Online Message Board BS plus a nugget of wisdom at the end
I will resume my usual commentary in a few days. I have been quite busy with family affairs, and a host of other things. Lately, I’ve been having a brush up over at a discussion board of a publication. I have people accusing me of no morals, plagiarism….you name it…questioning my intelligence, bringing up my late wife(yes that happened). There’s a bunch of sanctimonious people over there busting my balls because I make no apologies of what I do, and that I’m good at what I do. You wouldn’t believe that many people consider what we do, to be a product of luck. One guy told me that my speculating in grains was taking food out of poor children’s mouths….how do you deal with that crap All of these discussions are anonymous, and the worst guy who was beating me up, I had to set a trap to find out who he was. I posted a link to my blog and when he visited, I was able to get his ip address, and my computer guy found out all about him. Another guy that’s been recently bugging me, giving me a hard time and I have my guy working on that also. Maybe it is a bit obsessive, but the first rule of war or any competition is to know your opponent. I am always quite civil, and never start any shit until people start spewing invective, insults, and calling me names. Anyways, sorry to bore you with mundane details.
Keep an eye on the nearby corn/wheat contracts. I won’t spoon feed you, but check out that action for the last year and what happens near rollover time and when a new contract becomes the front month. This is indeed a meal for a lifetime.
Stubby Pringle’s Christmas
I have to give credit to where credit is due to my friend Vic Niederhoffer who posted Shaffer’s great story “Stubby Pringle’s Christmas” over on Daily Speculations. This story is the best Christmas story ever, better than that Jimmy Stewart movie, better than the Preacher’s Wife, better than Dickens. Instead of clicking on Dailyspeculations.com, I have reposted the entire story here so enjoy.
High on the mountainside by the little line cabin in the crisp clean dusk of evening Stubby Pringle swings into saddle. He has shape of bear in the dimness, bundled thick against cold. Double socks crowd scarred boots. Leather chaps with hair out cover patched corduroy pants. Fleece-lined jacket with wear of winters on it bulges body and heavy gloves blunt fingers. Two gay red bandannas folded together fatten throat under chin. Battered hat is pulled down to sit on ears and in side pocket of jacket are rabbit-skin earmuffs he can put to use if he needs them.
Stubby Pringle swings up into saddle. He looks out and down over worlds of snow and ice and tree and rock. He spreads arms wide and they embrace whole ranges of hills. He stretches tall and hat brushes stars in sky. He is Stubby Pringle, cowhand of the Triple X, and this is his night to howl. He is Stubby Pringle, son of the wild jackass, and he is heading for the Christmas dance at the schoolhouse in the valley.
Stubby Pringle swings up and his horse stands like rock. This is the pride of his string, flop-eared ewe-necked cat-hipped strawberry roan that looks like it should have died weeks ago but has iron rods for bones and nitroglycerin for blood and can go from here to doomsday with nothing more than mouthfuls of snow for water and tufts of winter-cured bunch-grass snatched between drifts for food. It stands like rock. It knows the folly of trying to unseat Stubby. It wastes no energy in futile explosions. It knows that twenty-seven miles of hard winter going are foreordained for this evening and twenty-seven more of harder uphill return by morning. It has done this before. It is saving the dynamite under its hide for the destiny of a true cowpony which is to take its rider where he wants to go – and bring him back again.
Stubby Pringle sits in his saddle and he grins into cold and distance and future full of festivity. Join me in a look at what can be seen of him despite the bundling and frosty breath vapor that soon will hang icicles on his nose. Those are careless haphazard scrambled features under the low hatbrim, about as handsome as a blue boar’s snout. Not much fuzz yet on his chin. Why, shucks, is he just a boy? Don’t make that mistake, though his twentieth birthday is still six weeks away. Don’t make the mistake Hutch Handley made last summer when he thought this was young unseasoned stuff and took to ragging Stubby and wound up with ears pinned back and upper lip split and nose mashed flat and the whole of him dumped in a rainbarrel. Stubby has been taking care of himself since he was orphaned at thirteen. Stubby has been doing man’s work since he was fifteen. Do you think Hardrock Harper of the Triple X would have anything but an all-around hard-proved hand up here at his farthest winter line camp siding Old Jake Hanlon, toughest hard-bitten old cowman ever to ride range?
Stubby Pringle slips gloved hand under rump to wipe frost off the saddle. No sense letting it melt into patches of corduroy pants. He slaps rightside saddlebag. It contains a burlap bag wrapped around a two-pound box of candy, of fancy chocolates with variegated interiors he acquired two months ago and has kept hidden from Old Jake. He slaps leftside saddlebag. It holds a burlap bag wrapped around a paper parcel that contains a close-folded piece of dress goods and a roll of pink ribbon. Interesting items, yes. They are ammunition for the campaign he has in mind to soften the affections of whichever female of the right vintage among those at the schoolhouse appeals to him most and seems most susceptible.
Stubby Pringle settles himself firmly into the saddle. He is just another of far-scattered poorly-paid patched-clothes cowhands that inhabit these parts and likely marks and smells of his calling have not all been scrubbed away. He knows that. But this is his night to howl. He is Stubby Pringle, true-begotten son of the wildest jackass, and he has been riding line through hell and highwater and winter storms for two months without a break and he has done his share of the work and more than his share because Old Jake is getting along and slowing some and this is his night to stomp floorboards till schoolhouse shakes and kick heels up to lanterns above and whirl a willing female till she is dizzy enough to see past patched clothes to the man inside them. He wriggles toes deep into stirrups and settles himself firmly in the saddle.
