Last week, walking with the dogs, I came upon the carcass of one of our weaned calves. It had a red chalk mark across its face, indicating that Shawn or the hired man had "doctored" it for some illness, but unsuccessfully.
Today, just a week later, my walk took me to the same part of the meadow, just below the treeline on what is left of an old irrigation dike. At first, I didn't see the carcass, so assumed that Shawn had drug it off somewhere. Then, several yards from where I expected to find the calf stood an empty ribcage, a few thigh bones, and some skin . . . the only indicators that there had been a complete animal lying here just seven days ago.
That empty ribcage struck me . . . how quickly life can disappear. If a calf, grazing the meadow one day, dead the next, can be nearly nonexistent within a week -- can have all physical traces of its presence on earth wiped out -- then what is to prevent that from happening to any of us?
Of course, I hope there won't be coyotes, bald eagles, hawks, owls and other small scavengers picking away at my ribcage. I hope I will be mourned and remembered by the people I love, the people I share my life with. I hope some traces of the way I've lived these last forty years -- or however many more -- will outlive my physical body.
Death bluntly reminds me, however, that there are no guarantees. I may work hard to create a legacy, to ensure my survival beyond my death . . . and I may still be forgotten. There is, after all, only this day that is sure. Only this day to fill up, to celebrate that I haven't yet become an empty ribcage standing sentinel on the prairie. Only this day to live . . .
Monday, February 22, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Winter
Alone at the ranch today . . . I have a holiday for Presidents' Day, but my kids are in school and Shawn is over at the neighbors', helping to sort and vaccinate calves.
Yesterday, we sold horses at a bull sale in North Dakota. It was the culmination of several months of work on Shawn's part, training and riding these horses, as well as just struggling to keep them healthy through the winter months prior to the sale. We've had so much ice this year --- the snow will melt just enough, and then the temperature will drop so that the melted snow becomes ice. Then more snow, more melting, more icing up . . . a cycle that only spring will break. The last two years have been particularly bad.
Not that we are the only people struggling with the weather; this winter has beaten down so many people across the nation that I feel silly complaining about ice. Yesterday, my brother from South Dakota didn't even bring the two horses he was supposed to sell, because the roads and weather were too bad for traveling.
And as I watch weather reports of major snowstorms hitting the northeast in the last few weeks, I know we are just not alone in this battle. Not that it is much of a battle: weather, Mother Nature, whatever you want to call it, will always win. All we as humans can do is try to be careful, take care of the livestock, and wait it out.
I think this powerlessness is what makes major storms such a perenially big story for news channels. As humans, we are so accustomed to making our lives work out a certain way . . .when a storm hits and shuts down our lives for days or weeks, we are as devastated by the reminder that we aren't in charge as we are by the physical hardships we have.
Here at the ranch, we learn, as our ancestors did, to expect bad weather, to prepare for it, to try to live with it. Winter always comes, and with it, snow, ice, and cold wind. Likewise, we will cycle through heavy spring snows and rains, parching summer days, violent lightning and hailstorms. We know these things will come; if we are in tune to the world around us, we even begin to recognize, like the animals, the certain look of the clouds and smell of the air.
And it is in caring for the animals, watching them, noticing how they behave, that we learn to deal with the weather. It is in going back to what is animalistic, primitive, and basic in us that we survive . . . and perhaps even then have an opportunity to thrive. Our horses and cattle don't exert themselves any more than necessary in frigid weather. Instead, they huddle in groups, taking in what weak rays of sun there are, and absorbing body heat from the animals around them. Our dogs curl up, back against a wall or a bush, to wait out the bitter winds. Our cats hide, coming out only when they hear the barn door open and know somebody is there to feed them.
Only we humans attempt to carry on as usual, driving the same speeds, using the same amount of electricity, continuing our endless cycles of go-go work and play. We could take a lesson from the animals. We could slow down a bit, and then perhaps we wouldn't remember this winter as being so difficult . . . or at least we wouldn't compound the difficulty with traffic accidents, cold and flu epidemics, and stories of homeless people freezing to death on the streets. Winter weather is a reminder to us all that we should focus most on caring for ourselves and our neighbors, on getting proper rest and nutrition, on staying close to our companions, on enjoying the sun when it shines.
