The Cowboys are in Town

For two weeks each January, in one of our finest annual traditions, the cowboys come to town here in Denver. They leave their ranches, pack up the animals and the family, and head to the Queen City of the Plains to compete for any number of prizes in the National Western Stock Show. The show is billed as having “Something for Everyone” and that’s probably true. My personal favorites are the draft horse show and the herding/stock dog competitions.

Because it’s held in January and because January weather in Colorado can be pretty cold, many folks here collectively lament what is known as “Stock Show Weather.” Since we got an early start on winter this year and endured some of our coldest and most bone-chilling days before the official arrival of winter, I’m enjoying this year’s Stock Show Weather. The worst of the deep freeze seems to be behind us, at least for now, the sun is shining again on our fleece-wrapped souls, and the snow is starting to melt.

Another January tradition is one that my father created. He hated the deep, dark parts of winter and each year complained loudly about Stock Show Weather. But this time of year also brought about one of his favorite hobbies: tracking the number of hours in each day.

Starting on New Year’s Day, he would write down the times for sunrise and sunset each day and then calculate the number of minutes gained as winter progressed past the solstice. Next he would share his findings with the family. Every Sunday I would receive a phone call from dad announcing the daylight results for that week. I can still hear his voice:

"Debbie, this is your father,” he would begin (just in case there was some remote possibility that I might not recognize his voice). Then he would continue, “You know the cowboys are in town, that’s why it’s so darned cold.” Dad’s vocabulary included many words that were slightly more colorful than “darned” but I won’t say them here.

“We gained seven minutes of daylight this week!” he would proclaim, an obvious measure of delight in his voice. “Spring will be here pretty soon!” he would wish, dream, aloud. Dad’s birthday was March 20, the first day of spring, and somehow I think that made its arrival even more meaningful to him. He was a consummate gardener, a trait of his that I am thankful to have inherited.

Now I have a calendar above the desk that gives me the exact hours of daylight. Each time I check the sunrise and sunset listings I can clearly picture my father, sitting at the kitchen table with his note pad and his trusty No. 2 pencil, doing his own calculations, the numbers helping him feel triumphant over the dark days of winter.

So dad, just in case you’re listening, we gained 10 minutes of daylight this week!

And oh yeah, the cowboys are in town again.