Yesterday I spent an entire day on the ranch -- a rarity for me, particularly because I didn't have company or crews here with me. It was Father's Day, Shawn's day to decide how we would pass the time. No surprises, then, that he just wanted to relax. Our spring has been nothing but a frenzy of activity: since late March, we've flung ourselves from calving, to track meets, to school projects, to concerts, to graduations, to family visits, to work conferences, to school tours, to summer reading preparations, to brandings, to birthday parties . . . Between the two of us, we've put over five thousand miles on our vehicles in the last two months. I shudder to think how many miles we've put on our psyches, living under this constant strain.
The ranch shows the strain, too: despite a monumental effort to clean and straighten before last week's three-day branding event, there are jobs that we just haven't been able to accomplish. My garden has yet to be seeded; the rains this spring, plus our crazy life, have prevented me from even turning the ground over. Saturday I planted potatoes and pumpkins -- on the day before Father's Day! I must be hoping for an extended Indian summer this year. In addition, there are flower beds to weed, spring cleaning projects to finish, paperwork to complete and file.
And so, when Shawn wanted to spend the day at home yesterday, my inherent guilt over all these projects prompted me to tackle the to-do list instead of enjoying the day. I started off productively enough, making a big Father's Day breakfast and then watching all three young kids on their ponies in the round pen while I planned the grocery list for the week. After lunch, I cleaned up the deck, picking up the picnic tables from branding crew lunches and toys from Katie's 7th birthday party. Intending to put away some rope and turn out the horses, I headed over to the barn. As I unhaltered the fourth horse, my mare, Milly, stood quietly in the corral, twitching her tail against the flies.
I approached and put my arms around her neck, surprised that she even let me: Milly is notoriously difficult to catch. There was an opportunity there, and for once, I took it: I slipped the halter I had been carrying over her head, and led her into the barn.
No, I'm not going to write that I saddled her and spend the rest of the afternoon joyously horseback, riding through river pastures and cottonwood trees. I'm going to write instead that I gave my twenty-year-old engagement gift a scoop of oats, and spent the next forty-five minutes working massive tangles out of her red-gold mane. Nothing special, nothing exciting. She ate; I combed; she stomped when I pulled too much; I sang country songs with the radio to soothe her. My old dog, Max, lay at the foot of the stall, watching us. It was easily the most perfect, and least productive, hour I spent yesterday -- or for many days.
Most of my writing about Milly has centered on the ways she's cared for me, carrying me through miles of trails, past fears and doubts that were so deeply rooted that I was paralyzed by them. Yesterday, for a little while, I had a chance to ask nothing of this mare, but to simply care for her. She ended the day with a tangle-free mane; a girl wants to look good no matter how old she is getting, you know. I ended the day with most of my list undone -- but with a precious memory that will live way beyond my crazy spring. That, above all, is why Milly remains one of the best gifts this life has given me.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Stinky Spring
Although the first official day of spring is still a few days away, at least according to the calendar, we've been privileged to have a break from winter weather this weekend. Today, the high temperature reached the mid-50's, and a 60 degree reading is predicted for Wednesday. Ahh, spring. Breathe deeply of the clean, fresh air . . . . or not.
Here at the ranch, the smell of early spring -- before the grass really grows and the lilacs finally bloom -- cannot be described as pleasant or refreshing. Rather, early spring around here stinks. Literally. We winter weaned calves in the meadows just north of our house, keep steers and horses in the corrals south of the barn, feed weanling foals in the lot on the hill. And all those animals poop -- all winter long. A person doesn't notice the smell when the turds remain hard and frozen . . . but when the air temperature warms enough for them to thaw, well, you might want to take your deep breaths inside the house.
In addition to some rather strong smells, early spring at the ranch also features slick, snot-like mud and flooded meadows. I can only walk the dogs along the dike, a raised ridge of earth remaining from a time when this ranch was irrigated. Shawn has fewer options each day for feeding his calves, as so much of the meadows are under water. Today, he buried his pickup truck up to the frame in mud; he'd been attempting to cake his cows early, before the frost thawed, but got just a little late and got stuck attempting to cross the river. He used his suspenders to tie two pieces of driftwood together to help him stay afloat as he swam across, because the spring current threatened to take even him, a rather large, strong man, downstream.