Mother Nature is trying to tell us something: we have our priorties wrong. She's trying to reorder them for us, and she will do it, one way or another. The earth teaches us multitudes of lessons, daily, monthly, seasonally. We humans just need to learn how to listen.
Yesterday, we sold horses at a bull sale in North Dakota. It was the culmination of several months of work on Shawn's part, training and riding these horses, as well as just struggling to keep them healthy through the winter months prior to the sale. We've had so much ice this year --- the snow will melt just enough, and then the temperature will drop so that the melted snow becomes ice. Then more snow, more melting, more icing up . . . a cycle that only spring will break. The last two years have been particularly bad.
Not that we are the only people struggling with the weather; this winter has beaten down so many people across the nation that I feel silly complaining about ice. Yesterday, my brother from South Dakota didn't even bring the two horses he was supposed to sell, because the roads and weather were too bad for traveling.
And as I watch weather reports of major snowstorms hitting the northeast in the last few weeks, I know we are just not alone in this battle. Not that it is much of a battle: weather, Mother Nature, whatever you want to call it, will always win. All we as humans can do is try to be careful, take care of the livestock, and wait it out.
I think this powerlessness is what makes major storms such a perenially big story for news channels. As humans, we are so accustomed to making our lives work out a certain way . . .when a storm hits and shuts down our lives for days or weeks, we are as devastated by the reminder that we aren't in charge as we are by the physical hardships we have.
Here at the ranch, we learn, as our ancestors did, to expect bad weather, to prepare for it, to try to live with it. Winter always comes, and with it, snow, ice, and cold wind. Likewise, we will cycle through heavy spring snows and rains, parching summer days, violent lightning and hailstorms. We know these things will come; if we are in tune to the world around us, we even begin to recognize, like the animals, the certain look of the clouds and smell of the air.
And it is in caring for the animals, watching them, noticing how they behave, that we learn to deal with the weather. It is in going back to what is animalistic, primitive, and basic in us that we survive . . . and perhaps even then have an opportunity to thrive. Our horses and cattle don't exert themselves any more than necessary in frigid weather. Instead, they huddle in groups, taking in what weak rays of sun there are, and absorbing body heat from the animals around them. Our dogs curl up, back against a wall or a bush, to wait out the bitter winds. Our cats hide, coming out only when they hear the barn door open and know somebody is there to feed them.
Only we humans attempt to carry on as usual, driving the same speeds, using the same amount of electricity, continuing our endless cycles of go-go work and play. We could take a lesson from the animals. We could slow down a bit, and then perhaps we wouldn't remember this winter as being so difficult . . . or at least we wouldn't compound the difficulty with traffic accidents, cold and flu epidemics, and stories of homeless people freezing to death on the streets. Winter weather is a reminder to us all that we should focus most on caring for ourselves and our neighbors, on getting proper rest and nutrition, on staying close to our companions, on enjoying the sun when it shines.
Mother Nature is trying to tell us something: we have our priorties wrong. She's trying to reorder them for us, and she will do it, one way or another. The earth teaches us multitudes of lessons, daily, monthly, seasonally. We humans just need to learn how to listen.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Saturday at the Ranch
Today is the first Saturday I've spent at the ranch in several weeks, and of course my to-do list is longer than the length of the day. Already I've spent several hours helping my younger kids clean their rooms; done several loads of laundry; made lunch; laid out meat for supper and baking ingredients for making dessert. Other chores clamor for my attention -- the horse paperwork stacked on the side of this desk; the mending pile that whispers to me every time I walk upstairs; the sacks of castoff clothes and toys in the basement that need to be sorted to take to the emergency closet in town.
