Doing my very best not to trip and fall, I stepped hard to the right to catch myself and promptly stomped my bare foot directly onto a patch of sticker burrs that immediately turned my skin into a slice of swiss cheese. I felt at least ten thousand thorns suddenly in my sole (maybe not ten thousand), and with each step I took, they pushed deeper and deeper into my skin. So there I stood, the great protector, in my underwear (forgot to mention that), barefoot, bleeding, limping, and stepping on more stickers, carrying a gun and using my phone as a flashlight. It wasn’t a pretty picture, but the chickens were safe for one more night.
I hobbled back inside, picked as many stickers out of both feet as I could (ten thousand is a lot to pull out), put the gun up, and climbed gently back into bed. I found my darling wife dead asleep and snoring. She hadn’t moved one inch and had absolutely no clue as to the bravery and courage I displayed to save her chickens. But sometimes that’s how it is for protectors—you save the day, and nobody knows but you and the chickens. And that hound dog.
Doc
Doc was my Australian shepherd. He was coming up on his fourteenth birthday in March of 2014. He had been with me at nearly every step of my adult life, and that’s not an exaggeration. I got him when I was twenty years old, and in those fourteen years, I rarely went anywhere without him. He loved nothing more than hopping up in the back of the truck and riding down the road with the wind blowing through his long, pretty hair while his eyes, one blue, one brown, filled with delight. He went with me to the store, to visit friends, to visit family. He went with me to the East Coast, to the West Coast, and to Canada. To most people, seeing me was synonymous with seeing Doc.
Recently, I loaded Doc in the back of that truck for the very last time. I found what I had been dreading to find for the better part of a year—my best old buddy lying stretched out in the yard, soaking up the sun, as he so often liked to do. He had gotten quite deaf in his old age, so when I called his name from the porch and he didn’t move, I just thought he was enjoying his nap in the sunshine. However, when I got down to him, I realized that my sweet friend was gone. He had crossed over Jordan’s stormy banks. He had bumped my hand with his head, asking me to pet him, for the very last time. I’d never look in the rearview mirror again to see his pretty face, literally smiling, as we drove down the road. He’d never lie at my feet as I played my guitars, as my biggest fan. The most constant presence in my adult life was gone. And for that, I am terribly sad.
I got Doc in May of 2000 when he was nine weeks old. He was an adorable little fuzzy ball of fur. I’m not usually what you would consider a dog person. I grew up on a horse ranch. I’ve seen a lot of animals come and go. I’ve seen them be bought, sold, and traded. And I’ve seen them die. I think that probably caused me to be a little callous toward animals at times. I never got too close. Except for Doc.
He and I had an instant connection. I saw him for the first time before his eyes were even opened, and I knew I wanted him. When I got him, he was like a little teddy bear. He was so cute and fun to play with. The first night at my house, he was scared. So I picked him up, set him on my belly, and he went to sleep. It was like a bond formed from that very second. We made an agreement. I’d take care of him, and he’d take care of me. He never needed a leash. Wherever I was, he was there, right beside me.
Doc loved the Frisbee, or a ball, or a stick. Or really anything else I could throw for him to fetch. He was so proud each and every time he brought it back to me. Thousands of times, no doubt. One day, when Doc was only about a year and a half old, we were at the ranch and gathering a herd of buffalo off the back pasture so we could work our horses. We had a bull in the herd that was a tad snorty, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, Doc decided to take him head on. He ran up behind him and bit him on the back leg. When he did, that bull kicked out hard and caught Doc right on the bridge of the nose. His entire body flew through the air, flipping head over heels and landing in a pile about twenty feet away. Unfortunately, when you live on a working ranch that uses a lot of dogs, you see this happen from time to time. It’s sad, but you just have to move on. But I loved Doc. I ran my horse over to him and jumped down beside him. He was stretched out on his side; a flap of skin had been peeled off the bridge of his nose and was lying over his eye. He was breathing, so it hadn’t snapped his neck, as I had feared. I picked him up and laid him over the swells of my saddle. I rode over to my house, which was just over the hill and across a pasture. I carried him up on my porch and assessed the damage. I was scared he wouldn’t make it, but he was still breathing okay and didn’t act like any particular bones were hurting, and he wasn’t crying. So I doctored him up, cleaned up the wound, and superglued that piece of skin back across his nose. I put some water and food down in front of him. Doc stayed on that porch for three days, seemingly improving every day. Then on the fourth day, he stood up, shook off, and followed me to the barn. He didn’t miss another beat. He carried that scar across his nose for the rest of his life, but he never bit another buffalo, that I can promise you.