Does it sound like I'm complaining? I'm not, actually . . . just listing the realities of ranch life, realities that don't often appear in magazine photo spreads or on country-living blogs. Each season of ranch living brings its challenges, its problems to surmount, its dangers . . . and each season, just as much, brings its joys. The geese are nesting in meadows, getting ready to hatch their young; it's just as well that I can't walk across those areas with the dogs, because I wouldn't want to disturb them. The green grass is beginning to come up, and the ice is thawing in front of the barn. We have a new puppy and a new foal, and soon the heifers will be in the arena, and Shawn will calve out next year's crop of babies. The place will really smell then!
And that's one of my favorite lessons from ranch life: that from bad comes good, from inconvenience comes resourcefulness, from discomfort and danger comes strength and ingenuity. It's not a deep metaphor, nor an original one. It's just the one Mother Nature keeps replaying for us, year after year. Thawing manure brings green grass; flooded meadows grow tons of hay; muddy corrals bring deep, rich soil. On the ranch, and probably in all of life, sooner or later stink brings sweet.
Here at the ranch, the smell of early spring -- before the grass really grows and the lilacs finally bloom -- cannot be described as pleasant or refreshing. Rather, early spring around here stinks. Literally. We winter weaned calves in the meadows just north of our house, keep steers and horses in the corrals south of the barn, feed weanling foals in the lot on the hill. And all those animals poop -- all winter long. A person doesn't notice the smell when the turds remain hard and frozen . . . but when the air temperature warms enough for them to thaw, well, you might want to take your deep breaths inside the house.
In addition to some rather strong smells, early spring at the ranch also features slick, snot-like mud and flooded meadows. I can only walk the dogs along the dike, a raised ridge of earth remaining from a time when this ranch was irrigated. Shawn has fewer options each day for feeding his calves, as so much of the meadows are under water. Today, he buried his pickup truck up to the frame in mud; he'd been attempting to cake his cows early, before the frost thawed, but got just a little late and got stuck attempting to cross the river. He used his suspenders to tie two pieces of driftwood together to help him stay afloat as he swam across, because the spring current threatened to take even him, a rather large, strong man, downstream.
Does it sound like I'm complaining? I'm not, actually . . . just listing the realities of ranch life, realities that don't often appear in magazine photo spreads or on country-living blogs. Each season of ranch living brings its challenges, its problems to surmount, its dangers . . . and each season, just as much, brings its joys. The geese are nesting in meadows, getting ready to hatch their young; it's just as well that I can't walk across those areas with the dogs, because I wouldn't want to disturb them. The green grass is beginning to come up, and the ice is thawing in front of the barn. We have a new puppy and a new foal, and soon the heifers will be in the arena, and Shawn will calve out next year's crop of babies. The place will really smell then!
And that's one of my favorite lessons from ranch life: that from bad comes good, from inconvenience comes resourcefulness, from discomfort and danger comes strength and ingenuity. It's not a deep metaphor, nor an original one. It's just the one Mother Nature keeps replaying for us, year after year. Thawing manure brings green grass; flooded meadows grow tons of hay; muddy corrals bring deep, rich soil. On the ranch, and probably in all of life, sooner or later stink brings sweet.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Skater-Kids
Years ago, when my family lived in a different community, my older girls received ice skates for a Christmas gift. At that time, Maria was barely walking; her skates were so tiny that I was sure they'd been specially ordered. We had a small pond near our house -- really just a low spot where water drained. Shawn and I swept off the snow and attempted to teach Laura, Carmen and Maria to ice-skate. They learned in fits and starts; after a few winters we began taking them to the small community ice rink in town. Shawn and I even purchased skates of our own, a bargain at a second-hand store that allowed us to fall on our rumps as often as the girls did. Neither one of us ice -skated while growing up, although we knew the basics just from having roller-skated as kids. Although it wasn't the girls' favorite winter activity and none of them became that proficient at it, the three of them learned enough to be able to manage when they were invited to skating parties.
Now, raising our "second set" of kids, we live on a different ranch, and lead a much busier lifestyle. Teaching Cody, Emily and Katie to ice-skate has not been a priority; our leisure time in winter is so limited that we usually just take them sledding on the hills near our house or have a quick snowball fight. Time to really teach -- time for them to really learn -- a new skill seems eaten up by work and school obligations, older sisters' activities, community involvements.