So it is with guilt that I sit down at this computer, to attempt a few minutes of creative effort. Already my focus is diverted by the children, arguing in the bedroom next to the office. Already I hear Shawn drive the tractor through the yard and wonder how he'll react if he finds out I'm writing instead of tackling those horse papers. Already I struggle to write anything of "meaning" -- time spent at this computer should, after all, yield profundity, or at least some practical advice.
Haven't I already taken enough time for myself today? Early this morning I spent a luxurious hour in bed after Shawn had gone out and before the kids woke up, reading magazines and sipping coffee. Just before lunch, I left the kids to finish their chores, and set off tromping through crusty snow with the dogs, enjoying the simple joy of breathing air that wasn't, for once, cold enough to burn my lungs. Those minutes should be enough, the list maker in my head chastises me. There are so many projects awaiting my attention that this one, which yields no tangible benefit, should not be my focus now.
But then I stop, and remind myself of the purpose of this blog: to explore different choices for these 40 years than the ones I made in the first 40, to take my lessons from the world around me and try to achieve a level of satisfaction and authenticity that has so far eluded me.
In my first 40 years, I've been the ultimate achiever. My house has rarely been dirty; my children are well-fed and well-educated; I've managed careers, started small businesses, lost baby weight six times. I've written a book, made nine houses into homes, and managed to build a marriage that's relatively healthy. I'm proud of what I've done, but I also mourn what I haven't . . . there have been too many Saturdays filled from daylight to dark with work, too many walks not taken, too many words that floated in and out of my head before being captured on the page.
Choices are choices, and one rarely has the opportunity to make them over. I have only one last Saturday of January, 2010 -- only one non-frigid weekend between winter storms to enjoy being outside -- only one precious (sort of ) uninterrrupted hour to write and reflect on the life I've built, the one I'm now supposed to be nurturing.
Outside, the world is slower, more peaceful. One of my daughters commented about how "quiet" the ranch is today -- because it's winter, and other than the occasional coyote howl, or the sound of the feeding tractor, there isn't a lot of noise. We all need periods of dormancy, times when we don't accomplish as much on the outer plane, but we build an inner life that will carry through the clamorous, busy times to come. For me, on this last Saturday of January, now is that time.
So it is with guilt that I sit down at this computer, to attempt a few minutes of creative effort. Already my focus is diverted by the children, arguing in the bedroom next to the office. Already I hear Shawn drive the tractor through the yard and wonder how he'll react if he finds out I'm writing instead of tackling those horse papers. Already I struggle to write anything of "meaning" -- time spent at this computer should, after all, yield profundity, or at least some practical advice.
Haven't I already taken enough time for myself today? Early this morning I spent a luxurious hour in bed after Shawn had gone out and before the kids woke up, reading magazines and sipping coffee. Just before lunch, I left the kids to finish their chores, and set off tromping through crusty snow with the dogs, enjoying the simple joy of breathing air that wasn't, for once, cold enough to burn my lungs. Those minutes should be enough, the list maker in my head chastises me. There are so many projects awaiting my attention that this one, which yields no tangible benefit, should not be my focus now.
But then I stop, and remind myself of the purpose of this blog: to explore different choices for these 40 years than the ones I made in the first 40, to take my lessons from the world around me and try to achieve a level of satisfaction and authenticity that has so far eluded me.
In my first 40 years, I've been the ultimate achiever. My house has rarely been dirty; my children are well-fed and well-educated; I've managed careers, started small businesses, lost baby weight six times. I've written a book, made nine houses into homes, and managed to build a marriage that's relatively healthy. I'm proud of what I've done, but I also mourn what I haven't . . . there have been too many Saturdays filled from daylight to dark with work, too many walks not taken, too many words that floated in and out of my head before being captured on the page.
Choices are choices, and one rarely has the opportunity to make them over. I have only one last Saturday of January, 2010 -- only one non-frigid weekend between winter storms to enjoy being outside -- only one precious (sort of ) uninterrrupted hour to write and reflect on the life I've built, the one I'm now supposed to be nurturing.
