Goodbyes

This morning I happened to look out the window of my back porch just in time to see Shawn driving out of the yard, the body of a Hereford calf in the bed of his truck.  When he returned from the "bone pile" a while later, I asked -- already knowing the answer -- if it was one of the bum calves our daughter Maria had been tending.  It was.

So, now, one of us will have to tell Maria that the calf died.  Point of clarification -- this was the smaller, less healthy of two bums, so Shawn actually took it away from Maria a couple days ago, attempting to graft it onto a cow that had lost her calf . . . a last-ditch effort to save its life.  I don't know, really, how attached Maria had become, or if she'd already let go; still, the goodbye now has a finality it didn't before.

It's funny, the rules we make for our kids in an attempt to cushion them from hurt.  We tell them not to get too attached to . . .most everything.  The bum calves, because they begin life at such a disadvantage.  The 4-H steers, because they are destined for the butchering plant.  The colts out of their broodmares, because they are "for sale." And I know, from a lifetime of living around ranchers, that Shawn and I are not at all unique.  There exists a whole body of folk wisdom about not letting kids cultivate those emotional connections with animals:  "Don't name it."  "Don't pet it."  "Tell yourself that it's just a project." 

Really.  Has there ever been a ranch kid to follow this kind of stupid advice?  Because I wasn't one.  My husband wasn't one. And we haven't managed, yet, to raise one.

And thank goodness for that.  Thank goodness that our children, at least, have the emotional innocence to not shelter themselves.  Thank goodness they make connections; they teach us how.  And whether those connections are with an animal, a place, or another child, they enlarge their spirits.  Perhaps adults are drawn to children not only because of their playfulness, or their wonder, but also because of their unabashed courage in the face of meeting another living thing.  Watch a one-year-old smile at a stranger.  There is the face of God -- fearless, accepting, completely without selfishness or self-consciousness.

So, our children are going to get hurt.  As much as we parents would like to control that, to manage the pain, to somehow protect them. . . that won't happen.  Animals die.  Neighbors move away.  Grandparents age and pass on.
I guess we could protect them, if we didn't allow them to own pets. Or make friends.  Or love. 

Maria will be OK.  She might cry, and she will certainly feel sadness the next time she feeds the other calf, remembering.  Likewise, next winter when we would like to hitch up the team, our whole family will mourn Jill, the draft horse mare who died in March.  Each time my girls mow our backyard this summer, they will pass the graves of Sis, Red, Callie and Angel . . . and they will remember those pets, and miss them.  When they go to school, they will think of the friends who once lived here, the friends who have moved away, and they will feel loneliness.

Of course I don't like to see their pain; that doesn't mean that the pain doesn't have value. All I can do is help my children to say goodbye.  When a pet dies, I can read "The Tenth Good Thing about Barney;" even though, after all these years and all those pets, I still can't finish without crying.  When a horse sells, I can hug and mourn with them, and bite my tongue at the "he's going to a good home" platitudes.  When someone they love leaves - the community or this world - I can tell stories, listen to their questions, do my best to nurse their broken hearts until they heal, scarred but stronger.

Above all, I can honor their tears, not try to wipe them away. 

Wind

"Those who dwell among the beauties and mysteries of the Earth are never alone or weary of life."
- Rachel Carson

What a beautiful sentiment, but I wonder if Ms. Carson, for all her exploration and investigation, experienced WIND the way we have been here on the edge of the high plains.  If she did, would she say the same thing?  Because I dwell among the beauties of Earth, and its mysteries surround me daily . . . but I'm a little bit weary now, if not of life, then at least of the wind that's been scouring this valley for the last several weeks.

Those of you who are my neighbors know the wind I am talking about . . . but in case you don't, let me try to capture it for you.  Wind that tore the door off an abandoned upright freezer that was standing in the yard, waiting to be hauled to the dump.  Wind that carries trash from who-knows-where to land along the riverbank.  Wind that has prevented us from flying the kites the kids got for Easter -- two weeks ago -- because it will destroy them.  Wind that, just a while ago, made me think someone was walking around upstairs, when it was just a gale rattling this old house. Wind that made me take in the laundry I had hung out this morning, because it is so fierce it will tear the cloth.

Once, I attended an Episcopalian churh service, and the minister tried to re-frame our perspective on the wind by reminding us that, in the Bible, the Holy Spirit arrives that way.  So . . . what does that say about our world, then, if lately the Holy Spirit is arriving with such violent force?

It's difficult, when wind can cause so much destruction, to view it as a gift.  I know intellectually that the gusts blow away pollution, spread pollen to propagate growth, scrub away dead leaves and grass to make room for new.  I know that these are good things, both for the Earth and for my soul; yet this kind of not-so-gentle change is a difficult gift to receive, a present I don't really want to open. 

The best way, then, for me to remember the wind as a gift, albeit an overwhelming one, is to remember an incident from last Sunday morning.  Emily, Cody and I set out on a walk with the dogs, down into the meadow -- Emily and I walking, Cody riding ahead on his bike.  The morning was cool and clear, but not yet windy.  About half way to our turn-around point, a breeze started up.  Suddenly, bumping along on the air currents was a black balloon, probably escaped from someone's 40th birthday party.  It was too high, and traveling too fast, for us to reach, but Emily and I chased after it anyway.  Just as I thought we'd lost it, a downdraft pushed it closer to the ground, and the balloon seemed to slow -- and Emily, standing on tiptoes, was just able to grasp the string in her fingers. 

The rest of the walk was filled with chatter as we tried to imagine where the balloon had come from, how far it had traveled, what it had seen.  Emily was proud that she had caught it herself, and that she had saved a bird or animal from swallowing a piece of it.  She took it home, and the wind gifted her with a story to fill the rest of the day.

In the natural world, rarely is anything purely good or purely bad.  A coyote kills baby calves .  . and also helps control the deer and prairie dog populaions. A rattlesnake threatens with venom . . .and eats its fair share of those same prairie dogs, and the mice that scrurry around the haystacks.  Even though my dad taught me to "never cuss the rain," I've seen deluges wash away inches of precious topsoil in a matter of minutes.   The wind too, then, can be a force for  destruction, but also a force for good, positive change. 

Would that I can remember this during these "gentle spring zephyrs" we are having!