Yesterday, determined to not let February slip by without at least getting my younger three on the ice, I took them into the basement to fit them with ice skates from the assortment we'd accumulated over the years. Most of the skates that Carmen and Maria grew through are now too small for Emily and Katie's feet. Cody ended up wearing an old pair of mine, too snug for me and a bit too loose for him; Emily and Katie had to share one pair that was somewhere between their sizes. Already feeling frustrated, I got them suited up in the requisite winter gear, grabbed a couple sleds and set off across corral lots and pastures towards the nearest reservoir. Of course, in my hurry to get out the door, I forgot a shovel or broom to clear the ice. Once we stumbled upon the reservoir, we had to use our feet and the edge of the sleds to clear the snow off. The water/ice level was very low: during this long winter of freeze and thaw cycles, a small hole in the dam -- probably a muskrat burrow -- had caved in, and most of the reservoir water had flooded down to the river. What remained was frozen, but only a few inches deep. Nonetheless, we cleared a very small space, probably no bigger than my dining room floor, and I helped each child out onto the ice.
I've probably given more successful ice-skating lessons. Cody got bored immediately: the space I'd cleared was so small, and my old skates so dull, that he couldn't get enough speed or thrill to keep his 9-year-old attention. Emily, on the other hand, was scared to death, and never stood fully straight the entire time: she bent double, clutching at my hands, convinced that her feet would splay out and break her legs. Only Katie really enjoyed the skating, moving up from holding both of my hands, to just one, to finally skating a few strides by herself. She fell, but mastered the art of standing back up on ice skates quickly.
We stayed there for nearly two hours: because the water level was so low, we were surrounded by the dam edges, out of the wind and warmed by the February sun. Cody left to explore the animal tracks around, sure that he would spot a bobcat or coyote. Emily, a rather courageous sledder, slid down the reservoir slopes out onto the ice. Katie and I played around on our tiny, makeshift rink; our five dogs spread out around the area, sunning themselves or following Cody. Our trip home included a stop to pet Cody's horse; later, I made the trek back out to the reservoir alone, to retrieve Cody's coat and gloves left behind.
If my kids lived in town, they could go to the local ice rink every weekend, even take lessons from a real teacher. They would probably own skates that fit, and that were sharpened properly. I'm not going to win mother of the year for my little venture to the reservoir with them yesterday; many kids would call our trip boring. Certainly the skater kids that I often see at my work would scoff at my kids' third- or fourth-hand skates, the tiny, bumpy rink, the snowy, un-Zambooni'd ice.
But just like the tiny muskrat burrow that became a gaping hole, I hope my tiny effort yesterday becomes a lesson for my kids. It probably won't be remembered as a lesson about how to ice-skate! Hopefully, though, it will be remembered as a lesson in making do with what you have; in making one's own recreation; and in enjoying the gifts life offers, even if they are simple gifts like nice weather, family, and pets. I'm not sure you'll ever see my kids on the hockey team or in figure-skating competitions; but hopefully, you will see my kids trying their best, teaching themselves, and doing whatever they love to do.
Now, raising our "second set" of kids, we live on a different ranch, and lead a much busier lifestyle. Teaching Cody, Emily and Katie to ice-skate has not been a priority; our leisure time in winter is so limited that we usually just take them sledding on the hills near our house or have a quick snowball fight. Time to really teach -- time for them to really learn -- a new skill seems eaten up by work and school obligations, older sisters' activities, community involvements.
Yesterday, determined to not let February slip by without at least getting my younger three on the ice, I took them into the basement to fit them with ice skates from the assortment we'd accumulated over the years. Most of the skates that Carmen and Maria grew through are now too small for Emily and Katie's feet. Cody ended up wearing an old pair of mine, too snug for me and a bit too loose for him; Emily and Katie had to share one pair that was somewhere between their sizes. Already feeling frustrated, I got them suited up in the requisite winter gear, grabbed a couple sleds and set off across corral lots and pastures towards the nearest reservoir. Of course, in my hurry to get out the door, I forgot a shovel or broom to clear the ice. Once we stumbled upon the reservoir, we had to use our feet and the edge of the sleds to clear the snow off. The water/ice level was very low: during this long winter of freeze and thaw cycles, a small hole in the dam -- probably a muskrat burrow -- had caved in, and most of the reservoir water had flooded down to the river. What remained was frozen, but only a few inches deep. Nonetheless, we cleared a very small space, probably no bigger than my dining room floor, and I helped each child out onto the ice.