Outside, the world is slower, more peaceful. One of my daughters commented about how "quiet" the ranch is today -- because it's winter, and other than the occasional coyote howl, or the sound of the feeding tractor, there isn't a lot of noise. We all need periods of dormancy, times when we don't accomplish as much on the outer plane, but we build an inner life that will carry through the clamorous, busy times to come. For me, on this last Saturday of January, now is that time.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Dog Walker
Another morning walk with my dogs today . . . one of the gifts of a day off, since I don't have to leave the ranch right after putting my kids on the school bus. Just before I went out, while I was eating my cereal, I flipped through a popular women's magazine. In an article about maintaining a fitness routine, the author suggested finding a walking partner -- a friend to keep you motivated through the long months of winter.
I've always walked with dogs. Today, there are five who share my life; in other times, other places, only two or three. But always a dog. This morning, as I watched the five of them tumble over each other, wrestling out the kinks and stiffness from spending winter nights outside, I found myself glad to have canine, rather than human, walking companions.
For one thing, I don't have to talk to my dogs unless I want to. No need to carry on a conversation -- just the occasional "Max, come here," or "Sam, get behind," that is an integral part of training and disciplining ranch dogs. After all, these dogs also help work the cattle, so letting them misbehave during their walks with me would only lead to problems when they have real work to do . I can talk more if I want -- and I do. With my old dog, Sis, I carried on entire monologues while we hiked up mountains or through prairie pastures; she would cock her head quizzically, decide that I couldn't possibly be talking to her, and carry on her merry way. I have worked out more lesson plans, writing ideas, difficult conversations, and grocery lists that way. . .
Another reason I walk with dogs is that they are tougher exercise partners than a human could ever be. Dogs simply love to walk -- or trot, or bound, or run -- and they don't like short distances. I walk farther, faster and more often because of my dogs. I have yet to look into Maggie's eyes and be able to say, "No, not today girl," without feeling guilt. I mean, how do you tell a dog it's too cold to walk when they are outside all day long? And I know that if I don't walk with my dogs, they will hang around the ranch yard most of the day, bored and getting into mischief. I figure I'm doing my part for world peace -- or at least ranch peace -- by taking them out to run.
But once we are out there, the real rewards are for me. Dogs are pure joy, particularly when they are free to explore and play. It's hard to be worried about the budget or the deadline when walking with dogs. Dogs notice little things, things we humans are just too busy to see. This morning, they all spent several minutes sniffing around two holes in a snowbank. Had I just walked past that bank alone, I wouldn't have even noticed the holes, or I might have thought that a calf simply broke through the hard crust to the softer snow underneath. But, watching my dogs get so interested, I looked closer -- long claw marks by the holes told a different story. A badger, probably, digging for shelter from the wind, or looking for food. A human companion wouldn't have seen those faint tracks, white scratches on white snow; but dogs spend their days sniffing out the little details: they notice things.
My kids don't really like to walk, and even my husband thinks I'm a bit crazy to prefer walking to riding a horse. Since most of my neighbors live at least a few miles away, walking dates are tricky to coordinate. And I'm inherently an introvert, so I'm not likely to call one of them up anyway. Given all these facts, I'll probably find myself walking alone -- with dogs -- for many more years.
Lucky me.
I've always walked with dogs. Today, there are five who share my life; in other times, other places, only two or three. But always a dog. This morning, as I watched the five of them tumble over each other, wrestling out the kinks and stiffness from spending winter nights outside, I found myself glad to have canine, rather than human, walking companions.
For one thing, I don't have to talk to my dogs unless I want to. No need to carry on a conversation -- just the occasional "Max, come here," or "Sam, get behind," that is an integral part of training and disciplining ranch dogs. After all, these dogs also help work the cattle, so letting them misbehave during their walks with me would only lead to problems when they have real work to do . I can talk more if I want -- and I do. With my old dog, Sis, I carried on entire monologues while we hiked up mountains or through prairie pastures; she would cock her head quizzically, decide that I couldn't possibly be talking to her, and carry on her merry way. I have worked out more lesson plans, writing ideas, difficult conversations, and grocery lists that way. . .