“I could of et them choc’lates,” says Old Jake from the cabin doorway. “they wasn’t hid good,” he says. “No good at all.”
“An’ he beat like a drum,” says Stubby. “An’ wrung out like a dirty dishrag.”
“By who?” says Old Jake. “By a young un like you? Why, I’d of tied you in knots afore you knew what’s what iffen you tried it. You’re a dang-blatted young fool,” he says. “A ding-busted dang-blatted fool. Riding out a night like this iffen it is Chris’mas eve. A dong-bonging ding-busted dang-blatted fool,” he says. “But iffen I was your age agin, I reckon I’d be doing it too.” He cackles like an old rooster. “Squeeze one of ‘em for me,” he says and he steps back inside and he closes the door.
Stubby Pringle is alone out there in the darkening dusk, alone with flop-eared ewe-necked cat-hipped roan that can go to the last trumpet call under him and with cold of wicked winter wind around him and with twenty-seven miles of snow-dumped distance ahead of him. “Wahoo!” he yells. “Skip to my Loo!” he shouts. “Do-si-do and round about!”
He lifts reins and the roan sighs and lifts feet. At easy warming-up amble they drop over the edge of benchland where the cabin snugs into tall pines and on down the great bleak expanse of mountainside.
Stubby Pringle, spurs a jingle, jobs upslope through crusted snow. The roan, warmed through, moves strong and steady under him. Line cabin and line work are far forgotten things back and back and up and up the mighty mass of mountain. He is Stubby Pringle, rooting, tooting hard-working hard-playing cowhand of the Triple X, heading for the Christmas dance at the schoolhouse in the valley.
He tops out on one of the lower ridges. He pulls rein to give the roan a breather. He brushes an icicle off his nose. He leans forward and reaches to brush several more off sidebars of old bit in the bridge. He straightens tall. Far ahead, over top of last and lowest ridge, on into the valley, he can see tiny specks of glowing allure that are schoolhouse windows. Light and gaiety and good liquor and fluttering skirts are there. “Wahoo!” he yells. “Gals an’ women an’ grandmothers!” he shouts. “Raise your skirts and start askipping! I’m acoming!”
He slaps spurs to roan. It leaps like mountain lion, out and down, full into hard gallop downslope, rushing, reckless of crusted drifts and ice-coated bush-branches slapping at them. He is Stubby Pringle, born with spurs on, nursed on tarantula juice, weaned on rawhide, at home in the saddle of a hurricane in shape of horse that can race to outer edge of eternity and back, heading now for highjinks two months overdue. He is ten feet tall and the horse is gigantic, with wings, iron-boned and dynamite-fueled, soaring in forty-foot leaps down the flank of the whitened wonder of a winter world.
They slow at the bottom. They stop. They look up the rise of the last low ridge ahead. The roan paws frozen ground and snorts twin plumes of frosty vapor. Stubby reaches around to pull down fleece-lined jacket that has worked a bit up back. He pats rightside saddlebag. He pats leftside saddlebag. He lifts reins to soar up and over last low ridge.
Hold it, Stubby. What is that? Off to the right.
He listens. He has ears that can catch snitch of mouse chewing on chunk of bacon rind beyond the log wall by his bunk. He hears. Sound of ax striking wood.
What kind of dong-bonging ding-busted dang-blatted fool would be chopping wood on a night like this and on Christmas Eve and with a dance underway at the schoolhouse in the valley? What kind of chopping is this anyway? Uneven in rhythm, feeble in stroke. Trust Stubby Pringle, who has chopped wood enough for cookstove and fireplace to fill a long freight train, to know how an ax should be handled.
There. That does it. That whopping sound can only mean that the blade has hit at an angle and bounced away without biting. Some dong-bonged ding-busted dang-blatted fool is going to be cutting off some of his own toes.
He pulls the roan around to the right. He is Stubby Pringle, born to tune of bawling bulls and blatting calves, branded at birth, cowman raised and cowman to the marrow, and no true cowman rides on without stopping to check anything strange on range. Roan chomps on bit, annoyed at interruption. It remembers who is in saddle. It sighs and obeys. They move quietly in dark of night past boles of trees jet black against dim greyness of crusted snow on ground. Light shows faintly ahead. Lantern light through a small oiled-paper window.
Yes. Of course. Just where it has been for eight months now. The Henderson place. Man and woman and small girl and waist-high boy. Homesteaders. Not even fools, homesteaders. Worse than that. Out of their minds altogether. All of them. Out here anyway. Betting the government they can stave off starving for five years in exchange for one hundred sixty acres of land. Land that just might be able to support seven jack-rabbits and two coyotes and nine rattlesnakes and maybe all of four thin steers to a whole section. In a good year. Homesteaders. Always out of almost everything, money and food and tools and smiles and joy of living. Everything. Except maybe hope and stubborn endurance.
Stubby Pringle nudges the reluctant roan along. In patch-light from the window by a tangled pile of dead tree branches he sees a woman. Her face is grey and pinched and tired. An old stocking-cap is pulled down on her head. Ragged man’s jacket bumps over long Woolsey dress and clogs arms as she tries to swing an ax into a good-sized branch on the ground.