For fourteen years, he was my partner. He lived with me in Oklahoma, Florida, Virginia, Oklahoma again, and Texas. Through hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, droughts, and floods. He’s seen me skinny, fat, mad, happy, and sad. He knew me with hair, and now without. And none of that mattered to him in the slightest. He liked me when I was pretty hard to like. He even liked me when I didn’t like myself, and he was happy to see me every single time he set eyes on me. If we could all have the same kind of attitude he had, and the short memory to be able to forget the bad that happened yesterday and think only of today, what a wonderful world this would be.
I think John Grogan, author of Marley and Me, said it best: “A dog has no use for fancy cars or big homes or designer clothes….A waterlogged stick will do just fine….A dog doesn’t care if you are rich or poor, educated or illiterate, clever or dull. Give him your heart and he will give you his.” How many people can you say that about? How many people can make you feel rare and pure and special? How many people can make you feel extraordinary?
I sure do miss you, Doc.
You’re a Doll
Iknow saying life is hard is terribly cliché. But let’s be honest, most clichés are clichés because they’re true. And I can think of nothing more true than life is hard. That doesn’t mean it’s always hard. Quite the contrary, actually. Life is an ever-changing landscape of peaks and valleys. Sometimes it feels so easy, when it’s filled with happiness and colors and laughter and beauty. These good things are what keep us going during the hard times and during the sad times. It’s important to remember these wonderful and happy things when the going gets tough or when things aren’t so rosy.
And then sometimes the hard times are downright tragic. It’s heartbreaking to see others who have to endure tragedy such as car accidents or losing loved ones to sickness and disease well before their time. Other times life simply runs its course—naturally. Every race has its finish line, I suppose. And from where my family stands, my grandfather’s finish line isn’t so far away. His race is nearly run.
I have been pretty fortunate in my life. I haven’t suffered any real tragedies involving my family or close friends. I haven’t lost any immediate family to sickness. Only twice in my thirty-five years have I lost someone close to me. In 1992, I lost my granny Stamper to Lou Gehrig’s disease, and in 2001 my great-grandpa died just one month shy of his 105th birthday. Yes, you heard me right, 105 years old. And he got married when he was 104. True story. So this is fairly new territory for me. For all of us.
My grandfather Claude Stamper, whom I always called Papa, was born and raised on my family’s ranch in Murphy, Oklahoma. It’s right between Chouteau and Locust Grove, four miles off of Highway 412. It’s the only place he’s ever known. His mama and daddy lived there and died there. He raised his four boys there with my sweet granny. My dad and his brothers raised all of us there. And now we’ve got the youngest gene
ration of Stampers on the ground. Some of them live on the ranch, some off, but still in the same lifestyle to which we were all accustomed. The lifestyle my papa and my great-granddad provided for us.
Sometimes growing up that way didn’t seem so awesome. When most of my friends went home from school to play video games or just do nothing at all, we were busy cleaning stalls, warming up and cooling down horses, and feeding and bathing horses, cattle, pigs, and sheep. It was a lot of work. It didn’t seem like a blessing at the time, but looking back on it now, that’s exactly what it was. We were taught a strong work ethic. But we weren’t made to work while the adults sat in the air-conditioning. They led by example—work hard and do your best. My dad, papa, and even great-granddad would work from the time the sun came up until it went down.
