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Read online content from popular Progressive Cattleman columnists including Paul Marchant (Irons in the fire), Lee Pitts (It's the Pitts), Baxter Black (On the edge of common sense) and Yevet Tenney (Just dropping by), plus comments from Progressive Cattleman editors.

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My first job out of college, oh so many years ago, was to manage a fair-sized cow outfit in northeastern Nevada. For the most part, we were pretty short on good help, and thus relied on the generosity and willingness of good neighbors to see us through the major projects like branding and the big three- or four-day drives.

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Happy New Year! Throw the confetti. Blow the whistles. Kiss your sweetheart. January 2011 is born.

Who changed the calendar? Who turned the clock ahead while I was sleeping? What happened to 2010? I thought the Grinch had a change of heart. I want to know who the thief is that keeps stealing dates off my calendar.

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Joe Camacho is a cage fighter. Can you imagine his mother saying, as he goes off to fight the front line of the Oakland Raiders, “Be careful, Joey, and don’t get hurt.”

I caught myself giving that same instruction to my son as he went off to his high school soccer game. As a soccer veteran, over the years he’s already had a succession of concussions, sprains, cracks, pulls, punches, cracks, whops, whacks and smashes! “I will,” he said, as he limped out the door.

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Hard work. Determination. A vision peering beyond the horizon. A drive to weather setbacks and achieve desired results.

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I should be pushing up daisies in some bone orchard right now after having flown on hundreds of flights piloted by auctioneers, cattle buyers, stocker operators and feedlot owners. I’d be in good company because there have been enough country western singers, auctioneers, rodeo announcers and cowboys die in airplane crashes that you could put together an impressive Plane Crash Cowboy Hall of Fame.

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Sandra Silverstone’s fingers skated over the dusty top of the mahogany dining room table. She watched the letters of her name appear on the beautiful wood. How did Bart convince her to sell it? She sighed. Bart liked things in order. Anything that hadn’t been used in the last six months must be discarded. He was right, of course. They hadn’t used the table for several years. The beanbags and the easy chairs facing the huge wide screen T.V. didn’t match the antique French provincial dining room set.

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