Whopping sound and ax bounces and barely misses an ankle.
“Quit that!” says Stubby, sharp. He swings the roan in close. He looks down at her. She drops ax and backs away, frightened. She is ready to bolt into two-room bark-slab shack. She looks up. She sees the haphazard scrambled features under low hatbrim are crinkled in what could be a grin. She relaxes some, hand on door latch.
“Ma’am,” says Stubby. “You trying to cripple yourself?” She just stares at him. “Man’s work,” he says. “Where’s your man?”
“Inside,” she says, then, quick, “He’s sick.”
“Bad?” says Stubby.
“Was,” she says. “Doctor that was here this morning thinks he’ll be all right now. Only he’s almighty weak. All wobbly. Sleeps most of the time.”
“Sleeps,” says Stubby, indignant. “When there’s wood to be chopped.”
“He’s been almighty tired,” she says, quick, defensive. “Even afore he was took sick. Wore out.” She is rubbing cold hands together, trying to warm them. “He tried,” she says, proud. “Only a while ago. Couldn’t even get his pants on. Just feel flat on the floor.”
Stubby looks down at her. “An’ you ain’t tired?” he says.
“I ain’t got time to be tired,” she says. “Not with all I got to do.”
Stubby Pringle looks off past dark boles of trees at last row ridge top that hides valley and schoolhouse. “I reckon I could spare a bit of time,” he says. “Likely they ain’t much more’n started yet,” he says. He looks again at the woman. He sees grey pinched face. He sees cold-shivering under bumpy jacket. “Ma’am,” he says. “Get on in there an’ warm your gizzard some. I’ll just chop you a bit of wood.”
Roan stands with dropping reins, ground-tied, disgusted. It shakes head to send icicles tinkling from bit and bridle. Stopped in midst of epic run, wind-eating, mile-gobbling, iron-boned and dynamite-fueled, and for what? For silly chore of chopping.
Fifteen feet away Stubby Pringle chops wood. Moon is rising over last low ridgetop and its light, filtered through trees, shines on leaping blade. He is Stubby Pringle, moonstruck maverick of the Triple X, born with ax in hands, with strength of stroke in muscles, weaned on whetstone, fed on cordwood, raised to fell whole forests. He is ten feet tall and ax is enormous in moonlight and chips fly like stormflakes of snow and blade slices through branches thick as his arm, through logs thick as his thigh.
He leans ax against a stump and he spreads arms wide and he scoops up whole cords at a time and strides to door and kicks it open . . .
Both corners of front room by fireplace are piled full now, floor to ceiling, good wood, stout wood, seasoned wood, wood enough for a whole wicked winter week. Chore done and done right, Stubby looks around him. Fire is burning bright and well-fed, working on warmth. Man lies on big old bed along opposite wall, blanket over, eyes closed, face grey-pale, snoring long and slow. Woman fusses with something at old woodstove. Stubby steps to doorway to backroom. He pulls aside hanging cloth. Faint in dimness inside he sees two low bunks and in one, under an old quilt, a curly-headed small girl and in the other, under other old quilt, a boy who would be waist-high awake and standing. He sees them still and quiet, sleeping sound. “Cute little devils,” he says.
He turns back and the woman is coming toward him, cup of coffee in hand, strong and hot and steaming. Coffee the kind to warm the throat and gizzard of choredoing, hard-chopping cowhand on a cold cold night. He takes the cup and raises it to his lips. Drains it in two gulps. “Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “That was right kindly of you.” He sets cup on table. “I got to be getting along,” he says. He starts toward outer door.
He stops, hand on door latch. Something is missing in two-room shack. Trust Stubby Pringle to know what. “Where’s your tree?” he says. “Kids got to have a Christmas tree.”
He sees the woman sink down on chair. He hears a sigh come from hear. “I ain’t had time to cut one,” she says.
“I reckon not,” says Stubby. “Man’s job anyway,” he says. “I’ll get it for you. Won’t take a minute. Then I got to be going.”
He strides out. He scoops up ax and strides off, upslope some where small pines climb. He stretches tall and his legs lengthen and he towers huge among trees swinging with ten-foot steps. He is Stubby Pringle, born an expert on Christmas trees, nursed on pine needles, weaned on pine cones, raised with an eye for size and shape and symmetry. There. A beauty. Perfect. Grown for this and for nothing else. Ax blade slices keen and swift. Tree topples. He strides back with tree on shoulder. He rips leather whangs from his saddle and lashes two pieces of wood to tree bottom, crosswise, so tree can stand upright again.
Stubby Pringle strides into shack, carrying tree. He sets it up, center of front-room floor, and it stands straight, trim and straight, perky and proud and pointed. “There you are, ma’am,” he says. He moves toward outer door.
He stops in outer doorway. He hears the sigh behind him. “We got no things,” she says. “I was figuring to buy some but sickness took the money.”
Stubby Pringle looks off at last low ridgetop hiding valley and schoolhouse. “Reckon I still got a bit of time,” he says. “They’ll be whooping it mighty late.” He turns back, closing door. He sheds hat and gloves and bandannas and jacket. He moves about checking everything in the sparse front room. He asks for things and woman jumps to get those few of them she has. He tells her what to do and she does. He does plenty himself. With this and with that magic wonders arrive. He is Stubby Pringle, born to poverty and hard work, weaned on nothing, fed on less, raised to make do with least possible and make the most of that. Pinto beans strung on thread brighten tree in firelight and lantern light like strings of store-bought beads. Strips of one bandanna, cut with shears from sewing-box, bob in bows on branch-ends like gay red flowers. Snippets of fleece from jacket-lining sprinkled over tree glisten like fresh falls of snow. Miracles flow from strong blunt fingers through bits of old paper-bags and dabs of flour paste into link chains and twisted small streamers and two jaunty little hats and two smart little boats with sails.
