Rushing around before work this morning, I realized that I needed to "put away" my five dogs -- meaning kennel four of them, and tie our old blind dog, Max, into his stall in the barn. Shawn was gone for the day, and we try not to leave the dogs unattended, free to roam up onto the highway or chase the odd fuel truck that might drive into the yard. Just as I clipped the chain to Max's collar, Shawn's barn radio -- something he never remembers to turn off -- began playing an old country song. In that moment, the song remembered for me another barn, another dog. It was an old Pirates of the Mississippi piece titled "Feed Jake." When we were first married, we both liked the song so much that we named one of our first dogs Jake; we were lucky enough to have him in our lives for seven years, and his sister, called simply Sis, lived fourteen years as my companion. The tulips on her grave are just today beginning to bloom.
I write much about the importance of pets in my life: both the lessons they've taught me, and the consolation I receive from them. Yet, this morning, I was so busy with my list of tasks to accomplish before work that I considered not taking time to put the dogs away. That's how it is, with my life, at least: ideology meets practicality head-on most days, and most days, practicality wins.
So what a gift it was to hear those lyrics, to be transported back to a time when I didn't have so many tasks, when I spent hours just sitting on our front step with Jake, just enjoying the warmth of his black and white fur. One summer, when he broke his hip falling out of a pickup truck, I nursed him for an hour twice a day, exercising his leg until he was able to walk with only a slight limp. Would I, in my current incarnation, even be able to find two hours a day for a dog?
". . . What we are and what we ain't; what we can and what we can't --
Does it really matter?
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I die before I wake, feed Jake;
He's been a good dog.
My best friend, right through it all --
If I die before I wake,
Feed Jake."
Hearing those words, suddenly being 23 again, living in a run-down trailer house outside of Boulder, Montana, I remembered one of the rules I promised myself I would live by this 40th year: Take care of the living first. I accomplished a lot this morning: some jobs, like gardening and making a salad for supper, were pleasurable. Some, namely paying bills, were not. Most were about what I am and what I'm not, what I can and what I can't. But of all, perhaps the most important, though minute, action I took this morning was to snap that chain onto my old dog's collar, tying him safely into the barn stall, away from vehicles that he can only see with one eye.
Take care of the living first. I don't know who first introduced this rule to me, but it must have been either a mother or a rancher. Take care of the living: hug your kids, water your plants, feed your dog. So much of what we do is not about the living. Bills, houses, cars, even the books I love so much . . . .these are inanimate objects. Yes, they do require attention, and too much neglect of these will lead to negative effects on the living. Yet, taking care of the basics, the most critical tasks for the people, animals and land we love, should take precedence.
If I die tomorrow -- or tonight -- I don't care if my projects at work are incomplete. I don't care that I didn't get the living room vacuumed, or touch up that trim in the dining room that I've been meaning to. My spirit will care, however, that my kids are comforted and nurtured, that my flowers get water, and that somebody remembers to feed Max, and all his companions.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Planting
The sun shone this morning, first in several days here. We try not to complain about rain -- in fact, could have used more -- but seeing the sunshine causes a visceral reaction after long, gloomy days. I considered taking the day off work ... but instead, I planted a few rows of potatoes.
Gardening here differs so much from gardening in South Dakota, where I grew up. Rather than planting an acre or more of potatoes -- enough to feed a family through the winter -- I dig up a small plot, enough to have new potatoes steamed or fried to go with burgers on the grill later this summer. Enough to dig up a few, rub off the dirt, and eat raw baby potatoes.
In gardening, as in life, this ranch teaches me always to let go of my expectations, to let the ranch show me another possibility. I grew up among gardeners -- aunts, grandmothers, grandfathers, and my own mom -- for whom growing vegetables was a perennial duty, a source of pride and worth. I also love to garden, but I have not managed raising vegetables in the hard clay soil of northeastern Wyoming. When we first moved to Allison, we tilled and planted the large, somewhat depleted garden plot that we'd inherited from the previous tenants. And then, for two entire summers, we battled too-many weeds and not-enough water. Finally, three springs ago, I seeded most of that plot back to a grass and wildflower mix, with only small beds left open for seeding. Among those spaces and several raised beds that Shawn built, I rotate the crops that my family enjoys, growing only what we will eat with our summer meals. Even that amount requires a good deal of work.