When my great-granddad (we called him Granhappy) had gotten too old to work for our house-moving company, he took up carpentry. He spent his twilight years building some of the most awful carpentry projects you’ve ever seen in your life. But it didn’t matter to him. He just needed to work. And besides, he couldn’t see well enough to know it was crooked and ugly.
I get a bit misty eyed, reminiscing about those times spent with Granhappy and with Granny and Papa Stamper. Those times feel like so long ago, but their voices are still so clear, as though they’re in the other room. My granny calling my papa “Claudie.” Granhappy and his wife, Dorothy, singing “Come and Dine” at church on Sundays. The memories are fresh and vivid. My papa patting Granny’s knee and saying to me, “Stone, ain’t she just the purtyest thang you ever seen?” And the answer was “Yes, she is.” She was so kind and gentle. So meek and mild. But she could ask for anything in her soft and sweet voice and he would move mountains to make it happen. He loved her with all his heart.
After forty-four years of marriage, she succumbed to the complications of ALS on December 28, 1992. It was a hard blow for our whole family. But even more so for my papa. He had lost his best friend, his confidante, his “pardner.” His life was changed forever. On the day she died, I spent the night with him at his house—it felt so big, so empty. Then the next night, I stayed again. And then again the next night. I had inadvertently become roommates with my papa. We were like a couple of lame college kids living together. He didn’t know how to cook, and I didn’t either. We had coffee and toast every morning, until I learned how to make eggs and bacon without catching anything on fire. My mom or my aunt or my cousin came and did laundry for us until we learned how to do that too. Papa liked to bake brownies, and he did so nearly every day. He was glad I was there, and I was glad to be with him. I watched him and listened to his wheeling and dealing on the phone. He was selling, or buying something to sell, every time he talked to someone, and I got my first sales lessons just sitting around and listening to him.
Those were lessons that would serve me well and mold me into the man I am today. As time passed, he needed me less and less, but the bond we built in that year and a half is one that we still share today. I love him. I know he’s not perfect, but he’s funny, generous, and a great storyteller. But he can be strict and very hard on people, which just so happen to be traits that I possess. Granny was the perfect yin to his yang. She was the perfect mellow to his hard edges. After she died, he never remarried. Oh, he had some girlfriends. But he never married again. I guess he thought he couldn’t do any better than he had done with Clarice June Plake. And I agree.
His last few years have been hard ones for him. A small, withered body now stands where a once big, strong man stood. His voice was loud and boisterous, but it’s now weak and muffled. His old legs are bowed from too many horses, and not long ago, he fell and broke his hip. He’s had surgery and has had some complications. He lost a lot of blood, and not enough oxygen made its way to his brain. His mind was slipping even before the accident. He’d call me every evening wanting me to come over and drink coffee with him. Something I would have gladly done had I not lived in Texas, more than six hours away. Something he forgot every time he called.
When I put my selfish feelings aside for a moment and remember how badly he misses my granny, how long he’s gone without feeling her hand in his or hearing her sweet, soft voice whisper his name, then, and only then, do I feel a sense of joy wash over me. Although I’m not always a good example of one, I am a Christian, and I do believe in heaven. My grandmother has been there for nearly twenty-two years. Just waiting on him. And on the day they are reunited, I’d give nearly anything to see their faces when their eyes meet. Oh, what a day of rejoicing that will be. It makes me want to let him know it’s okay. “Papa, you can go now. You’ve taught us all you know. You’ve given all you can give. We’ll be okay. Go see Granny, and we’ll see you sometime soon.”
I wanted to tell him these things as I reached down over his hospital bed to hug him and kiss his head. But instead, I just said, “I love you so much.” And with a sparkle of recognition in his eye, he looked at me and mumbled something he’d said a million times before to me and my siblings and cousins: “I love you, honey. You’re a doll.”