Another reason I walk with dogs is that they are tougher exercise partners than a human could ever be. Dogs simply love to walk -- or trot, or bound, or run -- and they don't like short distances. I walk farther, faster and more often because of my dogs. I have yet to look into Maggie's eyes and be able to say, "No, not today girl," without feeling guilt. I mean, how do you tell a dog it's too cold to walk when they are outside all day long? And I know that if I don't walk with my dogs, they will hang around the ranch yard most of the day, bored and getting into mischief. I figure I'm doing my part for world peace -- or at least ranch peace -- by taking them out to run.
But once we are out there, the real rewards are for me. Dogs are pure joy, particularly when they are free to explore and play. It's hard to be worried about the budget or the deadline when walking with dogs. Dogs notice little things, things we humans are just too busy to see. This morning, they all spent several minutes sniffing around two holes in a snowbank. Had I just walked past that bank alone, I wouldn't have even noticed the holes, or I might have thought that a calf simply broke through the hard crust to the softer snow underneath. But, watching my dogs get so interested, I looked closer -- long claw marks by the holes told a different story. A badger, probably, digging for shelter from the wind, or looking for food. A human companion wouldn't have seen those faint tracks, white scratches on white snow; but dogs spend their days sniffing out the little details: they notice things.
My kids don't really like to walk, and even my husband thinks I'm a bit crazy to prefer walking to riding a horse. Since most of my neighbors live at least a few miles away, walking dates are tricky to coordinate. And I'm inherently an introvert, so I'm not likely to call one of them up anyway. Given all these facts, I'll probably find myself walking alone -- with dogs -- for many more years.
Lucky me.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Frost and Frost
This morning, after shuffling my kids back to school, I left the house to walk my five dogs. Stepping out the door -- I hadn't really looked out the window yet -- I was amazed to find the whole world covered in white hoarfrost. Walking through the pasture was like walking through crystal -- the naked tree limbs, the blades of dried-up grass, even the barbed wire stretching across fences -- every surface glistened with fine particles of ice, so delicate that they snowed down to the ground with the slightest disturbance. As I clumped through the snowdrifts, I could not see another human being; sure, I know my husband and his hired man were out there somewhere, feeding, and I could hear the sound of vehicles driving by on the highway . . . but for just twenty precious minutes, the world consisted of me, my dogs, and a palace of ice.
This is the life I've chosen. In my world, I can't run to Starbuck's for a coffee whenever I want, or pop over to the nearest gas station when I forget to buy milk. My Internet connection, satellite-powered, is still glitchy enough that I don't spend a lot of time online. Therefore, I don't have a Facebook or MySpace page, don't Twitter, and am only just discovering the depth and breadth of the blogging world. Who knew? There are so many elements of our cyber-powered world that I am a novice at, so many high-speed pleasures that I haven't experienced. But, my world holds an ancient beauty and calm, a connection to land and creature that can't be found online, or in a busy city.
So -- as much as this makes me sound like the corny former-English teacher that I am -- this morning's frost reminded me of Frost. Like, the guy, the poet. The one who wrote, "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --/I took the one less-traveled by,/ And that has made all the difference." (from "The Road Not Taken," Robert Frost)
I thought of this poem this morning, because there were so many roads laid before me when I was twenty; many of them still there when I was thirty; but at forty, with a husband, six kids, five dogs, who-knows-how-many cats, and more horses than I probably should own . . . some of those old roads are pretty faint tracks by now. "Yet knowing how way leads on to way/ I doubted if I should ever come back." (Frost)
Regrets? Maybe a few. But not so many that I can't appreciate the other-worldly beauty of a world kissed by snow angels, the world that I was privileged enough to walk through this morning.
