There was a superstition when I was a kid in which you were assured of rain on the farm if you killed a rattlesnake and hung it on the “bob wire” fence. Or wait, was that a coyote? And speaking of barbed wire lore, it was a sign of respect and remembrance if you hung a cowboy’s boots on the fence, after he passed.

I was reminded of these rituals as I washed the Texas Panhandle dust off of my car, because everyone knows in the country or city, fresh auto hygiene pretty much ensures precip. of one sort or another.

And while I was pondering these deep thoughts, I drove by Amarillo’s world famous Cadillac Ranch. Hmmm … I wondered what happens if you climb over a fence and deface one of the Cadillacs planted in the ground. Surely that must grant you a wish or ensure good karma or something. I mean, thousands of people stop every year to write their names on this monument to all things road trip! They must get something out of it.

How about if you brand the Cadillacs with your company logo? Instant notoriety? Riches? “Fame, fortune and everything that goes with it?”

Well, as my football coach used to say, “I ain’t superstitious, I’m just not takin any chances.”

So, the other day I cruised over to to The Cadillac Ranch and had my way with it and a few cans of spay paint. It’s okay, the owner doesn’t mind. (Hope that doesn’t take the fun out of it for all you rebels.) I even took time out to run by the Amarillo offices of one Stanley Marsh 3, in advance, for permission. (More on SM3 at a later date ….) Marsh 3, collaborating with a California group called The Ant Farm planted the cars back in the ’70s. And, well … the rest is graffiti … er … history.

Unfortunately SM3 wasn’t in the office when I stopped by, but one of his staff told me to go for it. Ha … He also showed me a chunk of dried, layered spray paint pulled from the cars — it was about 3 inches thick. That’s a lot of aerosol parties, chief.

Best of all, we exercised the time honored tradition of good hospitality — at least in my culture — and traded t-shirts … a PingWi-Fi in an adventurous paprika for a sensible blue Cadillac T or two.

So anyway, in between visiting family and camping on what I call the PingWind Farm … I stopped by to ping the Caddies and to just talk with the other travelers drawn to this American original.

Several tourists took my photo as I painted. Ha … they had mistaken me for an artiste! One lady told me bluntly that me painting the Cadillacs “was a heck of a lot more interesting, than when I pulled my shirt off in the video.” Thanks for that constructive voice, you “rhymes with witch” (to borrow an insult from a former First Lady).

“Back to the ranch,” as another coach used to say, er rather the PingWind Farm … I did more defacing on my own tribal lands, I suppose … Pitching a tent in a wheat field … blasting cedar posts with firearms … Chasing a barn owl from a shack … riding my mountain bike around in circles inside a dry livestock tank. (I did that just so my brother would find the tracks later and wonder about his little brother.) You see, for me, one thing has not changed since I left the farm so many years ago. In “them parts” sometimes you have to manufacturer your own fun.

Lately, I have been revisiting the farm and doing fun things that I missed somehow when I lived out there … such as camping … Maybe in younger years I just had more sense and a better appreciation for rattlesnakes. Or maybe it is more of a case that skyscrapers have made me appreciate the Panhandle’s endless horizon, in all its sunset and sunrise hues. And the coyotes howling at night, overheard in the tent … magnifico, maestro!

Ha … and speaking of sunrise, in my most recent campout I got the full “dude ranch” treatment with my own personal cattle drive. As I was enjoying breakfast around a very carefully controlled campfire, a neighbor’s cattle wandered into our wheat pasture and ambled over to see what was cooking. I think in the laws of the Old West it was perfectly permissible to just shoot them and throw steaks on the barby if they strayed into your pasture … but I exercised restraint and drove them back to their home … me on foot, not on the mountain bike.

I had to laugh that I could still do the whooping, territorial cowboy yelps taught to me by my dad, a cowman, and my brothers so long ago. It was as if I used my native tongue, silenced for years, but still a part of me deep inside.  Only now my voice didn’t crack …  And, magically, the cows interpreted my intentions correctly, high-tailing it to escape this crazed, yelling man.

Another item scratched off my “old home week” list was a bicycle ride from the family farm to the growing town of Vega. (I took note that the city limit sign says there are 50 more residents since I lived there more than a decade ago … now swollen to 880 or so souls.)

So off I went, riding my fancy-pants Giant hybrid bike a few miles north on Landergin Road to Interstate 40 (Old Route 66) and on to Vega. It is a bit of a haul. Thank goodness bicycles have come a long way since I was a kid. I wouldn’t have dreamed of riding 15 miles back then, especially on dirt roads, caliche, and the like. Pity. Along the way, I scared up a cock pheasant from some CRP (reserve grassland), stampeded a neighbor’s cattle — accidentally. (Haven’t you guys seen a headband and/or a bicycle before?) And I was chased for a bit by a lonely bull who I think wanted to become intimate.

All in good fun … great relaxation after months on the road, back East.  And of course I had to fire up my Nikon D7000. At least in my mind, it transforms shacks and weeds and junk … to art.  I snapped photos of outhouses, rusted farm equipment labels, dilapidated sucker rods, stray cows, tractors, critters and the like — a “picker’s” delight.

Know what I saying?