Boys

Three little boys died in our state this weekend.  One only lived two weeks; the other two lived longer, but certainly not long enough by our mortal standards.  I don't know why the baby died -- have only heard about his death through a Facebook reference, and am uncertain whether it was due to a birth-related illness or to prematurity.  It doesn't matter. My Cody arrived prematurely; I have been in that spot where every breath becomes a prayer for that tiny child's survival.  I cannot imagine the crushing despair when that prayer is not answered.  Does that baby's mother still have the strength to believe in God?  I don't know if I would. 

The other two deaths were the results of accidents.  In other words, a simple moment -- a terrible, reversible, simple moment -- stole these two boys from their families.  These are the deaths that will keep me awake tonight.  These are the deaths that chill me, even though I faced Cody's death daily when he was born nine years ago.  It is one thing to anticipate a death, even when your soul cries out against it. It is another thing to assume your child is safe and healthy, only to have death snatch him from you in the time it takes to turn your head.

Cody is nine now; at one time in his life, he could have been that baby.  Now, he could have been either of those two older boys. One died in a freak ranching accident -- the kind of thing that is so rare, one doesn't even think about taking precautions against it.  The other died in a dangerous experiment, unattended.  He was 12 -- old enough to be left alone for a while.

Again, I don't know if I would have the strength of spirit to be those parents.  From what I understand, none of them can be blamed for negligence or for allowing their child to indulge in risky behavior.  From what I understand, one family had to make the decision to turn off the life-support equipment and allow their son to die.  I barely managed to heal from this decision when my 62-year-old father's death was the result; this was a 10-year-old boy.
From what I understand, the other boy was discovered by his sister; her heart is broken, I'm sure.

Living here in the country, we are well-attuned to the risks inherent in this life.  Shawn and I take any reasonable precaution to prevent the accidents we can foresee.  Cody doesn't drive the four-wheeler or shoot a shotgun; he is allowed to play with his B.B. gun only with permission and supervision.  The horses he rides meet Shawn's high standards for reliability and safety.  I've carefully outlined the boundaries where he and his sisters can play outside, and rehearsed what to do if they encounter a snake.  There is a list of emergency telephone numbers posted by the phone, and he knows how to dial 911.  On the days I work in town, his dad makes sure to meet the bus after school and stay around the ranch yard until an older sister is home to babysit.  We use seatbelts, sunscreen, and riding helmets.  And yet . . . . in any moment, an illness can strike, an accident can happen, and every precaution we take will not be enough to save our children.

My Cody's weekend was filled with chores, homework, church, errands, and even a wonderful surprise and dinner with good friends. Tonight he attended his first 4-H meeting.  His life is full to overflowing, and he fills our lives, too.   I don't know why I have my son with me, and three other mothers are mourning theirs. There is much that I don't know.

What I do know is that life is not fair. I know that, here on the ranch or anywhere, we are just not in charge. I know that the only time I have for sure is right now. And I know that, right now, I just want to hold my Cody, to thank God for my boy . . . and to pray for the three boys who are with God right now.

September's Perfect Imperfection

The four o'clocks are blooming today, though the morning temperature barely clears 45 degrees.  In other places, other gardens, my four o'clocks bloomed in the height of summer, opening to scent the air only when evening breezes cooled the air a bit.  In that sense, I suppose it's natural for them to bloom in the chill of the early fall morning. The fuchsia and butter-yellow flowers sparkle amid a few golden cosmos, a lone russet marigold, and the dying greenery of some tiger lilies.  The flower bed, encircling an old cottonwood tree, is spotty and quite amateurish . . .and to me, beautiful all the same. Even the fact that those flowers didn't bloom until just now, a few weeks before frost, doesn't bother me.  Actually, several spots of late-season pinks, purples and golds brighten the yard as I shuffle my children off to school and load my work bag into the car.  Our summer warmed so slowly this year, and offered only about six weeks of heat and humidity; I'm grateful that I have flowers at all.

The Japanese have a philosophy -- wabi-sabi -- that celebrates the beauty of imperfection. My front yard, littered with a red wagon, some branches of fallen cottonwood leaves, and several bikes and scooters, would never merit a picture in a magazine.  The flower beds bloom haphazardly, and sometimes the blue flax threatens to take over everything.  I have roughly the same amount of grass as I have of weeds, and the entire space lacks the green uniformity of a manicured city lawn.

But as I arrive home after a long day, my eyes don't see the yellow spots, or the weeds growing along the fence:  my eyes take in the moss roses that have finally spilled over the edge of the hanging baskets, framing the front door in color. I see Emily and Katie spilling out of that front door, eager to tell me about their spelling tests and who played with who at recess.  I see Shawn circling a colt in the round pen, and the horse's smooth chocolate-bay coat shimmers in the early evening light.