I wish I grew enough tomatoes to can quarts and quarts of salsa; wish cucumbers did well enough to make jars of pickles; wish my ear corn grew as tall as it did when I once lived at Ucross, only about eighty miles from here. I come back from visits to South Dakota, or from my recent trip to Portland, with serious cases of garden envy. I've even considered that, once Shawn and I retire, I will choose our future home based not on the community, nor the proximity to my work or children, but on the quality of the soil.
Today is the seventeenth anniversary of my dad's death, on an early May day in 1993. Dad farmed the soil enough to learn that it, almost more than sun and rain, dictates the success and failure of crops. In Dad's terms, if a place had "good ground" - meaning rich, black soil -- then it was a good place. Good soil means everything to a farmer.
Good soil means everything to me, too. Today I thank God that I come from good soil; from parents who taught me to value the land, and the life that comes from it. I thank God that I was raised to appreciate the simple joy of a sunny, spring day and the smell of wet earth. I know myself well enough to realize that they haven't seen the harvest of everything they planted; but I also think that what you plant, if you put it in good soil and give it enough attention, will eventually grow. Today I found onions, coming back from several that went unharvested last year. Sometimes it takes more than one growing season to raise a crop. I hope that what my parents planted in me -- and what I'm trying to plant in my own children -- will grow to fruition someday.
In the meantime, I'll plant my small plots of vegetables, let the nutrients from the grass and the earthworms work their magic, and learn to appreciate the gifts the ranch gives me right now. As I walked through the garden plot, I noticed sprouts where gallardia and blue flax will color my summer. Perhaps one day that garden plot will have been amended enough to grow those crops of tomatoes and cucumbers; for now, I'll grow a few potatoes and wait for the black-eyed Susans to come.
Gardening here differs so much from gardening in South Dakota, where I grew up. Rather than planting an acre or more of potatoes -- enough to feed a family through the winter -- I dig up a small plot, enough to have new potatoes steamed or fried to go with burgers on the grill later this summer. Enough to dig up a few, rub off the dirt, and eat raw baby potatoes.
In gardening, as in life, this ranch teaches me always to let go of my expectations, to let the ranch show me another possibility. I grew up among gardeners -- aunts, grandmothers, grandfathers, and my own mom -- for whom growing vegetables was a perennial duty, a source of pride and worth. I also love to garden, but I have not managed raising vegetables in the hard clay soil of northeastern Wyoming. When we first moved to Allison, we tilled and planted the large, somewhat depleted garden plot that we'd inherited from the previous tenants. And then, for two entire summers, we battled too-many weeds and not-enough water. Finally, three springs ago, I seeded most of that plot back to a grass and wildflower mix, with only small beds left open for seeding. Among those spaces and several raised beds that Shawn built, I rotate the crops that my family enjoys, growing only what we will eat with our summer meals. Even that amount requires a good deal of work.
I wish I grew enough tomatoes to can quarts and quarts of salsa; wish cucumbers did well enough to make jars of pickles; wish my ear corn grew as tall as it did when I once lived at Ucross, only about eighty miles from here. I come back from visits to South Dakota, or from my recent trip to Portland, with serious cases of garden envy. I've even considered that, once Shawn and I retire, I will choose our future home based not on the community, nor the proximity to my work or children, but on the quality of the soil.
Today is the seventeenth anniversary of my dad's death, on an early May day in 1993. Dad farmed the soil enough to learn that it, almost more than sun and rain, dictates the success and failure of crops. In Dad's terms, if a place had "good ground" - meaning rich, black soil -- then it was a good place. Good soil means everything to a farmer.
Good soil means everything to me, too. Today I thank God that I come from good soil; from parents who taught me to value the land, and the life that comes from it. I thank God that I was raised to appreciate the simple joy of a sunny, spring day and the smell of wet earth. I know myself well enough to realize that they haven't seen the harvest of everything they planted; but I also think that what you plant, if you put it in good soil and give it enough attention, will eventually grow. Today I found onions, coming back from several that went unharvested last year. Sometimes it takes more than one growing season to raise a crop. I hope that what my parents planted in me -- and what I'm trying to plant in my own children -- will grow to fruition someday.
In the meantime, I'll plant my small plots of vegetables, let the nutrients from the grass and the earthworms work their magic, and learn to appreciate the gifts the ranch gives me right now. As I walked through the garden plot, I noticed sprouts where gallardia and blue flax will color my summer. Perhaps one day that garden plot will have been amended enough to grow those crops of tomatoes and cucumbers; for now, I'll grow a few potatoes and wait for the black-eyed Susans to come.
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