“Got to finish it right,” says Stubby Pringle. From strong blunt fingers comes five-pointed star, tiple-thickness to make it stiff, twisted bit of old wire to hold it upright. He fastens this to topmost tip of topmost bough. He wraps lone bandanna left around throat and jams battered hat on head and shrugs into now-skimpy-lined jacket. “A right nice little tree,” he says. “All you got to do now is get out what you got for the kids and put it under. I really got to be going.” He starts toward outer door.
He stops in open doorway. He hears the sigh behind him. He knows without looking around the woman has slumped into old rocking chair. “We ain’t got anything for them,” she says. “Only now this tree Which I don’t don’t mean it isn’t a fine grand tree. It’s more’n we’d of had ‘cept for you.”
Stubby Pringle stands in open doorway looking out into cold clean moonlit night. Somehow he knows without turning head two tears are sliding down thin pinched cheeks. “You go on along,” she says. “They’re good young uns. They know how it is. They ain’t expecting a thing.”
Stubby Pringle stands in open doorway looking out at last ridgetop that hides valley and schoolhouse. “All the more reason,” he says soft to himself. “All the more reason something should be there when they wake.” He sighs too. “I’m a dong-bonging ding-busted dang-blatted fool,” he says. “But I reckon I still got a mite more time. Likely they’ll be sashaying around till it’s most morning.”
Stubby Pringle strides on out, leaving door open. He strides back, closing door with heel behind him. In one hand he has burlap bag wrapped around paper parcel. In other hand he has squarish chunk of good pine wood. He tosses bag-parcel into lap-folds of woman’s apron.
“Unwrap it,” he says. “There’s the makings for a right cute dress for the girl. Needle-and-threader like you can whip it up in no time. I’ll just whittle me out a little something for the boy.”
Moon is high in cold cold sky. Frosty clouds drift up there with it. Tiny flakes of snow flat through upper air. Down below by a two-room shack droops a disgusted cowpony roan, ground-tied, drooping like statue snow-crusted. It is accepting the inescapable destiny of its kind which is to wait for its rider, to conserve deep-bottomed dynamite energy, to be ready to race to the last margin of motion when waiting is done.
Inside the shack fire in fireplace cheerily gobbles wood, good wood, stout wood, seasoned wood, warming two-rooms well. Man lies on bed, turned on side, curled up some, snoring slow and steady. Woman sits in rocking chair, sewing. Her head nods slow and drowsy and her eyelids sag weary but her fingers fly, stitch-stitch-stitch. A dress has shaped under her hands, small and flounced and with little puff-sleeves, fine dress, fancy dress, dress for smiles and joy of living. She is sewing pink ribbon around collar and down front and into fluffy bow on back.
On a stool nearby sits Stubby Pringle, piece of good pine wood in one hand, knife in other hand, fine knife, splendid knife, all-around-accomplished knife, knife he always has with him, seven-bladed knife with four for cutting from little to big and corkscrew and can opener and screwdriver. Big cutting blade has done its work. Little cutting blade is in use now. He is Stubby Pringle, born with feel for knives in hand, weaned on emery wheel, fed on shavings, raised to whittle his way through the world. Tiny chips fly and shavings flutter. There in his hands, out of good pine wood, something is shaping. A horse. Yes. Flop-eared ewe-necked cat-hipped horse. Flop-eared head is high on ewe neck, stretched out, sniffing wind, snorting into distance. Cat-hips are hunched forward, caught in crouch for forward leap. It is a horse fit to carry a waist-high boy to uttermost edge of eternity and back.
Stubby Pringle carves swift and sure. Little cutting blade makes final little cutting snitches. Yes. Tiny moltings and markings make no mistaking. It is a strawberry roan. He closes knife and puts it in pocket. He looks up. Dress is finished in woman’s lap. She sits slumped deep in rocking chair and she too snores slow and steady.
Stubby Pringle stands up. He takes dress and puts it under tree, fine dress, fancy dress, dress waiting now for small girl to wake and wear it with smiles and joy of living. He sets wooden horse beside it, fine horse, proud horse, snorting-into-distance horse, cat-hips crouched, waiting now for waist-high boy to wake and ride it around the world.
Quietly he piles wood on fire and banks ashes around to hold it for morning. Quietly he pulls on hat and wraps bandanna around and shrugs into skimpy-lined jacket. He looks at old rocking chair and tired woman slumped in it. He strides to outer door and out, leaving door open. He strides back, closing door with heel behind. He carries other burlap bag wrapped around box of candy, of fine chocolates, fancy chocolates with variegated interiors. Gently he lays this in lap of woman. Gently he takes big old shawl from wall nail and lays this over her. He stands by big old bed and looks down at snoring man. “Poor devil,” he says. “Ain’t fair to forget him.” He takes knife from pocket, fine knife, seven-bladed knife, and lays this on blanket on bed. He picks up gloves and blows out lantern and swift as sliding moon shadow he is gone.