Back in My Day
As we sat in our living room one evening, I looked around at my family, and this is what I saw. My then thirteen-year-old watching videos on her laptop and playing Minecraft on the iPad. I saw the nine-year-old playing countless different games on her iPod while texting her cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and maybe even April and me from the other room, if the mood struck. I saw my wife looking at Pinterest and Smith County Swap and Shop on Facebook on her iPhone. And of course, I watched all of this as I sat in my recliner and did some weekly reports for work and worked on my latest blog, while simultaneously checking Facebook and ESPN Score Center for football scores. It made me really sit back and realize the stark differences between the world I grew up in, the world my parents and grandparents grew up in, and the world the girls are now growing up in.
I, like most kids, always rolled my eyes at the ever-so-repetitive “when I was your age” stories told by my dad and my granddads. Sure, they were generally pretty entertaining stories. The first few times, anyway. But once you had heard them talk about walking nine miles to school in two feet of snow, barefoot, uphill, carrying their baby brother on their back, and whatever else kind of wild details they may add each time, I just sort of began to zone out as soon as I heard the words “When I was your age” or “Back in my day.” First of all, we don’t commonly get two feet of snow in Oklahoma. And it’s pretty dang flat, with not many hills in sight. I even know exactly where the school was, and there is not a single hill between here and there. And why was everyone always barefoot? We aren’t talking about the Ice Age here. I’ve seen pictures of them all when they were kids, and in every single picture they are wearing shoes. I made a point to look at their feet in every picture. I’m sorry, but I ain’t buying it.
However, as I grow older myself, I begin to find myself not only thinking about how things are different now versus thirty years ago, but also giving the long, drawn-out speeches that often begin with phrases like “When I was a kid” or “When I was your age.” I can hear myself doing it, and I hate it. I may as well start using Lucky Tiger hair tonic, getting my initials stitched onto the cuffs and collars of my neatly starched white oxford shirts, and eating at Denny’s for three meals per day. Maybe I’ll go ahead and flirt with the old waitress with the raspy, smoky voice, and she can call me “sweetie” and “baby,” while she brings me my eggs over easy, with sourdough toast and strawberry jelly. Maybe a piece of apple pie for dessert, but not pecan, because the pecans get stuck in my dentures. Needless to say, I’ve spent a little time with the old man at Denny’s.
Now, don’t get me wrong, if I can grow to be as half as good of a man as my dad, my granddads, or my great-granddads, well, in the words of my granddad himself, I would be prouder than a peacock. He may also say, “I’d be puffed up as a stomped-on toad” (whatever in the world that means), or “swelled up like a pois
oned pup,” which is my favorite and always made me giggle like a little girl. Old cowboys really have a way with words. However you want to say it, I’d love to someday be the kind of man they are. But if I could be as good as they are, without having to pull the “back in my day” routine, well, that would be okay by me.
Unfortunately, I am finding it is impossible to try to get this point across without stooping to the old standby grandpa speech. Only now, all these years later, do I really understand why they felt the need to incessantly tell these stories. Everything begins to make a little more sense once you are on this side of the conversation. I’ve learned it can be exasperating to talk to a child from another generation than you, because they tend to look at you like you are asking them to go plow the fields with a mule or go milk the cows before school, when all you are truly doing is asking them to clean their rooms or take care of their dogs or do the dishes. They just don’t seem to get it, and it’s doubtful they ever will. Because the differences between each generation grow bigger and bigger each time. And the bad news is, each generation becomes a little bit lazier and gets a little more entitled.
Now, before you go to jumping all over me about calling your kids lazy or entitled, just hold on. I’m not saying anything bad about anyone’s kids. All I am saying is, my great-grandpa worked harder than my grandpa, my grandpa worked harder than my dad, and my dad worked harder than me. The point of the “talk” is to ensure that our children understand that hard work is necessary for success. To understand that we are not asking them to do anything that we ourselves haven’t done. And probably much more. Okay, so maybe we stretch the truth a tad and talk about our long, uphill, barefoot walks to school. Regardless, we only use it to try to get the best out of our kids.
My First Rodeo Page 12