Western code: Never admit to pain

After years of personal observation I am ready to reveal the real, true code of the West.

Here it is: “Don’t ever admit you’re hurt.”

We all know the guy who gets bucked off on his cómo se llama, manages to stand up (they think standing up means you’re all right, even if one ear is gone and your arm is hanging at a strange angle), reshapes his hat (that’s always the body part they tend to first), slaps the dust off his shirt sleeves and tries to walk away with no limp, insisting, “Nah, I ain’t hurt. Just landed on my brains.”

I grew up watching this behavior, so of course I bought into it. Along the way I discovered an odd truism: Nothing ever goes wrong when you’re alone — there’s always an audience, ready to laugh, especially if the cause of your wreck is that you did something dumb. Your only hope is for only a few spectators, preferably people who don’t know you personally.

Family, of course, is the absolute worst audience. They never forget. You would think they’d finally get tired of the same old story, but noooo. They retell your calamity with ever-increasing embellishments — for YEARS.

While growing up I became fairly adept at refusing to acknowledge pain after the inevitable storms that come with working around animals and equipment. The most difficult time, though, happened when my oldest child was about three weeks old.

I decided to ride this young Appaloosa stud. We were making figure eights in the arena just fine when a paper sack blew over the fence in front of us. He jumped, I didn’t, and I landed on what at that time was not my comfort zone.

My husband was watching, of course. In acknowledgment of my delicate condition he did ask if I were all right before he laughed. Of course I said, “I’m fine.” Today, for the first time, I’m admitting I lied. I was not fine. It hurt really, really bad.

My brother-in-law holds the large audience record. They used to have Hereford Tours. Ranchers in a certain area of the state gathered their best Herefords and held them beside the road so tour participants could see the cattle from their vehicles. As many as 200 people came.

My brother-in-law decided to ride a young bay gelding — not yet dependable, but mighty good-looking. The tour ran late. Cattle, horses and cowboys sorta dozed off until the long line of cars came over the hill. Just then one ornery old cow decided to leave, brother-in-law figured he’d turn her back right quick, and urged the bay with his spurs.

Big mistake.

That horse had a lot of action, but brother-in-law stayed with him awhile.

Even today, many Hereford breeders enjoy reminiscing about that rodeo during the Hereford Tour. Come to think of it, I don’t think anybody ever asked if he were hurt.             

Glenda Price has been a contributing editor to New Mexico Stockman magazine since 1982. Contact her at: glendaprice00@comcast.net