Many years ago, we had several acquaintances that made their living, such as it was, trading cattle with local farmers. They drove around the county and checked in at each homestead to offer a price on the feller’s cattle. They most generally drove a beat-up truck with a wooden stock rack in the back.
I always loved to hang around and listen while they visited with Pappy. Thefirst 30 minutes were newsworthy, much akin to a TV report. The tales were punctuated with tobacco spurts, boot shifting and readjusting the sweat-ringed hat. It was a performance that would have made United Artists money if they had been there to film the show.
I married and moved to the rock pile and saw a few traders, but their times were over. All things change and the widow women with ahalf-breed Jersey bull calf were few and far between.
Traders’ days were almost done, and they finally just disappeared from our countryside. I missed them, told stories about them and, as with other ways of my past, wished for their return. I knew they no longer had a place in the cattle business, but I did regret their demise.
Well, never say never, you might be proven wrong! A trader drove up to our barn last week! I was sweeping out the feed room, or attempting the job. The floor is not conducive to good housekeeping, but then I ain’t very good at it anyway! I heard the rattle of a truck and stepped out to look. Iwas pretty sure I didn’t see what I saw, wiped my eyes and shook my head, and looked again.
There it was, the old truck, the run-over boots, hat spotted with manure and a wizened face grinning wide and showing those tobaccostained teeth, some missing, of course! I could have pinched myself but didn’t want to appear touched in the head. I had been thrown into a time warp, or at least felt like it!
I shook his old claw-like hand and invited him into the feed room to sit on a stack of feed and visit. He obliged and we had one good time of him telling and me listening. I was sure enough pleased, and he wasthe same, because he had happened onto a feller who wanted to listen, and I gave him the time and respect he needed.
He finally got around to asking if I had any cattle to offer and maybe even a goat or a chicken. I didn’t so he shook my hand, thanked me and loaded his old scrawny self into and cranked up the truck. A puff of black smoke rolled out of the exhaust, and he waved as he chugged out of the driveway.
It is my opinion, and everyone has one, I don’t believe in superstitions or karma, but I am pretty sure that the visit of the old trader was a gift. I don’t know who or how I was presented with the gift,but I was presented with a breath of bygone time. The old trader didn’t know me or my neighbors, was from some other county and just showed up. He was real flesh and blood, but I now have begun to wonder if he was a spirit just delivered to me.
I may never know and I will not be questioning any of the boys at the coffee emporium or at the local sale barn. My close relative didn’t mention seeing him drive in or out. Some things are not to be dissected, just enjoyed and kept to yourself. This was certainly one of them.
Bill is a pen name used by the Gravette author of this weekly column.
Opinion, Pages 6 on 11/07/2012