Category: Hunting Tales from The Brasada By Dr. Johnnie Rosenauer

On June 1 I celebrated my Birthday. As an interesting aside, The Boss Lady was born MANY years later June 2, and we married on June 3. Having just had some successful major surgery (Thank the Lord) and still recovering, she asked what my plans were for my Day.
I had thought some about that question and decided to spend most of the day down at the Home Place with an old friend of over 60 years. This friend came into my world in the form of a Christmas present when I was 11 years old. It is a Model 94 Saddle Carbine in 25-35 caliber. I hunted with it as a 12-year-old the next fall and used it to harvest my first deer.
Dad had put a 3 power Weaver scope on it, side mounted, and it made the nimble little rifle unwieldy for me. We removed that scope, and it has been an open sight option ever since. Mostly a SAFE QUEEN, ever so often I take it out for a spin, but only for shooting “paper”.
I set up a target at a range finder measured distance of 50 yards. Peering through those Buck Horn Iron Sights, that target appeared to be close to 300 yards away with my old eyes. None the less, I managed to shoot a 3-round group of under 2 inches with 2 of the bullets being under 1 inch apart. Not exactly Minute of Angle but then not Minute of Acre either! I was well pleased, and that firearm felt comfortable snuggled up against my shoulder. Just like many times over the years.
I am not sure how long it will be before we make another “round” together as my scoped bolt action options are numerous, and most days, I can shoot any of them better than that lever action. But while they are all more powerful, accurate, and expensive, I can honestly say NONE of them hold the same “spot” in my memory. Like any long time, GOOD Friend, I am honored to have had it in my life for so long.

The Boss Lady and I had our kids and grandkids over on Saturday for Father’s Day. We grilled steaks and had a grand old time. Our granddaughters, ages 8 and 6, stayed for a couple of nights.
When they were very young, I would rock them and sing a song I made up. While NEVER EVER believing that I possess even 1/4 ounce of musical talent, they still allow me to rock with me and sing that tune for them.
I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH.
I CAN’T EVEN TELL YOU HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU.
YOU ARE SPECIAL TO ME, SO VERY SPECIAL TO ME.
I AM SO GLAD YOU ARE A PART OF MY LIFE.
At the end they are always told: I WILL NEVER EVER NOT LOVE YOU.
I am sure someday they will be embarrassed with that little Poppi Tune and habit. But it is without even one smidgen of apology that I offer that practice to and for them at every opportunity.
Their 3-year-old brother has also begun to enjoy that event. And it is offered willingly to him as well.
I have no idea what those kiddos will remember about their early days at Mimi and Poppi’s house. But you had better believe we are trying every time they come to offer up a warm and loving welcome.
After all, I am a firm believer that is part of the Grand Parent Job Description!
For Stevie, Oakley, and Maverick.

Over my many decades of hunting and ranch brokering in La Brasada, I have been fascinated with the variety of names folks give to their hunting blinds. And in my own circle we are no different. From my younger days, we had one called The Hog Blind. It was nothing more than a bunch of big mesquite posts crisscrossed into a more or less square. Someone left a partial sack of corn inside it one night, and the wild hogs tore that blind all up getting to those golden kernels. Another one we call The Pond Blind. Not because it sat by an impounded body of water, but because it sat in a low spot that was full of “pot holes and hog wallers” that filled up whenever we received a good rain.
We have Chris’s Castle named after my Godson, Dr. Christopher Pursch. And his Dad, John, has the Pursch Palace. Then there is The Cabin Blind, due to its proximity to an old weekend Cabin John and I built in our younger days. It was set up so our young children (back then) could walk back to the Cabin if they got tired of sitting in the blind and we could watch their every step coming or going. We have one called The Corner, because it sits in the intersection of two different pastures, allowing for a couple of long views down the roads.
We name blinds after neighbors and structures like the Gammage, Windmill , or the Tank Blind. Some folks put numbers on theirs. The approaches vary but the common goal is to clearly identify which one is being spoken about. After all, at least to me, that sounds better than saying go 22degrees S for 1282 feet and then turn 57 degrees W for 2942 feet to arrive at your destination. I hear enough of that trying to get around in the city!

