Much like Willie Nelson, I’ve been on the road again.  I’ve sorted through numerous sets of goats in several states.  I’ve gathered lambs from the midwest.  And I’ve traveled to several learning experiences such as the spur making workshop that I went to in east Texas last week.  It was fun and I learned.  Not that I’m going to go into business making spurs.  I just thought it was a project that I could learn to teach kids how to do.  

      As I’ve been driving, I’ve been thinking.  Thinking about experiences that I’ve had.  People that I haven’t talked to in awhile.  One of those people is Fred Urban.  If you don’t know him, you should.  A true character.  Fred is the oldest brother to Kenny and Ritson Urban, two legends in the sheep barns.  Fred, however, liked dealing with pigs.  For the past decade, Fred has lived in the greater Odessa area.  I occasionally get a call from him.  Or a message via another acquaintance.  Something along the lines of “Tell Kelln that Fred Urban will be by to visit Tammy sometime when he is gone.”  Or a random item mailed in an envelope with no return address, no note or letter inside.  Just something like a piece of a menu from the Big Texan steakhouse in Amarillo.  Or a smart ass birthday card that has a pic of some piece of nasty with a signature of a person that I know would NEVER send anything that disgusting.  That’s Fred.  

      Anyways, I hadn’t heard anything out of him in months.  I’ve tried to call and text.  Radio silence.  A month or so ago, a mutual friend of ours down near Houston called me and said that he had talked to Fred.  Things weren’t good.  I stepped up my game of trying to get a hold of Fred.  Finally, he called back this weekend.  Not good.  He has been laid up in a hospital since February.  He has been fighting cancer and heart problems.  Told me that he has died three times and they have brought him back three times.  I had watery eyes as I listened to him talk.  But, in true Fred fashion, I was laughing as well as crying for the rest of the conversation.  

      I could literally write a book full of all of the experiences that I have had over the decades with Fred Urban.  Back in the mid 90s, he and I made a trip to Jimmy Strube’s farm near Garden City, TX.  Two years in a row, we made this trek to get leftover FREE barrows for show pigs.  Two years in a row we had one of these free leftovers make the premium sale at OYE.  

     When I taught at Waynoka, lots of really good hogs were farrowed and raised around there.  Fred hooked me up with numerous connections to sell school groups in Texas.  Sometimes, he delivered the groups, sometimes I did.  There were breed and reserve breed champions at Houston that came out of these school groups.  

     For years, Fred drove an early 80s black 4 door Lincoln car.  A real land cruiser of a boat.  The first time that I ever met him, he pulled into the Waynoka Ag Farm with this Lincoln pulling a single axle trailer.  He had 20+ pigs in the trailer and another 6 in the trunk.  Yes, in the trunk.  

     One time, about the year 2000, I went with Fred to deliver a set of hogs south of Houston.  It was the weekend of Thanksgiving.  We left late Friday night.  We drove that Lincoln pulling that trailer.  He dropped that set off, gathered the cash and then stopped at a couple of pig farms that he dealt with in the south Texas region. We had some furniture in the trailer that he bought at a yard sale.  Next stop, we put pigs in the trunk.  He had a special cut board that had air holes in it and it could be attached to the car with the aid of some wire to keep things closed.  Real piece of engineering.  It was now late Saturday evening when we headed back north.  I was driving and Fred was sleeping.  I was getting really tired and Fred wouldn’t wake up.  I made it across the Red River on I35 about 1 am.  I pulled into the  large truck parking area that was there at that time.  Now, they have a big damn casino.  

     I pulled into the nearly empty parking lot and put that car in park.  I left the car running.  I cracked the windows to get some fresh air.  It was cold outside.  A mini van pulled up and parked right next to us.  Of all the available parking spots and they chose that one.  Right on our passenger side and close to us.  Why?  

     The past 5 or 6 hours those pigs hadn’t made a sound while that boat of a car was floating down the interstate at 90 mph.  But now, the boat was docked.  The pigs started moving.  And now, the standard pig fights were beginning.  The couple in the mini van next to us were now looking to see what in the hell was in that trunk?  Imagine, if you will, the sound of 4 forty # pigs in a car trunk, fighting.  This poor couple was looking back at the trunk, I’m sure trying to decide whether to leave, call 911 or see if assistance was needed.  They had their window rolled down, looking.  And that is when Fred, who was only a mere few feet away from them, began barking like a Rottweiler.  It scared the crap out of those people.  As I didn’t know that he was even awake, it scared me as well.  That mini van left in a hurry.  

     Once I got my wits back, I decided that we too should leave.  Before the law showed up.  Fred laughed for a few miles and then went back to sleep.  I had such an adrenaline rush that I drove all the way to Waynoka.  

     Years ago, I sold him a goat.  I priced the wether at $800.  He said that he would pay me “$500 cash and 5 dozen tamales from Manuel’s Tamales in Midland, TX.  Delivered, fresh and warm.”  Those are good tamales.  

      Sure nuff.  He rolled into the Deere dealership at Woodward about noon on a Saturday.  Manuel’s made the tamales early, packed them for him and then he drove to deliver them.  He had Styrofoam ice chests full of warm, fresh tamales.  I ate fresh tamales for lunch that day.  He got his goat.  Good trade.

     I’m praying for my friend.  I hope to see him again.  I’ll be driving and thinking and laughing about lots of stories that involve Fred Urban.