September for so much of my life has been about success:  pursuing perfection in school and on my job, to the point of reaching such stress I miss the beauty of the season.  And yet, September is my favorite month, because the natural world reaches a fullness, a peak of achievement that perches for a few short weeks before the letting go, the decline into a natural death.  The achievement, like the late blooming of the four o'clocks, does not necessarily reach perfection; and yet, it is enough.

I'm questioning myself professionally and personally this month, wondering if I'll ever reach that point of feeling worthy to celebrate my accomplishments; wondering if I'll ever feel my work is worthy to put into public.  But it seems silly to question all my efforts, to hide my foibles and flaws, when all around me the world is celebrating itself just as it is.  Those four o'clocks didn't realize that their prescribed bloom time should have been a month ago; they are showing themselves off nevertheless, for as long as they have.

Would that I could do the same.

Slow Down

This month's quote on my calendar:  "There is more to Life than increasing its speed."  -- Ghandi

I know this because I just turned the calendar today, 13 days into this month.  What have I been doing that I haven't even turned a calendar page yet?  Take your pick:  watching the kids at county fair with all their projects; battling the weeds in my garden and back yard before they go to seed and make the problem worse next year; catching up on all the little jobs at work that got pushed aside by the demands of a summer reading program; trying to get six kids ready for school to start this month, plus celebrate two of their birthdays; and attempting to do all the daily things that make a house, family and job run smoothly.

I read the calendar quote feeling this paradox of both agreeing with the wisdom of Ghandi's thought, and wondering how the hell I am supposed to slow anything down.  Lately it seems that the magazine articles, devotionals, and even novels I've been reading have been written on a dfferent planet, one on which August is simply a month to drift in the pool, sipping lemonade.  Do people really live that way?

In my community, August is simply the break between the craziness of haying and the rush of fall work.  August means fire watching, equipment repairing, hay stacking, and grain harvesting.  August brings bumper crops of zuchinni to put up, and bumper costs of school supply lists to fill. Even the creatures are busy; early this morning, as I pulled weeds from the rudebekia, a honeybee buzzed from brown-eye to brown-eye, busily gathering pollen.

So, what to do?  For despite my frustration at the impracticality of this quote, I am drawn to its truth.  There is more to life than getting it all done; there must be, because "it all" is never completely finished.  I know that if I wait until my to-do list is all checked of to relax, I will simply never relax.  For most of my life, I've simply tried harder:  made better lists, thought through the organization of my days, worked harder and more efficiently.  And all that efficiency and hard work has given me . . . more jobs to do, more obligations to fulfill, more impossible demands -- mostly self-inflicted.



This week, in my perusing of the Internet for book review site, I stumbled upon a reference to "Slow Family Online."  Its Facebook mission states that it is devoted to bringing back "lost arts" and it encourages us to "Trade frenzy for fun."  The Facebook postings are mostly referrals to events and activities that force one to slow down; after all, a blueberry buckle takes a while to bake and cool, and then to eat.  Whoever authors this site, thank you.  Such simple ideas for really finding joy in simplicity and slowness. 

And the site, the quote, the wisdom of this place, remind me that it all comes down to choice.  For 40 years, my choice has been more -- more work, more house, more activity.  Could slowing down be as simple as just choosing differently?  My choice could be "less" or "slow" or even "good enough."  

What if?  What if, every day, I did take some time to just stop for a minute?  What if, instead of jumping up from my morning coffee to reset the sprinker. I just let the sprinker run a little longer, until I finished my cup?  What if, when Shawn asks if I'd like to look at my horses, I actually walked out into the corral and stroked them, instead of looking through the gate for all of three minutes? What if, instead of getting one more load of laundry folded or one more room cleaned, I baked cookies with Katie and Emily when they ask?  What if, instead of reviewing more book catalogs, deciding more purchases, I just sat and read one of those novels for an afternoon?

Who knows?  Perhaps one day, if I choose carefully, you might even find me floating in a pool, sipping on some lemonade and living the August I dream about . . . if only for a few hours.




 

Dragonfly on the Clothesline

Part of my summer morning routine, along with watering the lawn and garden, is to hang out at least one load of laundry before I go to work.  I like to think I'm at least doing my part for the earth . . . or at least, that hanging out these loads somewhat offsets the other damages I do with my large family.  This morning, as I reach up to hang another pair of jeans,  a dragonfly lands on the line.  Events like this deserve mention:  we live far enough from the creek to not often see dragonflies, and it was still early morning, not yet the heat of the day.  Nonetheless, there it was . . making me smile and remember.

Years ago, when Maria was not yet one year old, I attended a writing retreat at the South Dakota ranch home of my friend and mentor, Linda.  While I was there, I stayed in a small, cheery room named the "Dragonfly."  Linda, ever passionate about the prairie surrounding her ranch/retreat, had named each room for a creature of the earth surrounding us.  As I left the retreat, changed in my view of myself and my writing in ways that live with me still, I decided that a dragonfly would become my personal totem.