High high up frosty clouds scuttle across face of moon. Wind whips through topmost tips of tall pines. What is it that hurtles like hurricane far down there on upslope of last low ridge, scattering drifts, smashing through brush, snorting defiance at distance? It is flop-eared ewe-necked cat-hipped roan, iron boned and dynamite fueled, ramming full gallop through the dark of night. Firm in saddle is Stubby Pringle, spurs ajingle, toes atingle, out on prowl, ready to howl, heading for the dance at the schoolhouse in the valley. He is ten feet fall, great as a grizzly, and the roan is gigantic, with wings, soaring upward in thirty-foot leaps. They top out and roan rears high, pawing stars out of sky, and drops down, cat-hips hunched for fresh leap out and down.
Hold it Stubby. Hold hard on reins. Do you see what is happening on out there in the valley?
Tiny lights that are schoolhouse windows are winking out. Tiny dark shapes moving about are horsemen riding off, are wagons pulling away.
Moon is dropping down the sky, haloed in frosty mist. Dark grey clouds dip and swoop around sweep of horizon. Cold winds weave rustling through ice-coated brushes and trees. What is that moving slow and lonesome up snow-covered mountainside? It is a flop-eared ewe-necked cat-hipped roan, just that, nothing more, small cowpony, worn and weary, taking its rider back to clammy bunk in cold line cabin. Slumped in saddle is Stubby Pringle, head down, shoulders sagged. He is just another of far-scattered poorly-paid patched-clothes cowhands who inhabit these parts. Just that. And something more. He is the biggest thing there is in the whole wide roster of the human race. He is a man who has given of himself, of what little he has and is, to bring smiles and joy of living to others along his way.
He jogs along, slump-sagged in saddle, thinking of none of this. He is thinking of dances undanced, of floorboard unstomped, of willing women left unwhirled.
He jogs along, half-asleep in saddle, and he is thinking now of bygone Christmas seasons and of a boy born to poverty and hard work and make-do poring in flicker of firelight over ragged old Christmas picturebook. And suddenly he hears something. The tinkle of sleigh bells.
Sleigh bells?
Yes. I am telling this straight. He and roan are weaving through thick-clumped brush. Winds are sighing high overhead and on up the mountainside and lower down here they are whipping mists and snow flurries all around him. He can see nothing in mystic moving dimness. But he can hear. The tinkle of sleigh bells, faint but clear, ghostly but unmistakable. And suddenly he sees something. Movement off to the left. Swift as wind, glimmers only through brush and mist and whirling snow, but unmistakable again. Antlered heads high, frosty breath streaming, bodies rushing swift and silent, floating in flash of movement past, seeming to leap in air alone needing no touch of ground beneath. Reindeer? Yes. Reindeer strong and silent and fleet out of some far frozen northland marked on no map. Reindeer swooping down and leaping past and rising again and away, strong and effortless and fleeting. And with them, hand on their heels, almost lost in swirling snow mist of their passing, vague and formless but there, something big and bulky with runners like sleigh and flash of white beard whipping in wind and crack of long whip snapping.
Startled roan has seen something too. It stands rigid, head up, staring left and forward. Stubby Pringle, body atingle, starts too. Out of dark of night ahead, mingled with moan of wind, comes a long-drawn chuckle, deep deep chuckle, jolly and cheery and full of smiles and joy of living. And with it long-drawn words.
We-e-e-l-l-l do-o-o-n-e . . . pa-a-a-artner!
Stubby Pringle shakes his head. He brushes an icicle from his nose. “An’ I didn’t have a single drink,” he says. “Only coffee an’ can’t count that. Reckon I’m getting soft in the head.” But he is cowman through and through, cowman through to the marrow. He can’t ride on without stopping to check anything strange on his range. He swings down and leads off to the left. He fumbles in jacket pocket and finds a match. Strikes it. Holds it cupped and bends down. There they are. Unmistakable. Reindeer tracks.
Stubby Pringle stretches up tall. Stubby Pringle swings into saddle. Roan needs no slap of spurs to unleash strength in upward surge, up up up steep mountainside. It knows. There in saddle once more is Stubby Pringle, moonstruck maverick of the Triple X, all-around hard-proved hard-honed cowhand, ten feet tall, needing horse gigantic, with wings, iron-boned and dynamite-fueled, to take him home to little line cabin and some few winks of sleep before another day’s hard work . . .
Stubby Pringle slips into cold clammy bunk. He wriggles vigorous to warm blanket under and blanket over.
“Was it worth all that riding?” comes voice of Old Jake Hanlon from other bunk on other wall.
“Why, sure,” says Stubby. “I had me a right good time.”
All right, now. Say anything you want. I know, you know, any dong-bonged ding-busted dang-blatted fool ought to know, that icicles breaking off branches can sound to drowsy ears something like sleigh bells. That blurry eyes half-asleep can see strange things. That deer and elk make tracks like those of reindeer. That wind sighing and soughing and moaning and maundering down mountains and through piny treetops can sound like someone shaping words. But we could talk and talk and it would mean nothing to Stubby Pringle.
Stubby is wiser than we are. He knows, he will always know, who it was, plump and jolly and belly-bouncing, that spoke to him that night out on wind-whipped winter-worn mountainside.
We-e-e-l-l-l do-o-o-n-e . . . pa-a-a-artner!