I've probably given more successful ice-skating lessons. Cody got bored immediately: the space I'd cleared was so small, and my old skates so dull, that he couldn't get enough speed or thrill to keep his 9-year-old attention. Emily, on the other hand, was scared to death, and never stood fully straight the entire time: she bent double, clutching at my hands, convinced that her feet would splay out and break her legs. Only Katie really enjoyed the skating, moving up from holding both of my hands, to just one, to finally skating a few strides by herself. She fell, but mastered the art of standing back up on ice skates quickly.
We stayed there for nearly two hours: because the water level was so low, we were surrounded by the dam edges, out of the wind and warmed by the February sun. Cody left to explore the animal tracks around, sure that he would spot a bobcat or coyote. Emily, a rather courageous sledder, slid down the reservoir slopes out onto the ice. Katie and I played around on our tiny, makeshift rink; our five dogs spread out around the area, sunning themselves or following Cody. Our trip home included a stop to pet Cody's horse; later, I made the trek back out to the reservoir alone, to retrieve Cody's coat and gloves left behind.
If my kids lived in town, they could go to the local ice rink every weekend, even take lessons from a real teacher. They would probably own skates that fit, and that were sharpened properly. I'm not going to win mother of the year for my little venture to the reservoir with them yesterday; many kids would call our trip boring. Certainly the skater kids that I often see at my work would scoff at my kids' third- or fourth-hand skates, the tiny, bumpy rink, the snowy, un-Zambooni'd ice.
But just like the tiny muskrat burrow that became a gaping hole, I hope my tiny effort yesterday becomes a lesson for my kids. It probably won't be remembered as a lesson about how to ice-skate! Hopefully, though, it will be remembered as a lesson in making do with what you have; in making one's own recreation; and in enjoying the gifts life offers, even if they are simple gifts like nice weather, family, and pets. I'm not sure you'll ever see my kids on the hockey team or in figure-skating competitions; but hopefully, you will see my kids trying their best, teaching themselves, and doing whatever they love to do.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Choosing
Last year about this time, I wrote a post entitled "Frost and Frost" -- a reflection following a walk in icy frostiness, about my choices and the life I'm leading here at the Allison.
This last week has provided me ample opportunity to review the choice to live at this remote ranch: icy roads this time have increased my daily commute substantially, giving me time to think about why I am choosing to live 40 miles from town and work. As my normal 45-minute drive has nearly doubled this week, my subconscious mind has chewed over the five-year-old decision to make my life and home on the ranch, and the implications of that decision.
I am not a cowgirl, so living on a ranch does not have the typical perks that attract my neighbors: I don't need the extra pasture for my barrel-racing horses, don't relish the thought of feeding cows and pulling calves for a livelihood. To borrow a phrase from my friend, writer Pat Frolander, I'm "married into it" -- married into this lifestyle, this home, this place. If my husband wasn't a ranch manager, I would not be living on a ranch; it's that simple. I don't have the skills to hold a ranch job on my own; therefore, the provided house wouldn't be something I could attain. My own mother still lives on the farm where I grew up, and my brother is slowly buying that from her -- so the prospect of returning to my childhood country home doesn't exist for me. And financially, I could no more manage to purchase a ranch than I could feed all the hungry children in South America.
Being married into it, however, doesn't limit me the way it might have limited a woman of an earlier generation. I work hard to free myself from preconcieved notions of what I should be as a ranch wife, as the woman who now lives on this place. It's been an uphill battle to convince some people -- most especially myself --- that this ranch is big enough to accomodate all different types of ranch women. I don't have to fit into a box.
Having that freedom has allowed me to really think about the daily choice I make to live here. I live on this isolated ranch, this place so long neglected and forlorn, because:
* The silence I experience on my morning walks envelopes me, making the rest of the world seem like it exists in a parallel galaxy. A cold winter morning, with little traffic on the highway and little sign of another human, reveals a peace and perfection that no human creation can mimic.
