A Cowboy's Life

Paolo relaxed on the porch swing as summer breezes blew in from the gulf throughout afternoon. He gazed at the giant stones in the Tagubase’s front yard while he thought about how the stones got there.
Senor Tagubase, who was the principal at Paolo’s school, came home that evening and waved to Paolo.
“It’s a perfectly good day. Why aren’t you with your on the beach with your friends?”
“I’m thinking about the people who lived in Costa Rica in ancient times.”
“That’s a heavy subject for such a young lad. What makes you think of that?”
“Sra. Tagubase has been talking about it in class.”
“Oh, I see. May I join you for a sit?”
Paola moved to one side of the swing and Senor Tagubase joined him.
“Where did you think we came from?” asked Paolo.
“Well, I came from my parents,” replied Sr. Tagubase.
“We all came from our parents,” sighed Paolo.
“They are the ones who made me who I am today.”
“What do you mean?”
“My father worked as a Sabanero in the northern plains of Costa Rica. My mother stayed home to raise the children. I had seven brothers and sisters.”
“Whoa!” said Paolo, “What was your childhood like?”
“My siblings and I worked together to keep the ranch running.”
“You lived on a ranch?”
“We sure did. It was called the Laughing T Ranch. My father ran the ranch with two farmhands, named Hector and Eduardo.”
“Why was it called the Laughing T Ranch?”
“My father always told a story about how when he was in the valley, he always felt far away from the children. He created a cattle brand that would remind him of us.”
What did it look like?”
“It’s probably easier to draw than describe.”
Sr. Tagubase made an invisible drawing on the space between them. He sketched a crescent moon and placed it on top of a stick. “The top of the tee was shaped like a laughing mouth.”
Senor Tagubase and the farmhands cared for all the animals on the ranch, tending to their every need. Hector and Eduardo lived in a farmhouse located on the ranch.
Sr. Tagubase closed his eyes and dreamt of mornings on the ranch.
“Even before the sun rose, Hector was in the stables, caring for the horses. ‘Buenas dias, mis compadres,’ he would say to the animals in the barn. Then, he would walk the horses, hitching them to a fence post. As they waited outside, he hosed out the stalls and sprinkled the bottom of each stall with fresh hay. He would also file their hooves and nail new shoes on their feet.”
“It must have been fun,” said Paolo.
“My father worked very long days,” replied Sr, Tagubase.
“What were his days like?”
“As far as I can remember, my father worked with Eduardo on the ranch. The ranch houses and barnyard were a very small part of the ranch. The cattle roamed freely throughout the valley. They rode their horses up and down the hills. Eduardo and my father used the horses to form a natural fence, using only their herding skills to keep the cattle from wandering away.”
Paolo propped his elbows on his knees and propped his head upon his hands. He listened intently to Sr. Tagubase's stories of his father and the Laughing T Ranch.
"What was your father like?"
"He was a very patient man. He believed in solving each problem one at a time. Even though he worked long days in the valley, he never ignored me or my brothers and sisters."
"I mean, what did he look like? Did he wear a cowboy hat?"
"All Sabaneros wear cowboy hats, but not like the ones you're thinking. My father had this straw hat he wore every day o his life. It got so dirty my mother kept trying to throw it away. He'd search the trash and clean it off. The next day, he'd be on his horse with that dirty straw hat."
"”That must have been some sight,” laughed Paolo.
“It sure was. When I was a boy, I wanted to be just like him,”
“Did you ever work on the Ranch?" asked Paolo.
”Not very often. I mostly played at the farmhouse."
"If I lived on a ranch, I think I'd want to work every day. I could ride a horse up and down the valley."
"I do remember spending a few days out on the range. When I was young, I would ride with my father. He would sit me on the horse and climb on behind me. I'd hold onto the saddle horn while my father reached around my shoulders and held the reins. I'd lean back against his chest. He’d open his lighter on his jeans and light a cigarette. I can almost smell the odor of his body sweat and tobacco."
"What did you do?" asked Paolo.
"Whenever I went with him, we just rode on horseback. I was too small to do farmhand work. We'd ride in the heat of the midday sun until my nose became hot. He'd find a Guanacanaste tree and we'd rest in its shade."
"It sounds like the perfect life. Why didn't you become a Sabanero, too?"
"My father never wanted us to become ranchers. In fact, he sent us all to college. He said he didn't want us to lead a rough-hand life."
"What do you mean?"
Sr. Tagubase shook Paolo by the hand. His hands were soft and smooth. His fingernails were cleanly cut.
"My father's hands were always covered in blisters and calluses. Whenever I touched his hands, they were rough and scratchy. They always smelled like horse hair and saddle leather."
"It still sounds the good life to me."
"For many Costa Ricans, that is a good life," replied Sr. Tagubase, "The rich heritage of the coastal cowboys of Guanacanaste was just another thing the Spaniards brought to the new country."
"I think it was a good thing to be a Sabanero."
"They also participated in cattle drives, rounding up the steer and escorting them through the Guanacanaste valley of Costa Rica, north to Nicaragua and south to Panama. There were long periods when he was away from home. I think that's why he didn't want me to become a Sabanero."
"If you could go back, would you be a Sabanero?"
"I don't think I could love anything more than being a school principal and living on the coast. I do miss the times sitting under the Guanacanaste tree at the end of the day. My father would tie a knot in the reins and loop it over a branch. Then, he’d sit with his back against the tree trunk and smoke a cigarette."
“What would you do?”
“I would pet the horse or just sit between him and Eduardo while they talked. Eduardo always brought apples in his saddlebag. He’d take out his knife to peel and core the apples. He’d usually feed the skins to the horses and we’d get to eat the rest.”
Paolo sighed. “That must have been something.”
The sky grew dark as rays of sun had to travel across the horizon to Paolo's eyes.
“It was usually about this time we’d pack up and go back home,” said Sr. Tagubase, “We’d ride through the valley and get home just in time for dinner with the family. After dinner, I always remember my father saying ‘Hasta manana,’ to the Sabaneros. Hector would always reply, ‘Hasta manana, mi compadre,’ which meant ‘until tomorrow, my trusted friend.’ My father always figured that life was too short and he could not wait until tomorrow.”
Pilar poked her head out the front door. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Good, I’m getting very hungry,” said Paolo.
“I suppose it’s time for my dinner, too,” said Sr. Tagubase.
"Hasta manana," said Paolo.
"Hasta manana, mi compadre." replied Sr. Tagubase with a kind smile.
Paolo joined his family for dinner, with thoughts of a cowboy's life and hot afternoons in the shade of a Guanacanaste tree wandering through his imagination. There was a Guanacanaste tree at the far end of his schoolyard.
“Pilar, can you cut me some apples for my lunch tomorrow?” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied.
Paolo figured he could bike to the Guanacanaste tree and share some apples with his friends after playing football in the hot Costa Rican sun.“Until tomorrow,” Paolo thought to himself.