Good Quotes About Losers
I pulled these quotes off the internet and they should provide valuable insight. So many people concentrate on what to do….sometimes we have to study the converse and look what not to do. Anyways, these should be very entertaining and educational.
“A loser doesn’t know what he’ll do if he loses, but talks about what he’ll do if he wins, and a winner doesn’t talk about what he’ll do if he wins, but knows what he’ll do if he loses.”
Show me a good loser and I’ll show you an idiot.” Leo Durocher
“A winner makes commitment. A loser makes promises .”
“Part of me suspects that I’m a loser, and the other part of me thinks I’m God Almighty” John Lennon
“The winner asks”May I help?” The loser asks, “Do you expect me to do that?””
Successful people don’t talk about failure, but use the words “setback” or “challenge”.
A winner rebukes and forgives; a loser is too timid to rebuke and too petty to forgive.
Employee of the month is a good example of how somebody can be both a winner and a loser at the same time.
He was a degenerate gambler. That is, a man who gambled simply to gamble and must lose. As a hero who goes to war must die. Show me a gambler and I’ll show you a loser, show me a hero and I’ll show you a corpse. Mario Puzo
I wasn’t even 20 at the time, but it taught me something about drugs. They can take a good man, a warm, funny, loving family man, and turn him into a loser and worse. Michael Bergin
If you’re still in a bar when the lights go on, you are a loser. Jessica Cutler
If at first you don’t succeed, find out if the loser gets anything. William Lyon Phelps
No one knows what to say in the loser’s locker room. Muhammad Ali
Second place is just the first place loser. Dale Earnhardt
Show me a good and gracious loser and I’ll show you a failure. Knute Rockne
The path of least resistance is the path of the loser. HG Wells
Losers quit when they’re tired.
Most games are lost, not won. Casey Stengel
Winning is overrated. The only time it is really important is in surgery and war. Al McGuire
Losing is the great American sin. Jerome Holtzman
If winning isn’t everything, why do they keep score? Vince Lombardi
Losing streaks are funny. If you lose at the beginning, you get off to a bad start. If you lose in the middle of the season, you’re in a slump. If you lose at the end, you’re choking. Gene Mauch
In play there are two pleasures for your choosing -
The one is winning, and the other losing. Lord Byron
Losers quit when they’re tired. Winners quit when they’ve won.
It’s not whether you win or lose – but whether I win or lose. Sandy Lyle
If I lose at play, I blaspheme; if my fellow loses, he blasphemes. So, God is always the loser. John Donne, 1623
Finish last in your league and they call you Idiot. Finish last in medical school and they call you Doctor. Abe Lemons
Knute Rockne liked bad losers, he said that good losers lose to often.
“One of the first businesses of a sensible man is to know when he is beaten, and to leave off fighting at once.” Samuel Butler
A real gentleman, even if he loses everything he owns, must show no emotion. Money must be so far beneath a gentleman that it is hardly worth troubling about. Fyodor Dostoyevsky
There may be as much nobility in being last as in being first, because the two positions are equally necessary in the world, the one to complement the other. Jose Ortega y Gasset
Never contend with a man who has nothing to lose. Baltasar Gracian
What makes us so bitter against people who outwit us is that they think themselves cleverer than we are. Rochefoucauld
Wise men never sit and wail their loss, but cheerily seek how to redress their harms. Shakespeare
All the world loves a good loser. Kin Hubbard
I hate to lose more than I love to win. Jimmy Connors
Losing is no disgrace if you’ve given your best. Jim Palmer
Loss is nothing else but change, and change is nature’s delight. Marcus Aurelius
No wise person should make known the loss of fortune, any malpractice in their house, his being cheated, or having been disgraced. Hitopadesa
Shouda, coulda, and woulda won’t get it done. Pat Riley
Take care to sell your horse before he dies. The art of life is passing losses on. Robert Frost
The fear of losing is what makes competitors so great. Show me a gracious loser and I’ll show you a permanent loser. OJ Simpson
The minute you start talking about what your going to do if you lose, you have lost. George Schultz
Victory has a hundred fathers but defeat is an orphan. Galeazzo Ciano
When wealth is lost, nothing is lost; when health is lost, something is lost; when character is lost, all is lost. Motto
Whoever said, ”It’s not whether you win or lose that counts,” probably lost. Martina Navratilova
New Blog
Jim Rogers from OKC is blogging again. Here’s a link to his blog. He’s quite smart and is a good writer. Although I disagree with him on many issues, he has earned my respect. Good luck Jim.
Thanksgiving message
Here’s a copy of an article my very close friend Vic Niederhoffer wrote back in 2005. The article is out of print and Vic graciously found a copy for me. Very good analysis of what Thanksgiving is really about and good comparison with my favorite fast food place besides In-N-Out……McDonalds. Friends and allies like Vic make life worthwhile.
Give thanks for Pilgrims — and McDonald’s, by Victor Niederhoffer and Laurel Kenner
Thanksgiving is about sharing prosperity, and it’s a good time to think about where prosperity comes from. The Pilgrims figured it out in 1623. We’ll retell that story as we celebrate the way it lives on in countless U.S. families and companies today. And in particular at one company, McDonald’s (MCD, news, msgs), that in its humdrum way beautifully demonstrates the source of prosperity and the American way of life.