* My closest companions on my "ranch" days are dogs, cats and occasionally horses -- and none of them demands anything more from me than a caress and some food.
* My children are safe here. Sure, there exist a multitude of dangers on a ranch; but they are safe in another sense. My children are safe here from the materialistic, media-inundated, me-centered lifestyle that so many other children succumb to. They understand that they are part of something here that is greater than they are, and that their part in the whole is, paradoxically, both insignificant and important. They may be just feeding a cat; BUT, they are feeding a cat.
* My powers of observation sharpen here. I see birds I'm learning to identify; weeds I'm working to eradicate; land formations I'm hoping to memorize.
* This lifestyle forces me to develop the qualities I most need to work on : resourcefulness, creativity, patience and gratitude.
* My morning and evening commutes have become times to pray, to listen, to learn: I have, on a daily basis, nearly two private hours for enlightenment.
* The work my husband does here is important; he is feeding the world. Despite the incovenience of our distance from town and the incessant work that ranching requires, there is a pride to be part of this place that supplants the discomforts of it.
Probably there are many more reasons I choose to live here, but today, on this windy, brilliant January day, those are the ones that touch my spirit. On another day, there will be other reasons. That's how it is with choice: while you think you make them only one time, the important ones are ones you make over and over, every day.
This last week has provided me ample opportunity to review the choice to live at this remote ranch: icy roads this time have increased my daily commute substantially, giving me time to think about why I am choosing to live 40 miles from town and work. As my normal 45-minute drive has nearly doubled this week, my subconscious mind has chewed over the five-year-old decision to make my life and home on the ranch, and the implications of that decision.
I am not a cowgirl, so living on a ranch does not have the typical perks that attract my neighbors: I don't need the extra pasture for my barrel-racing horses, don't relish the thought of feeding cows and pulling calves for a livelihood. To borrow a phrase from my friend, writer Pat Frolander, I'm "married into it" -- married into this lifestyle, this home, this place. If my husband wasn't a ranch manager, I would not be living on a ranch; it's that simple. I don't have the skills to hold a ranch job on my own; therefore, the provided house wouldn't be something I could attain. My own mother still lives on the farm where I grew up, and my brother is slowly buying that from her -- so the prospect of returning to my childhood country home doesn't exist for me. And financially, I could no more manage to purchase a ranch than I could feed all the hungry children in South America.
Being married into it, however, doesn't limit me the way it might have limited a woman of an earlier generation. I work hard to free myself from preconcieved notions of what I should be as a ranch wife, as the woman who now lives on this place. It's been an uphill battle to convince some people -- most especially myself --- that this ranch is big enough to accomodate all different types of ranch women. I don't have to fit into a box.
Having that freedom has allowed me to really think about the daily choice I make to live here. I live on this isolated ranch, this place so long neglected and forlorn, because:
* The silence I experience on my morning walks envelopes me, making the rest of the world seem like it exists in a parallel galaxy. A cold winter morning, with little traffic on the highway and little sign of another human, reveals a peace and perfection that no human creation can mimic.
* My closest companions on my "ranch" days are dogs, cats and occasionally horses -- and none of them demands anything more from me than a caress and some food.
* My children are safe here. Sure, there exist a multitude of dangers on a ranch; but they are safe in another sense. My children are safe here from the materialistic, media-inundated, me-centered lifestyle that so many other children succumb to. They understand that they are part of something here that is greater than they are, and that their part in the whole is, paradoxically, both insignificant and important. They may be just feeding a cat; BUT, they are feeding a cat.
* My powers of observation sharpen here. I see birds I'm learning to identify; weeds I'm working to eradicate; land formations I'm hoping to memorize.
* This lifestyle forces me to develop the qualities I most need to work on : resourcefulness, creativity, patience and gratitude.
* My morning and evening commutes have become times to pray, to listen, to learn: I have, on a daily basis, nearly two private hours for enlightenment.
* The work my husband does here is important; he is feeding the world. Despite the incovenience of our distance from town and the incessant work that ranching requires, there is a pride to be part of this place that supplants the discomforts of it.
Probably there are many more reasons I choose to live here, but today, on this windy, brilliant January day, those are the ones that touch my spirit. On another day, there will be other reasons. That's how it is with choice: while you think you make them only one time, the important ones are ones you make over and over, every day.
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