Rodeo – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

Accounting. What am I doing in accounting?

My course choice made no sense. Like a Wall Street trader striding up to mount an unhappy bull at our rodeo.

I had registered at Okmulgee Tech without the benefit of academic counselling – or common sense. I knew nothing of bookkeeping, had no aptitude for it. Better judgment won out before my second class ended. The vocational school – an arm of Oklahoma State University – did offer other tracks. I returned to the catalog.

The printed word interested me and teletype included the word ‘type’. Working for a newspaper means no shortage of words. Nor did the name of my new chosen direction, Teletypesetter Perforator Operator.

The high school from which I recently graduated lacked size and, therefore, course options. I very much wanted to gain two skills – Spanish and typing. But administration said I could only choose one. Learn a second language or learn to type – but not both. My plight was bothersome but promptly resolved. I never learned Spanish.

My instructor sat at the glorified typewriter and introduced its features. A machine that yielded a stream of punctured tape as the typist pecked the keys. Combinations of the circled holes translated into letters, words and symbols. The coded tape fed into a big linotype machine. Molten lead formed imprints, cooled, took on ink, released the creation to the press room. . . Steps in a process ensuring paper boys had a product to deliver – the daily or weekly newspaper.

OK Jerry, give it a try.

Adjusting my chair I rested eight fingertips in their sequence atop familiar symbols. A S D F . . J K L ; (the right pinky paired itself up, as always, with the semi-colon). A good feeling settled in. Eight drifters returning to their common home. In pecking order.

Jerry, would you consider taking a job far from here?

The question was my first introduction to the notion my typing fling may spirit me to sights and places beyond. Both geographical and figurative – to kindred-spirits. To surprises. One of them wrecking me – for life. in a very good kind of way.

My training supervisor studied my face for a response. Obviously knowing something I didn’t.

Yes, I’d be happy to consider it, sir.

Well, a weekly newspaper called the Cody Enterprise – it’s in Wyoming – contacted us. I’m prepared to recommend you for the Operator position if you’re interested.

I would be glad for the opportunity. Yes. Thank you.

So, twenty months removed from an earlier Oklahoma departure, I again boarded a Denver-bound bus. Though in a much healthier frame of mind.

A new passenger with a telling weakness for drink stepped aboard in Pueblo, Colorado and seated himself next to me. Noting the Bible resting open on my lap he slurred an observation.

Oh! You’re readin’ the Bible. Good! His interest rose another level – as did his voice.

Are you a Christian? More direct.

Yes, sir, I am. I was a kid – sure of my faith but not sure of myself.

Wonderful! I am too. Then he announced it. I’m Pentecostal!

Electing not to fuel the visit by confirming our common faith tradition I offered, That’s nice. He sank contented into his seat and slept. In a moment I glanced his way. I wonder what’s led him to seek comfort, or joy, or escape through a substance in a bottle? A nudge of compassion stirred. I silently prayed God’s care over the random stranger next to me – my fellow-pentecostal.

North of Denver I squinted through a bus window. A passing car sported a red Wyoming license plate. On it I glimpsed a compelling image. A bucking bronco giving his all to dislodge from the saddle an equally-determined cowboy. Cheyenne boasted her Frontier Days. Laramie, her Jubilee Days – rodeos taking center stage at each.

Indeed, Wyomingites dubbed themselves the Cowboy State. Stretching myself out, I slid my feet beneath the seat ahead and let my chest pillow my chin. I was soon dreaming of my brother Tim and me. Of Bill, our horse clippity-clopping under us – to Okmulgee’s Rodeo Grounds. To the annual PowWow and Rodeo action.

By the time I stirred the bus had entered a land of breezy landscapes. The vehicle jostled under wind gusts as it navigated high desert near Casper. Wind River Canyon enthralled us – its rich blue waters snaking along canyon walls. Past Thermopolis the bus climbed to flatter plains, and finally our destination.

Soon we met with a sign along a city street. I chuckled to myself. Why should I be surprised?

Cody, Wyoming – Rodeo Capital of the World.

Mother, Mother! Tim’s getting clobbered!

Sprinting through the front door I blurted the report. My mom’s face conveyed both alarm and puzzlement.

Tim? Fighting?

My brother survived the fracas. But the image itself seemed crazy. A Samurai Wrestler in a delicate ballet twirl would be more probable. Today’s incident was a thuggish brute who happened to spot a random kid – who happened to be my brother. And pouncing.