The Pilgrims started with so little. They had to hide in England because the authorities considered them dangerous. They fled to Holland but found themselves compelled to take menial jobs. On the way to America, many of the company died. They lost their way to Virginia and landed in Massachusetts just as winter set in. The Virginia Co., their backers in London, went bankrupt and couldn’t send relief supplies.
To cope with want, the Pilgrims made the same mistake that so many countries do even today: They divided all their land, efforts, supplies and produce in common, to each according to his need.
As always in such systems, need surpassed supply.
The Pilgrims spent their first three years in America suffering from hunger, illness, cold and infighting. People stole from the common stores “despite being well whipped,” according to William Bradford’s “Of Plymouth Plantation.”
Bradford, governor of Plymouth Colony, records what happened next: “They began to think how they might raise as much corn as they could, that they might not continue to languish in misery. After much debate, the Governor decided that each settler should plant corn for themselves.”
Under the Land Division of 1623, each family received one acre per family member to farm. That year, three times as many acres were planted as the year before. Prosperity was not long in coming.
The Pilgrims turned from their Old World system of common ownership to incentives. They didn’t go that way out of ideological conviction, but because they didn’t have the luxury of waiting for support to come to them.
How many families in America tell the same tale? “When we came here, we worked hard and our lives were better.”
But that wasn’t the end of the story. Before the switch to incentives, the hungry settlers were at each other’s throats. Hard workers resented receiving the same portions of food as those who were not able to do even a quarter of the work they did. Young men resented having to work without compensation to feed other men’s wives and children. Mature men resented receiving the same allotments as did the younger and meaner sort. Women resented being forced to do laundry and other chores for men other than their husbands. Many people felt too sick to work.
But when they were allowed to farm their own plots, the most amazing thing happened. Everybody — the sick, the women and even the children — went out willingly into the fields to work. People started to respect and like one another again.
It wasn’t that they were bad people, Bradford explained; it’s just human nature. Adam Smith came to the same conclusion later, and Friedrich Hayek updated Smith’s ideas for the 20th century. But we don’t need to go back to New England for understanding. Similar outcomes can be seen at McDonald’s every day.
For centuries, people on the lower rungs of the social ladder weren’t able to eat meat. They ate grains and beans. But people like beef. And chicken.
When McDonald’s started popping up in every neighborhood, all of a sudden there was an affordable place for families to eat. Previously, one of the main differences between the upper and lower classes was that the rich could eat out. Even if the poor could afford the tab, they couldn’t hire baby sitters, and they couldn’t bring their kids to the elegant establishments designed for the rich because they would have disturbed the other diners.
Most kids don’t like fancy restaurants anyway. They want fries, not polenta with wild mushrooms. They want fried codfish, not turbot. They want burgers, not lamb chops.
How many people has McDonald’s made happy? How many families has it brought together? How many Happy Meals have been eaten there? How many kids have enjoyed the playgrounds? How many tired workers have been able to catch a quick meal? How many women are able to pursue careers and other productive activities and dreams because McDonald’s has freed them from the task of having to cook every night?
The Pilgrims might have served 200 or 300 American Indians at their Thanksgiving feast. McDonald’s serves 26 million customers a day at 13,700 U.S. restaurants.
For the traveler, McDonald’s is a home away from home, offering so much for so little. The restrooms are clean. And McDonald’s serves hot strong organic coffee in smooth cups of some wonderful material that keeps liquids hot without burning the hand, shaped to fit into the cup holders that just happen to be in your car, with carefully designed tops that permit just the right amount to be sipped.
No regulator, no fascist dictator, no socialist planner decreed sip tops or cup holders. But how many late-night drivers have died for the lack of a good cup of coffee? What could be more munificent than saving lives?
And the story doesn’t end there. Consider the employees of McDonald’s. How many people have worked there and learned the most important lesson in America: The customer is always right?
The anti-this-and-that people who demonstrate against profit incentives and free markets like to single out McDonald’s as a symbol of modern capitalism. (They don’t mean that in a nice way.) As the McLibel Support Campaign puts it: “(McDonald’s) has pioneered many business practices that have been taken up by others, and have come to represent a symbol of the way that society is going –’McDonaldization.’”
But when have you ever seen an unhappy customer at McDonald’s? There couldn’t be too many of them, because about 10% of America eats there each day. Given the choice of cooking at home or going to other restaurants — and competition ensures that there are other restaurants — people go to McDonald’s because they trust they’ll find good food, quick service and value for money. What could be more munificent, more representative of sharing the fruits of hard work than McDonald’s?
McDonald’s and the Pilgrims are the essence of America. The people work hard, motivated by the chance for profits. They provide a welcome to others, whether to Indians joining in harvest celebrations, or to customers looking to satisfy their hunger. Their work results in high quality, low costs and family togetherness.
Those humdrum, everyday attributes are what makes America great. That’s what we should be celebrating. It’s the source of all our munificence, from the first Thanksgiving to today.
27-Nov-2006
Corn/Wheat Spread
Normally, wheat trades at a premium to corn. This year, the market has gotten sketchier, and corn has gone premium to wheat a whole bunch of times. The thing to look at is the front month. In several cases this year(I’ll let you do the heavy lifting here), right before the front month expires with corn generally at a premium, the next month has corn at a discount, but when it becomes the front month corn starts trading at a premium to wheat. I suspect that this is fundamental in nature but can offer no more than that. Just an interesting observation worth a small proposition bet…..perhaps.
