Birthplace: San Luis Obispo California, USA
Date of Birth: 08/01/47
GLENN ALLEN ESTRADA - Variously known as "The Medic", "The Vaquero", or "Joaquin", this shadowy and enigmatic figure has haunted the Estrada Rancho since his birth, just prior to the 1947 hunting season. Although a first encounter may display what appears to be a simple and unassuming family man, scratch the surface just a bit and what begins to emerge is a gravely perplexing and, not a little disturbing, cross-breed Swiss-Italian Spaniard with a penchant for black humor, blue lyrics, and exotic drinks.
His childhood was ordinary, only if you consider bottling beer at 3:00 AM on school nights, watching drive-in movies from inside the closed trunk of a vehicle, and hurling grapefruit-sized rocks onto the roofs of neighboring houses part of an ordinary childhhod. His way has never been the way of others. His path is the one less taken (OK, never taken). He lives outside the pale, walks comfortably on the bias and answers to no man. As they say en espanol, "Chingate y tu caballo tambien." (Something about 'the horse you rode in on', I believe)
And, speaking of horses, no one rides like 'Joaquin' - bolt upright (even when trapped underneath), jaw extended, chinks flapping, spurs buried in the flesh - he glides with the bearing of an aristocrat - like he was born in the saddle (or at least in the barn). Plainly speaking, he has a way with horses - just ask John Correia, he'll answer you from where he is, I guarantee.
When the sun sets on the sage and the deadly night air descends on the Rancho, the poker lamp is lit and the boys gather 'round. It's common knowledge that Glenn has a reputation as a 'sandbagger', someone who will lay in wait hand after hand and then, finally, with the smell of warm blood in his nostrils… strike! Eyes closed, smiling, in a cathartic envelope of calm, his evening complete - he has checked and gone. He has only eaten one meal, but it will sustain him until the next. It's not about the money, is it Glenn? It's not about the winning either - you could have won by just going in first. When the snake eats the mouse, he does it to survive. When the diesel runs over the rabbit, it's just rolling down the road. But a stalker needs a victim or he's just another player - and you're not just another player… are you Glenn?
What combination of events and forces have led to the creation of this singular personality is open to conjecture - the past is irrelevant. Suffice it to say that our beloved Vaquero is a familiar and essential cornerstone of Ranch life as we know it, even though he remains as mysterious as the words to his classic hit, Minerva -
"You're the sweetest flower in the park, Minerva
Now you are the only one for me
I had your mother years ago
And your sister more than once you know
And you're the second best of the three"
And then there's Glenn the hunter. Shows up mid-morning, borrows a gun, borrows a knife, borrows a deer tag, borrows a belt to hold up his pants, walks down the road and shoots the only 4-point buck taken since Uncle Leo - some 40 years ago. A walk in the park. A day in the life. As always - unfazed, unabashed… unconscious.
Glenn, I would say they broke the mold when they made you, but I think you were pretty much free-formed and they just stuck those glasses on you and pushed you out the door. You're one of a kind. Thanks for being my friend, my cousin, my brother.
Love, Don Wright / July, 2003