When Dad died in 2009, three men did an admirable involuntary job of filling in. The last of them was buried last week.

Jan Burkhard was a part of my young life. Among the important lessons he supplied me were that if a 4-inch corn plant can hold up a three-quarter ton Ford pickup, it can hold up an ear. He told me that as we were driving across one of his newly sprouted corn fields. He also taught me almost everything I know about hogs. They stink, they are easily potty-trained, and they make excellent bacon and ham. After a twenty-year absence in my life, Jan and Sandy came from Ohio to help at our first cattle sale. They rolled up their sleeves and pitched in any way asked which included brushing bulls in a forty mile-an-hour wind, hauling critters to the salebarn, helping indoors and outdoors during the sale, and feeding cats, chickens, dogs, cows, calves, bulls, and horses while we made after-sale deliveries.

Dr. Nick Schroeder (pronounced Shrader, not Shroder—and he would remind you of it) was a retired veterinarian by the time I knew him. He filled in at the clinic when I was out of town, imparted lots of veterinary advice, and told lots of off-color jokes. I once told him he’d be surprised when he got to heaven and met Jesus and found out she was black. He said that disturbed him. Some Nick-isms include: Asepsis is relative; if you’re performing surgery in an operating room, everything should be sterile. If you’re performing surgery in a mudhole under the dripping eave of an icy barn, everything should be as free of muck as possible. And: There’s a difference between line-breeding and in-breeding; if it works, it’s line-breeding. When I told him about my new perlino dun stallion that could not produce bays or sorrels, he told me a colleague of his had spent his career studying color genetics in cats and horses right up until he killed himself. After Dr. Nick passed on, his lovely wife Judy gave me some of his tack. I proudly use the bridle with a browband concho that reads: Rawlins, WY Rabies Tag.

My third fill-in dad was Leroy Pierce who just went to the great roundup. Leroy was one of the most creative and generous souls who ever tread upon this earth. He and Luella invited my kids to their jam nights. When Leroy and Luella played, it was polka music on the accordions and piano and—Leroy’s specialty—the spoons. When it came to us, it was an old cowboy tune with guitar and whatever instruments the kids were playing that week. The kids’ matching bandanas and silver slides were given to them by Leroy and Luella. Leroy made them all slide whistles which came in handy when we sang “My Body Lies Over the Ocean” (not Bonnie, Body), he made them a flag carrier to mount on a stirrup, tapaderos to keep them safe in the saddle, latigo keepers, and I can’t remember how many boots he fixed for us. He taught me to pull and replace boot heels, how to oil a lot of harness in a short time, how to shape leather, and so many other things I couldn’t possibly relay them all.

I still miss Dad a lot, but those three made that grief easier. Now, I miss them all.

My Body Lies Over the Ocean

My stomach’s in great big confusion

My head’s hanging over the rail

I don’t wish to dirty the ocean

Would someone please bring me a pail?

Come up, come up

Come up, my supper, come up, come up

Come up, come up,

Come up, my supper, come up

My mother has tuberculosis

My mother has only one lung

My mother spits blood in a bucket

Then dries it and chews it as gum

Dentyne, Dentyne

Dentyne’s my favorite gum (yum, yum!)

Dentyne, Dentyne

Dentyne’s my favorite gum