Actually Tim did fight. Not in this way. He fought throughout most his lifetime, and with valor.

Tim’s actual fighting was about goodness. Indeed, Tim fought to be a good person. To those near him, though, his struggle toward goodness appeared to be hardly a struggle at all. He breathed goodness. So it often seemed. For me, his kid brother who more typically breathed mischief, this was disconcerting. Once our dad suspected us of cigarette smoking and approached me about it.

Do you boys sometimes smoke?

Mm, well, I think Tim might. Mischief.

But I idolized my big brother. We were little when I overheard mother say to a friend, Tim doesn’t eat tomotos. . . He also dislikes coconut and, Oh yes, pineapple. This was intel enough for me. If Tim shuns these things there is good reason for it. Mom could mark them off her grocery list.

I did acquire a taste for all three foods later in life. Once I sampled them.

To whatever measure they may have troubled him, Tim went to war against impoliteness. Rudeness and discourtesy. Years after our childhood days I heard him say to his Bible class, A practice in our home is to reserve the phrase ‘Shut up’, for only addressing the dog.

I admired him. I envied him. And I was ticked with him. Why did my brother need to be so stinking pleasant? And compliant?

Detecting goodness in him was fairly easy. Not stuffiness, though. He wasn’t Goody-two-shoes but was loads of fun. With a year and a month and a day separating our ages we did a lot together.

One of the things we did, we climbed things.

We climbed trees. Pear trees, Pecan trees, Willow trees. I watched Tim fall from one.

He fractured a wrist and his reconfigured forearm held me hypnotized the whole way to the hospital. Though clearly hurting, he handled the ordeal well. In the 1950s a bone fracture was a big deal. To set his arm the nurse put him under with ether-soaked cotton. It set in motion a bout of serious vomiting. He was miserable and didn’t make a fuss. No whining. Not a complaint really. I was impressed. Wow.

In our teen years Dad introduced useful outlets for our climbing zeal. He referred us to the steering wheel of a farm tractor. We climbed aboard. And many times thereafter.

Hay season found Tim steering the big red Farmall. He towed a mowing piece to the meadows. Once cut, the grass lay under the July sun to cure. My squatty orange Allis Chalmers required bailing wire to keep the shift controls in second gear. A multi-pronged hay rake followed behind the Allis. Once I raked the long grass into windrows, Dad wrapped up the process. He drew the grassy aroma into his lungs. Then guided his equipment to finish the baling operation for that meadow. Winter feed for his small cattle herd.

Tim and I kept climbing. Livestock chutes at the rodeo grounds across from our farm. Perched above the bull pens, we adjusted our straw hats and rested our chins on the heels of our open hands. Like the ranch-men did at the animal auctions. What fun – up here with my big brother. Adjusting our position, we surveyed the grown-up wranglers practicing their calf-roping.

We didn’t tire of climbing. The two of us climbed onto the back of Old Bill. Riding horseback meant free entrance to our annual Rodeo events – even if riding double.

The most thrilling climbing was to the top of Greenwood Lake’s High Platform. Well above the water surface the platform reigned. It overlooked the diving boards further down. Greenwood – beloved pond-turned-swimming hole at the edge of town. And the platform. Stationed behind my brother I looked down and shivered. Tim was standard-bearer. If Tim was gutsy enough to fling himself out over the waters from way up there, well. . .

My brother Tim and my sister, Betty – each influenced me toward good. They conveyed wisdom. Unconsciously at times. Each brought significant insights my way at some crucial times. One of the harshest – and most helpful – statements I took in as a kid came at me through clenched teeth. Tim’s.

During an especially obnoxious stage of my teenage years Tim shocked me to sanity. Or at least to consider it. Annoyed again by my asinine antics he abruptly turned my way. He had it with me this time. His voice levelled.

You know, Jerry, you’re a punk. That’s what you are. Nothing but a punk!

His words seared. Like a hay hook going in. Tim had rebuked me with good cause at other times. But this is the time I remember. Following the correction I assessed, as well as I might, the words, nothing but a Punk. I resolved to work hard. At changing. First, I realized punk-behavior mode when I saw it. Until that rebuke, I hadn’t seen it – really seen it – in myself. Years later I reminded him of the strong medicine he dispensed that day. Tim didn’t seem to recall it. We laughed.

Faithful are the wounds of a friend*

He was the best of brothers, the best of friends.

*Proverbs 27

Timothy Arthur Lout August 28, 1944 – July 6, 2010

Tag: Rodeo

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Fight to the Finish