The Native Americans who lived on this high prairie, both where Linda's retreat home lies, and where our ranch stands, would understand about totems.  A totem was, and is, a personal symbol of a higher life.  A young man with a bear totem would be reminded to be courageous and strong . . . both qualities a bear might represent.  A young woman with a lioness as totem would try to live her life with both the extreme tenderness and the protective ferocity of that animal.

My totem, however, doesn't work in the traditional way.  I don't know that dragonflies necessarily possess any qualities I want to emulate.  Instead, seeing a dragonfly reminds me not to let my dream of writing and publishing become buried under the daily-ness of life.   Seeing a dragonfly, for me, is the Universe's push to get back to the desk, to the computer, back to myself and my thoughts, and to spend time trying to capture them on the page. Seeing a dragonfly tells me that the woman who attended that writing retreat, who took time out of a busy life even back then to write and talk and read, still lives inside me.

This morning started off like any other Monday morning:  I was up and doing  before I was fully awake, trying to cram too many things into too few hours.  But summer only lasts a few short months, and dragonflies only happen to land on the clothesline on rare occasions.  The ideas in my head buzz in and out like an elusive insect, beautiful and sparkling, but gone in a breath's time.  I can only hope that they keep landing in my life.

Blooming

This morning I weeded the lily bed near the back door of my ranch house.  Somehow, the bluegrass, dandelions, and thistles that compete with the daylilies and irises in this bed hold on to the soil more tenaciously, gripping with long, tough roots that often end up breaking off instead of pulling out. This means I revisit this bed, and probably pull the same weeds, several times during the summer.  We dug this bed the first year we moved here, not having lived through a full cycle of seasons to observe the vegetation patterns.  Now we know that there are spots in this ranch yard, particularly near the house, where the amount of bentonite in the soil hardens the ground so much that roots are practically glued in.  Conversely, the compaction of the soil slows and limits the growth of any plant, weed or flower.

So, as I weed, I feel sorry for the lilies and irises there.  Despite being in this ground four years, the daylilies have yet to reach a mature size for their species.  The irises, transplanted from a deserted homestead on the north end of the ranch, have done better, but still have not spread and filled the bed as I'd hoped.  This isn't good ground for these plants; their natural affinities incline to more arable, rich soil.

As I weed, I notice my seven-year-old, Emily, has gone into the house and returned in jeans, with a crumpled up old cowboy hat on her head and stick horse between her legs.  With a whoop, she gallops around the old ranch house, circling her imaginary herd with joy.  Last week, she asked every day if she could ride Ginger, the Welsh-Quarter Horse pony that the kids share.  Every day, there was a reason why she couldn't:  I was at work, her dad was in the field, there was bad weather or older sisters' activities that kept the family too busy.  She hasn't asked today, and seems content with her pretend play.  My natural inclination is to continue to pull weeds, and keep on working on the laundry, yard work and housework that I had planned for my day off. 

I'm not a cowgirl; in many ways, life on this ranch challenges me the same way that clay soil challenges my plants.  Particularly in the summer, when the kids are home and the outside work begins, the multiple jobs that compete for my attention drain my energy, leaving me feeling like I, too, have yellow leaves from not enough nutrients.  I am not naturally talented with animals the way my husband and some of my children are; working in the barn, corral or pasture stretches my limits and forces me to grow in ground that is not my natural environment.  Working in a classroom, library, garden or kitchen comes more naturally and successfully to me. 

And yet, Emily hardly ever asks much of me.  More than many of my children, she is a natural helper, bending over now to pick up spilled clothespins as she and her horse circle by the clothesline.  So, I leave the lily bed three-quarters weeded, ask Carmen's help in catching and saddling Ginger, and spend the rest of my morning in the round pen.   Of course, I can't expect Cody and Katie to let Emily ride alone, so I have two ponies in the round pen, and three young children taking turns on them. 

As I watch, help and offer instructions, I surprise myself with what I know.  Cody struggles with the pony he is riding, and when Shawn comes in from the field and offers advice, I'm gratified to hear that his suggestions are the same as mine have been.  Katie needs to work on her balance on a horse, and I remember many of the exercises Shawn and I put our older daughters through when they were learning to ride.  And Emily, whose confidence has been shaky, rides Ginger at a trot around and around the pen, the same way I rode my pony, Misty, when I was her age, looking so pleased and proud of herself that I cannot possibly regret leaving my other work undone.  I'm not a cowgirl, and will never flourish as naturally on this ranch as another, different type of woman might; but, I've still grown here and our lifestyle enriches me in ways I could not have planned.

I return to the yard just before lunch, and gather up the jacket and water bottle I've left lying by the flower bed.  As I bend down, my eye catches a fat swelling at the base of one of the daylilies.  It's the beginning of a bloom, a first for this particular plant.  This isn't good soil for this flower, andyet, despite struggles for space, nutrition and water, it is blooming.  Sometimes, good just takes a while to grow.

For Jake

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.

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.