Lately I had the chance to spend some time with an exceptional Lady that I have known OF her whole life, but did not really get to know until recently.
Being a decade and a half older than her means that in our “earlier” days we could recognize each other on sight but not really interact in a meaningful way.
Like many of us the Pathway of Events in Life caused her to deviate from some of the preferred direction of her passions and callings.
Now due to other changes, she can again seek out those things with more time and energy. But also like so many getting those “Compass Points” reestablished is proving harder than she imagined.
My efforts at support focused on encouraging her to look at the revisions from the long-term view and to be patient with the readjustments to this new life.
We spoke of coping tools and the value to showing the same type of kindness upon herself that she has bestowed on so many others.
I left the visit with a prayer that my words were of use and she will be able, with God’s help, to correctly rechart the direction Life will take her from this stage on.
For Karen

While not on my favorite list of species to pursue in La Brasada, we are in Turkey Season right now. We manage to have some on our acres due to the creek bottom part that is full of oak trees adjoining some fertile red sand farmland. But in my well over 6 decades of hunting, I have not ever felt the need to harvest one.
That does not mean they have not caused me many moments of joy through the years. Watching the “strutting around” of the males trying to impress the ladies each Spring is simply a slightly different tune of the behavior exhibited by rutting bucks in December. Or likely most Saturday nights at multiple “human watering holes” scattered all over. I go out of my way to observe that first two examples above but have avoided the last one for a long spell.
Our daughter, in her very young years, labeled them Gobble Gobbles and the term has stuck. Her children often will ask if we are going to see any Gobble Gobbles when driving down to our place. They all firmly believe that the spreading of corn at the various feeding locations must have “designated spots” for the deer, hogs, and turkeys. I simply watch in amusement as the United Nations level of negotiations occur in terms of how locations are allocated to which species.
In my backwoods way of figuring out things NO purpose is served pointing out that NONE of the wild animals care about such Human Boundaries and simply adapt to opportunities presented for safety, food, and producing another round of offspring. I imagine at some point in time that the 5th generation of our family will figure out that fact of nature.
But for now I am perfectly content to let those young ones create their own approach to the care and support of ALL those magnificent species the Good Lord has allowed us to interact with while out in our part of His Creation that has been entrusted to us. And that includes taking some care of the Gobble Gobbles!

Unless you have pulled a Ryp Van Winkle of some sort, you probably noticed it has been hot and dry for a good spell lately. The water well levels, both private and public, have been dropping like crazy and water rationing; either self-imposed or mandated is the norm right now.
We still have a few potted plants out in the back yard. Some are pots of herbs The Boss Lady uses those in cooking, and some are …. I don’t know what they are.
My job is to keep them a little bit watered given they bear the brunt of some western sun exposure in the afternoon. Like the rest of our yard, they have had their fair share of pale green to yellow wilting leaves some days this summer.
While outside doing my watering routine, I noticed that in spite of looking just a little bit like “death warmed over” one of the plants had produced a vividly colored flower. It was a testimony to its resilience and sacrifice in this time of stress to somehow manage to do its intended function rather than conserve internal resources. Driving through Landa Park early this morning I noticed one of the “Park Does” standing there with her big healthy fawn, born in about early June, I suspect. The baby, that was still trying to nurse, looked nearly as big as Mom and was in far better physical condition. Momma Doe looked pretty ragged, much like that plant in our back yard.
Those two observations rattled around in this old Aggie Brain until a small light bulb turned on. Likely not “on” for long or with a great illumination, but what I saw became clearer and made sense to me.
Both these living things made a great sacrifice to produce something brighter and healthier by an offering of self on behalf of another. They gave of themselves in order that an important part of who they were could flourish.
Now I don’t know if that pot plant will make it through the summer, or if that doe will survive the winter. But I do know one thing for sure. Both placed themselves into a serious “strain” so that something could develop, and Lord willing, thrive because of their willingness to do what Nature intended, no matter the outside conditions or internal challenges.
Seems to me that may be a good reminder for us all.

Recently I had written a Tale about bringing “The Hiffers”, as our 3 year old Grand Son calls them, to the Home Place. We arranged a Sunday afternoon visit out there with our Daughter, Son In Law, and their kids, ages 8, 6, and 3.
Our first step of the adventure included a little corn throwing at some of our game feeding locations while “searching” for our new bovine guests. We “found” them out in the middle of an overgrown pasture mixed with tall grass, pear and mesquite.
The ladies were a bit nervous at first, given their very limited exposure to 3 little “jumping jacks” all talking loudly at the same time in the excitement of the moment. But the cattle cubes finally encouraged them to come around. Those kids sure were practicing their baseball throws in trying to see how close they could come to getting the cubes in just the right spots. All the young ladies were numbered with ear tags, and there were considerable debates on the “best one” among the three young evaluators.
After feeding about half a bag, we motored over to the pasture where our new guests call Home. Each of the 3 got to sit in Poppi’s lap and drive the truck out on our place and on the 2 mile journey to the next destination on the isolated country roads. We did not have to search for the group of last year’s heifers, now spending time with the Herd Bull. A big grey Brahma with the black hump, our daughter calls him Big Daddy. His hooves are each about the size of a small dinner plate. Gentle as a puppy, but I still made them all stay in the truck bed as we had about 15 or more hungry mouths all around us. Our girl has never been afraid of animals and surprisingly to me, even the meanest cow dogs never harmed her a bit over the years of being around ranch animals all her life. Consequently, her kids don’t much think of the potential of danger. But Poppi does and his truck and feed mean his rules. They all petted on Big Daddy and he stood around with his ladies until the cubes ran out.
After heading back towards Devine where we left their passenger car, 2 of the 3 fell fast asleep in the first 5 miles of travel. Mimi just told me they are coming over today (President’s Day) since there is no school. It will be interesting to listen to their recounting of the day.
While I have no clue as to how they will recall the little trip, as long as they had fun, were safe, and made some memories to solidify their connection to our family acres, I am totally convinced it was a successful investment in a fine early Spring afternoon.

