One opportunity ranch kids might have that isn’t available to most young people is riding with their dad for a couple of hours in the cab of a pickup.
It sounds pretty boring, and often it is, but I cherish the times — from elementary school age all the way through to adulthood — that I sat on the passenger side of a beat-up vehicle, dust on the dash, wire pliers and a hatchet in the floorboard, maybe a rope in the seat and the side mirror cracked.
I would be the gate-opener as Dad drove from one pasture to another, feeding cattle. In the early days, Dad called the cows, with their calves following close behind, and bulls with the pickup’s horn. Later, the horn gave way to a louder siren. We bumped through Texas Panhandle range on dirt roads and often off the road to get to a flat feeding ground or to watch for the animals from the top of a hill.
There was a lot of waiting, and especially as a teenager, I would be thinking of schoolwork I needed to do or how I’d rather be home reading “Sports Illustrated.” Lunch (which we called dinner) couldn’t arrive soon enough.
Even though I didn’t stick with ranching as a career, I learned a lot about cattle and grassland and counting fast while driving by a line of cows eagerly gulping the cake — pellets of feed — to see how many we had just fed.
It’s been easier in recent years. In the old days, I would climb up into the pickup bed and, as Dad drove slowly, pour cake out the back from 100-pound burlap tow sacks — later from 50-pound paper sacks. If one person was feeding alone, he (or she) would put the vehicle in “grandma” — a gear that allowed it to proceed at a slow speed without a driver — open the door, jump out, climb into the pickup bed, pour out the feed, hop onto the ground and re-enter the cab before the pickup ran into something.
Now, nobody has to get out of the front of the pickup as an automatic feeder installed behind the cab’s back window spits out five pounds at a time while the vehicle moves along.
My family never has been inclined to talk about deep, serious things. We assume that all of us know right from wrong, and we agree with the teaching and preaching we get at church. We kid and laugh a lot and know that we love each other without expressing it in words.
Many of the serious conversations I’ve had with Dad have come in between honks while scanning the pasture for signs of the cows and calves. I don’t remember details of our talks, but we did have some about my dating and later my marriage, and any discussion of theology or living godly lives happened in that tight pickup cab.
Dad gave me, my sister and three brothers plenty of instruction and chances to learn the cowboy life. All of us moved on to other occupations — journalism, teaching, coaching, banking, insurance, economic development — and some stayed connected to the ranch more than others. Two operate it now after their retirement, and a third helps out when he’s off work.
While my wife, Kathy, and her mother, Peggy, visited relatives this year where Peggy grew up in eastern Kentucky, a cousin, Ray, drove us around his farm, nestled in a “holler” with mountains on each side. Ray and his wife, Vonda, have cattle and grow some crops, and he told me, “I love it.”
I admitted to Ray that I love the idea of it — ranches and western heritage — but being a cowboy didn’t turn out to be my thing. My non-existent sense of direction might be the main reason. I’ve been lost on a horse in a pasture, not knowing where the other riders were or where the pens were to which we were trying to drive the cattle. I’ve been at the wheel of a pickup, stopped at a dirt road intersection, unsure which way to go even though I had been there scores of times.
So I’m more comfortable with a keyboard than a saddle, better at spelling than judging the quality of a bull calf. I like the idea of being a cowboy, but I’m not a real one.
Some of the times with Dad in the pickup — and seeing him live as a rancher, a father and a community and church leader until his death in January 2025 — reinforced the idea that Christianity isn’t something that allows a person to just “like the idea” of following Jesus. At times, I’ve been lulled into the routine of going to church and Sunday school, reluctantly praying at family gatherings and even “liking the idea” of writing about God in the newspaper.
Jesus made it clear that his people can’t be lukewarm, but committed and consistent in loving God with all their hearts, souls and minds and loving their neighbors as themselves (Matthew 22:37-29). And James asked what good is faith without action? (James 2:14).
On Father’s Day, I’m grateful that Johnny Haynes gave me an appreciation of western life even though I didn’t become a real cowboy. I’m more grateful that he inspired me to do more than “liking the idea” of being a Christian.
Mike Haynes taught journalism at Amarillo College from 1991 to 2016 and has written for the Faith section since 1997. He can be reached at haynescolumn@gmail.com. Go to www.haynescolumn.blogspot.com or his Facebook page for more of his columns.
This article originally appeared on Amarillo Globe-News: Father’s Day brings memories of Dad’s lessons on the ranch
Reporting by By Mike Haynes, Special to the Amarillo Globe-News / Amarillo Globe-News
USA TODAY Network via Reuters Connect
By Mike Haynes, Special to the Amarillo Globe-News | USA TODAY Network
