Walking into Joe’s house prior to helping him feed cattle was like walking into a world apart from the one I know. He wore a cowboy hat on his head and a gun on his hip like it was just another accessory. His walls were covered floor to ceiling in antlers that took on the practical function of a hat rack, or in some cases a coozy rack. Taxidermy animals walked across beams on the ceiling, crept stealthily along the floor and climbed the walls. They were only broken up by dusty collaged photographs of his family that spanned a 70 year range. Life was permanently frozen in time in that room.