Milly

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.