. You will remember how I done learned you a dipping vat is a concrete hole in the ground you fill with tick-fly killing stuff and you run cattle into it to get it all over them. The same one ask how we knowed that the dip were the right strength—and not too strong. Well, I had just drawed in a big breath so I could go into one of my better lies when Carl punched me hard, right in the ribs—hurt like hell—you know Carl on Saturday nights. Carl being more honest, asks them ladies to order us another round and took off. I saw where he was a-headed and wish I had seen the answer first—I could have been a hero, you see. Carl saw J. D.! Now, J. D., he be a cowhand, plus ain’t forgot nothing in his life, he started to tell Carl how we knowed when dip was ready, then, Carl stopped him, brought him over, introduced him them fair ladies. J. D. told how you got some dip out of the vat, dropped this here little pill into it, if it turned purple, it was just right. But friend, if you know J. D. you got down pat what happened next. You’re right. I didn’t even get to the part of how nice my dutch oven biscuits are as the sun comes up over the river and our hills way early on Sunday mornings—Carl and I do wish we know how J. D. do what he do to fair ladies. I got to learn Carl not to bring in J. D. never-a-tall. J. D. can take a fair lady plum away from a twenty year old boy, not only that, he always gets the prettiest ones.
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