Whistler

Whistler

When I was growing up, a cowboy named Shorty worked with my dad.  Shorty called me Whistler.  He called my mother Whistler’s Mother.

I could whistle well from a young age, and on long trails Shorty would ride in the drag with me and we would play “Name That Tune.”  We rode many a dusty mile together trying to come up with songs that both of us might recognize and trying to whistle loud enough to be heard over the wind.

Playing “Name That Tune” was not a real big deal.  But it was a kind thing to do for a chubby, freckle-faced little girl who logged hours tagging along with adults.  The sort of thing someone did for you when you were a kid which you appreciate more as you age.  The sort of thing that seems more important once you yourself have kids.

I hope that in my life I can remember to do and say small, simple things that might make a difference for someone else… if not appreciated today, then maybe years down the road.

* Photo credit Swede Pfaffinger.  Circa 2001 at the Red Corrals at Froze-to-Death.  I am third from the right; Shorty is eighth from the right.

© Tami Blake

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