McRib+7/11 Barbeque Sandwich Showdown
Here in Florida, and in many other areas of the country, McDonalds sandwich, the McRib is back on the menu for a limited engagement. I wrote earlier on Daily Speculations in 2009 about how much I enjoyed this tasty morsel of mystery pork. Since the McRib is back, I felt the need to stop by and get one or twenty.
A little back story here. On my way to McDonalds, I needed to fill up my car and went over to 7/11 where the gas is the cheapest in town. While going inside and getting a coke, I noticed that 7/11 has their own version of a BBQ sandwich in their deli section(who knew that 7/11 had a deli section). Their BBQ sandwich is wrapped in plastic, has a sell by date, and needs to be microwaved. My first thought….”This would be perfect for a McRib, 7/11 “Barbeque Rib Sandwich” showdown. They’re really cheap and I paid $2.19 and walked out with a 7/11 “Barbeque Rib Sandwich.” I went straight over to MickeyD’s and bought a McRib and some fries. Took both sandwiches home and put the 7/11 version in the microwave as instructed. When it was warm, I took the McRib and 7/11 sandwich out of their packaging and put them side by side to compare. The McRib was still warm and had a nice looking bun with a 1/4 inch of mystery meat poking out the side of the bun with some of the tangy sauce dripping down the side. The 7/11 version had an anemic looking bun, stale and soggy, and one could not tell what was inside. I opened the McRib and saw the mystery meat, BBQ sauce, onions, and pickles, and it looked pretty good. Opening the 7/11 version, I noticed that there was some nasty type of ketchup like sauce that was misapplied and all on one side of the meat leaving the other side completely without sauce. The 7/11 version had no onions or pickles. There was, on that side without sauce, some half congealed grease stuck to the bun which really looked yummy. The meat itself, looked kind of gray and reminded me of what cadaver meat looks like, and I thought that it would look good in a Wes Craven movie. I decided to try the 7/11 BBQ sandwich first. I took a bite of the stale 7/11 bun and was immediately repulsed by the meat which tasted kind of like ALPO(and I know what ALPO tastes like due to a prop bet I made in my youth.) The meat/bun/sauce,congealed grease combination from 7/11 sandwich was so horrible that I could only take two bites, and was not only reminded of ALPO, but had the disturbing thought that this is what cadaver meat probably tastes like. It gave new meaning to the definition…rancid.. I washed my mouth out with a Coke and bit into the McRib. The tang of the BBQ sauce, the onion and pickle made their mystery meat very palatable. The McRib bun was fresh, and I ended up eating the whole thing. I found the McRib to be pretty good and the onion/pickle garnish topped it off. There was no comparison, the McRib beat out the 7/11 Cadaver…I mean “BBQ Rib sandwich,” by a million miles. This was the most lopsided food showdown in the history of the world. Granted, one will find a better BBQ sandwich at just about every real BBQ place on the planet, but in a pinch, the McRib manages to satisfy one’s BBQ Jones.
Trading Contest
Global Futures is having another trading contest. It only costs 10 bucks to join and lasts about a week. I’m not entering it as I don’t do contests etc. This is just for your information.
More Pain
I’ve been talking to a friend of mine who is very wrong in this spread. So far, he has a $110 loss and is ready to either pull the plug or jump out of a window. I feel for the guy, as I’ve had nasty, career threatening trades before. I suspect that this trade will be his last.
I’ve been guilty of saying that there was such a thing before, but there’s no such thing as a slam dunk trade….Things are trading at the prices they are trading at for a reason. They will keep trading where they are for that reason until there is another reason that says they should trade at a different level. Reasons change, prices change.
Minneapolis wheat is a higher quality than Chicago. By all logic, it should trade at a higher price, but there have been times when funds etc have made Chicago trade at a few dollar premium to MGEX. While this may be irrational, remember the old cliche, it is what it is.
Thankfully my trading hasn’t been too bad. My main strategy is that I’ve hunkered down, allowing this volatility and excessive risk to wash over me. I’ve been a little net short the grains and the ES, but in very small amounts. Simply put, these markets are way too risky to put on large, career defining/ending trades. My usual default size is much too big for the swings we’ve seen. My trading could change in a second if I see some really bad news, and then I’ll be all over it. My bad news playbook includes, Selling the ES, Buying bonds, Buying the dollar, and selling grains. Next time you see the S&P down 90 points, see how well my playbook does. Now that I’ve said that, it will probably not work:)
One key to longevity is to play a good defensive game. One doesn’t have to be in action all the time. In fact a good case can be made for only being in action a short period of time, keeping your powder dry. One wouldn’t bet the entire race card at the track, why would one be in the market continuously? Same logic, same results. Like the track, the market has vig, slippage, and and other takeout that pays you short odds….so why would you want to be in all the time?
I digress…I need to get back to the market.
Thanks for the many private notes from y’all. It looks like I’m back and will be blogging whenever I have something to say.
Gold/Platinum Spread
I know some guys that are suffering staggering losses on that Gold/Platinum spread which has really widened today. When I say losses, I mean 6-7 figure losses. This reminds me of the Dec Wheat CBOT/MGEX spread a few years ago. What’s the old saying???The market can remain irrational longer than your pocket book can hold up….or something like that. Actually, this inversion of the spread is not irrational at all, and that’s why red lights went off in my head over this spread.
