The dust of drought permeates my novel Pilot Point. For drought permeated my life during the time I wrote it.
For the twelve of so years I lived near
Pilot Point, I experienced at least two or three bad North Texas droughts. I can testify they can drag a man
down. To see once green land turning
to desert, to see your ponds turned to cracked, hard ground, and that with no
relief in sight – that wears on a man, and it did on me. And the times showers tease by coming
near, but only raining on other
people, makes it that much harder to endure.
It’s not for nothing that a frequent
judgment in the Bible on fallen, sinful man is drought. In fact, the
drought of 2000 was one factor nudging this fallen sinner to move much closer
to the Gulf.
Drought is an almost perfect metaphor
for personal droughts in our lives, droughts of companionship, droughts of
accomplishment, droughts of meaning.
When I wrote the first draft of Pilot
Point, I was experiencing such a time in my personal life as I was struggling
with being very single for years on end.
But God’s providence is always
good. I doubt I could have written
Pilot Point well or at all without
going through drought in North Texas and in my life.
In the following excerpt from Pilot Point, we see the boy Storm James
and the old cowboy Bowie Smith work a cattle auction in the midst of a severe drought.
----
But the rains never came.
The
showers were few and far apart. They came close enough only to torment. Or if
one did hit, it gave so brief a rain, the ground was dry again in a day.
The
grass sprouted up, only to become a dull yellow. The trees budded, only to
begin losing dry leaves once they were all out. Green faded to yellow. Yellow
faded to brown.
Spring,
the promise of life, became death.
Storm
was walking up the highway to the sale barn. He wiped sweat from his brow and
took a big breath. “It’s gonna be a hot one,” he said to himself. It was the
first Saturday in June, and the early summer was already so hot, he didn’t
bother even to stuff a shirt into his jeans when he left the house.
Saturday
mornings at the sale barn had became dustier again, and the cattle kept looking
poorer. More of the cattle were a problem to move. But he looked forward to
getting to the barn anyway, to end the long hot walk, but also to work the cow
pens with Bowie as he always did.
“Hey,
Bowie,” he greeted when he finally got to the barn.
“Hey.”
Storm
looked up and down the cow pens. “Dang. They’re all full. We have plenty of
work to do out here today.”
“Yep.”
“That’s
okay with me though. It beats working the alleys, especially with all the
cattle that’ve been laying down in them.”
“Is
ever-body ready?” the megaphone sounded.
“You
were nearly late,” Bowie pointed out.
“Yeah,
well, I overslept.”
“And
I’m sure that has nothing to do with those girls that have begun liking you.”
“That’s
right, nothing at all.” The kid smirked.
“Uh-huh.
Well, watch out. They can get you into a lot of trouble, if you’re late to a
sale, not to mention other kinds of trouble.”
“I
hear you.” Storm looked over at Bowie. He seemed different this morning. The
old man was giving him a hard time as always, but not with his usual relish. He
seemed a little subdued. He was not as both friendly and ornery as he always
was.
“Well,
let’s move ‘em out.”
After
they moved out a pen and were waiting for the chutes to clear some, Bowie
looked at him and chided, “Did those girls cause you to grow last night?”
“Shush.”
He was going through a growth spurt. His worn jeans were getting too short for
him, no matter how low he wore them. His boots and shoes were always too tight.
And life and the sale barn were maturing him as well. So now he seemed only a
year or two short of the sixteen he claimed to be—although Bowie never let on
to that in front of him.
“Then
your jeans must have shrunk since last week.”
“Shut
up.” Maybe he is himself today, Storm thought.
But
he wasn’t. Before long, Bowie became quiet again, downcast even, as they moved
the cows out. Storm peered at him from time to time. His lined face was
passionless; his eyes were distant. This was different than the Bowie he was
used to.
Storm
decided to make some small talk to help him snap out of it. “Whew! Is it hot
enough for you today?”
“Yep.”
“It
sure is for me. Although I imagine we’ve seen worse.”
Bowie
didn’t respond. Storm tried to make more conversation.
“What
do you think is worse—hot like this or cold like we worked in winter?”
“Don’t
make much difference to me. I’m pretty used to both.”
“I
guess with your cowboying, you’ve pretty much seen it all.”
“Yep.”
Storm
tried to keep the conversation going. “What do you think is the worst weather
you’ve seen?”
“Hell,
I don’t know. This drought ranks right up there. Why don’t you quit yakking and
open up that pen gate,” Bowie groused. So
much for that idea, Storm thought as he ran to the gate.
He
gave up on cheering up Bowie. Neither of them said much the rest of the morning
and noontime. They weren’t mad at each other. There just wasn’t much to say.
Eventually,
they got to the last pen.
“This
is different, having a pen full of longhorns.”
“And
they act different, too. They’re a little more ornery and a lot less fearful
than other cattle. And they do have horns, so watch what you’re doing.”
“I
hear you.”
“Plus
there’s a bull in there.”
Storm
nodded. “Looks like someone’s selling off his whole longhorn herd.”
“Looks
like it. You open up the gate and let me do most of the moving.”
So
Storm opened the pen gate and watched as Bowie went in and moved them around
and out. He knew longhorns were Bowie’s favorite breed, and he noticed that he
moved them a little differently from other cattle. He always had a skilled
hand, but he moved these with a more gentle and knowledgeable skill. He knew
just the right amount of prodding to move the herd and exactly how each of them
would react. And, their thicket of horns didn’t faze him at all.
As
Bowie was moving them, Storm thought he heard him quietly call a couple of them
cow names. He sure does love longhorns, Storm smiled inwardly. In no time, the
herd was down the alley, and he followed them and Bowie toward the chutes.
Bowie
just as skillfully moved them into the chutes. All Storm had to do was watch.
Bowie closed the gate behind them and, still leaning on the gate, looked in at
the longhorns. Storm walked up and leaned on the gate beside him. “Those
longhorns sure are something, aren’t they?”
“Yep,”
Bowie said, staring into the chutes.
“You
sure do work ‘em good. I’d always be wondering if one of those horns was going
to get me.” Bowie was quiet. A little uncomfortable, Storm added, “But I guess
if you’re easy on them like you are, they’re pretty careful with their horns.”
Bowie
nodded weakly, but didn’t say anything. He just kept staring after the
longhorns.
Perplexed
that Bowie was acting so strange, Storm looked at him. He just kept staring at
the longhorns as they began to be moved into the sale arena. His expression was
distant and mournful. Storm had never seen him like this.
And
at that moment, he understood.
Looking
steadily at Bowie, Storm said, “Those are your longhorns, aren’t they.”
“Yes.”
Storm
kept looking at him a moment. He didn’t know what to say. So he said, “I’m
sorry.”
Bowie
kept staring distantly down the emptying chutes. “There’s nothing you or
anybody could have done.” He added, “If there was, I would’ve done it.” And,
with that, he was silent again.
Although
Storm and Bowie worked together the rest of the sale, neither said much after
the longhorns were gone.
---
If you would like to read more, there
are less then 60 hours left in the 100 Hour Kindle Countdown deal for Pilot Point. You can get the Kindle version of my novel for only $1.99. But the price goes back up after the
countdown goes to 0.
If you prefer a print copy, Amazon is
selling it at a 10% discount at this time.
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