In a recent Tale I talked about taking my Grandkids and Daughter out to see a new batch of heifers on our Home Place. That story caused me to think back a VERY LONG time ago to my first recollections of cattle ownership.
My Mom, Verna Dell Walker Rosenauer, contracted Polio as did many others in south Texas in 1952, when I had just turned one year old. Through that terrible experience, she ended up paralyzed from the neck down and spent some time in rehabilitation. I stayed much of the next two years out on the Home Place, and it has always been a very special part of what makes me who I am. As a kid whenever the opportunity allowed, I would try to stay out there. And to this day it is still a place of contentment and peace for me on most of the days I spend at that place.
Of course, “helping” my Grannie and Grand Dad probably had a different look to them than it did to me. I took a real liking to feeding the cattle and not so much to the garden tending that was a seasonal part of daily chores. I remember Charlie Rosenauer telling me something on the order of “you best learn to do something else in life, cause you ain’t cut out to be a Farmer”!
Of course, he was right, but I did like messing with the cattle and later with horses. At some point in time, probably about age 4 or 5, I asked Grand Dad if I could have a cow. We discussed the different ones in the herd, and I selected a Black Baldy and named her Apache.
Objectively there was nothing much special about that middle age cross bred grade bovine, but she sure was special to me. That year she brought a still born calf and I think me and Apache suffered about the same feelings of loss. But, like most bad periods in Life, we both kinda/sorta got over it. She had several more babies over the next few years and there was always some extra time spent pondering on what to name them.
Honestly, I cannot recall if Apache died on the place or Grand Dad sold her off. But I tell you something about that time in my life. It started a trend where the naming of colts and calves have become a BIG Deal for at least the 2 generations after me. Our Daughter especially liked to spend time as a youngster making lists with me discussing and documenting name possibility based on gender and color.
Now we spend time on what to call the “Hiffers” on our place with the Grand Kids. A couple of years ago, the names were all about the movie Frozen. I am sure glad that song “Let It Go” has moved on from their focus. Last year the names centered on ice cream colors. Stawberry, Vanilla, Fudge, and Chocolate and other names I cannot recall are likely first time Mommas this Spring.
Who can tell what names will be given this time around. But one thing for sure, it will be fun listening to the bargaining and discussion among the kids. And to think, that practice started a real long time ago on the same red sandy loam property. I sure do hope it can continue for a few more generations.

As I get to celebrate the privilege of being “Poppi” to our 3 Grand Kids, I sometimes find myself using some of the phrases I heard long ago from my own Grand Parents.
One of those came to mind recently when discussing the upcoming T Ball Baseball Season with our 6-year-old Grand Daughter, Oakley. Quite a bit different from our Princess 8 year old, and our Rough House Little Man 3 year old, I predict she has a 50/50 chance, at the moment, of being another Florence Nightengale or going on the Professional Wrestler Circuit! It kind of depends on the day.
The issue at stake is the move into another age class level from her past 2 years, meaning different teammates and playing at new locations. At 6 that appears to be a big deal, and we take the concerns with the appropriate seriousness. We do so because Ms. O definitely has a serious side to her.
Mimi and I use different approaches in our discussions on such a topic. I am focusing in on the aspect of “do your best” and that is all we can ask of you. In my days, my own Grand Dad would use the term: Go Out And Make It Count, Boy when discussing my own athletic endeavors, shooting at wildlife, or even the occasional brawl/disagreement between friends and foes alike. Grannie used more of a Walk Away and Don’t Do Something You Will Regret Later approach.
Which worked better with me is long ago forgotten, but suffice it to say, the ideas have stuck in my brain for many years.
In retrospect, there likely no perfect words of wisdom we can bestow that are always right, much less heeded when we try to encourage and mentor others. I guess the best we can hope for is to just do our best to make it count when it comes to lending support and encouragement. And along with some prayers on behalf of those we care for, that will have to be enough.