Wrangler Dani

He’s the king of understatement, the kind of guy you’d want in your corner in a brawl, the sort who would call a near-death experience “kinda unpleasant, when y’think about it”.

I told him I was nervous about a new path for my life, and I could hear his smile over the phone, shaking his head at my trepidation in life the way he shook his head at me when I got scared on horseback. “Aw, change is nothin’, Dani,” he said, forcefully but not unkindly. “I’ve been doin’ it all my life.” He has. He’s been everything from a cowpoke to a logger to a warrior in Vietnam, and he’s moved all over the west, constantly searching for open skies and new frontiers. He’s a classic outdoorsman, the kind of person who can fix a pickup with nothing but some hay twine and a pocketknife.

He used to intimidate me, with his big white mustache, barrel chest and massive, powerful hands. He doesn’t give praise easily, he almost never gets “mushy” and he would much rather sit quietly on his porch with a strong cup of black coffee than be in a room full of people. He insists on quality – wranglers working for him had to be fast and tireless and highly alert. Loose cinches, dirty blankets, uncleaned hooves and gummed-up bits all incurred his wrath – he might be an old-fashioned cowboy but that was no reason to mistreat or neglect your horses.

He was the toughest and best boss I’ve ever had, and he taught me everything I know about managing a horse herd and riding well. When he met my now-husband for the first time, he peppered him with questions and insisted that he understand just how special I am. I blushed as he put his meaty hand on my back, protectively.

He had a heart attack yesterday and I felt my own heart flutter and sink at the thought of never riding with him again, or never hearing his soft chuckle, swapping stories in the dusty twilight after a long day. I just talked to him on the phone and my heart is settling down again, because according to him he’s just “walkin’ a little crooked, nothin’ to worry about”.

He choked up a little bit on the phone today, and I saw him in my mind’s eye as he looked when I left after my last summer as a wrangler, when he had two teardrops dangling in the corners of his eyes, straw cowboy hat pushed back on his head. I slammed my face into the plaid pearl-snap shirt covering his barrel chest and felt him pat me, gently, telling me I should “get on out before it gets dark, and drive safe now.” Today as we said good-bye, he did what he always does when we infrequently chat. He said he loved me, and I choked out a good-bye before hanging up and sobbing.

Here’s to walkin’ a little crooked. To early mornings and cowhorses and shared stories and a faithful courage that stops me in my tracks. Here’s to Boss, and many more years of bossing me around, riding into the sunset and understating even the most difficult circumstances, because God is in control, not us.