I like to complain about the weather. So, with the changing of the seasons comes ample opportunity for dialogue – or at least monologue – on my part. The transition from fall to winter always offers up plenty of conversation fodder.

My brother-in-law, Jason, is a Kansas State track and field alumnus and a native of the Boise Valley, and as such is a devoted fan of not only his alma mater but also of the Boise State Broncos.

At the Marchant outfit, we’re not really the best farmers in the world. In spite of our botanical shortcomings, though, we try hard and we love what we do, even if we’re only mediocre cowboys.

Not long after I got out of college, I worked on an outfit whose owner loved good horses. More than the horses, though, he loved to trade horses. To that end, there was never a shortage of colts, knotheads and green horses to ride. I started a couple of geldings, but I really took a shine to a particular little sorrel mare.

Over the years, I’ve had the opportunity to judge a lot of junior livestock shows at county fairs. I’m tempted to replace the word “opportunity” with the word “pleasure.” But while in the context of livestock judging the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive, neither do they always fit happily hand in hand.

I am by no means a farrier. But I do shoe several horses every year. Occasionally, I’ll shoe a horse for a neighbor, but for the most part, my clients reside at my house. They get my special family discount, and I get the special family bonus. I’m probably worth every cent they pay me.

It was just past 2 p.m. It was hot and dusty as they pushed the tail-end of the straggler calves and leppies out of the last draw and up to the little pond that brought welcome and cool relief to trail-weary cows and worn-out horses.

In the space of five days last month, I aged nearly 30 years. At least, it seemed that way. My youngest daughter married her Marine on a Saturday, and on the following Thursday, my youngest son graduated from high school. Before anybody reads this, he’ll be in basic training with the Army in South Carolina.

As I snaked around the last bend in the rough, washboard road before the wide spot at the base of the hill where I intended to pull over to unload my horse, I glanced in the mirror and noticed the swinging trailer gate. I didn’t take this as a good omen to start my day.

As I suppose is the case with most ranches, branding time is a momentous occasion at our place each year. Despite the inevitable minor wrecks – like when 35 calves break and run just as you’re getting the tail-enders pushed into the branding trap – it’s one of those things that can be considered an event, rather than just another day.