A conference of large landowners—big farmers and ranchers, along with a few developers—was being held in Denver. Four men were sitting in the bar of a luxury resort, enjoying happy hour. Three of them were swapping stories about their farms and ranches and generally bragging about their land.
The fourth man, a Texan, sat slightly apart from the others. You could tell he was from Texas by the Lone Star band on his hat. He did not join in the conversation much; he just read his newspaper and half-listened to the others.
One of the men said, “I have about 8,122 acres of land along the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains here in Colorado. I have over 1,000 horses, I’d wager, if I could count them all. Probably the highest ranch in the western United States. We call it El Cielo Ranch because it’s so close to heaven.”
Another man said, “That sounds really nice. Mine is sort of the opposite. I own El Diablo Farms in the Imperial Valley of Southern California. It’s always hot as hell there. But we have over 9,500 irrigated acres. It’s a desert, but add water and watch the miracles happen. We grow vegetables faster than you can harvest them. It’s like a license to print money!” he said, laughing loudly.
The third fellow said, “Well, I don’t have nearly that much land, but mine is fertile. I have about 6,000 acres in the Willamette Valley. It’s the largest dairy farm in Oregon. Over 3,000 registered Holstein cows. It’s called Scottish Dairies. We supply milk to half of Portland. The only problem is that the Willamette River runs right through the middle of my land, making it difficult to get around my own property. But it’s a beautiful problem to have.”
The Texan remained silent, and then one of them said, “Hey, Tex, what about you? How much land do you have?”
He said, “Well, down in Texas, it’s considered impolite to ask a man how much land he owns or how many head of cattle he runs. We talk about land in sections, not acres, but since you gentlemen have shown your cards, I reckon I’ll satisfy your curiosity.
“All told,” he said, looking up at the ceiling as if calculating it in his head, “I have 200 acres.”
The three men burst out laughing. The Californian said, “Two hundred acres! What the hell are you doing at this meeting? What do you call your little ranch, Tex?”
And the men kept laughing.
“Well,” the Texan drawled, “I don’t give it a name myself, but folks in Texas like to call it—downtown Dallas.”
Suddenly, it was deathly quiet.
The Texan finished the last sip of his Shiner Bock, stood up, and said, “If any of you fellas want to sell your land, let me know. I’ll dip into my petty cash and buy you out.”
Then he politely tipped his hat, smiled, and said, “Have a nice evening.”