This is the life I've chosen. In my world, I can't run to Starbuck's for a coffee whenever I want, or pop over to the nearest gas station when I forget to buy milk. My Internet connection, satellite-powered, is still glitchy enough that I don't spend a lot of time online. Therefore, I don't have a Facebook or MySpace page, don't Twitter, and am only just discovering the depth and breadth of the blogging world. Who knew? There are so many elements of our cyber-powered world that I am a novice at, so many high-speed pleasures that I haven't experienced. But, my world holds an ancient beauty and calm, a connection to land and creature that can't be found online, or in a busy city.
So -- as much as this makes me sound like the corny former-English teacher that I am -- this morning's frost reminded me of Frost. Like, the guy, the poet. The one who wrote, "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --/I took the one less-traveled by,/ And that has made all the difference." (from "The Road Not Taken," Robert Frost)
I thought of this poem this morning, because there were so many roads laid before me when I was twenty; many of them still there when I was thirty; but at forty, with a husband, six kids, five dogs, who-knows-how-many cats, and more horses than I probably should own . . . some of those old roads are pretty faint tracks by now. "Yet knowing how way leads on to way/ I doubted if I should ever come back." (Frost)
Regrets? Maybe a few. But not so many that I can't appreciate the other-worldly beauty of a world kissed by snow angels, the world that I was privileged enough to walk through this morning.
Monday, November 30, 2009
The Back 40
Today I celebrate my 40th birthday, and like so many other women, I find myself reflecting on this new chapter of my life. Actually, some years ago I listened to a CD book by Dr. Christiane Northup, called Mother-Daughter Wisdom; in it, she theorized that women's lives are actually more divisible into seven-year stages. That idea makes sense to me, particularly as I revicw my own life: I've moved from babyhood to girlhood, girlhood to adolescence, adolescence to wormanhood, in roughly seven-year stages. Even the last seven-year marker -- the year I turned 35 -- was monumental, in that it marked both the end of my teaching career (I moved away), and the end of my childbearing (I had my tubes tied). So, perhaps I should wait to start a reflective blog such as this until the next seven year stage, when I turn 42. Life being what it is, though, today seems like a good time to start.
"The Back 40", then, refers to the next 40 years or so of my life. I certainly hope I have a Back 50, or even a Back 60 . . . but the truth is, I think my life will be different after 40, and I want to commemorate that. In my first 40 years, I spent so much of my energy building my life -- growing up, leaving home, figuring out who I was . . . then marrying, having children, starting businesses and careers . . . and figuring out who I am all over again. For the next 40, I'm hoping to enjoy what I've started more, to grow what I've planted. I don't need to "reinvent" myself, as some women are wont to do at 40, so much as to quiet myself to see who and what I already am.
"The Back 40" is also a tongue-in-cheek reference to my home, a ranch in northeastern Wyoming. Here, life is lived differently than in the city, or even in the town 40 miles away. I hope to explore that a little through this blog, and to reflect on the lessons this place has to teach me. I've spent my entire day here, having returned from a Denver weekend yesterday, so that the city girl in me could be satisfied. This ranch is a good place to spend a birthday . . . . this morning, I walked across dry, brittle grasses, through leafless cottonwood trees . . . .winter is coming, and the land is in the final stages of its annual death. It's good for me, turning 40, to reflect on the mortality of all life, a mortality we confront each day here. While the rest of the world is decorating in festive reds and greens, tying bows on packages and searching the Internet for Cyber Monday deals, I've left my orange and gold autumn decorations up. I want to look at the beauty of fullness, of the last glow of a life well lived.
In a while, I will have to leave the ranch, to travel to the vet clinic and pick up my old dog, Max. He was kicked in the head by a young gelding yesterday, and my oldest daughters had to take him to the vet. He'll probably lose sight in his eye. It saddens and humbles me, knowing that he was fine one moment, then seriously injured the next. But this, above all, is the lesson I need today: that, despite all the planning and building, despite preparations, goals, and to-do lists, life just happens. I'm not in control. Here in the Back 40, I have to learn to take life as it comes.
"The Back 40", then, refers to the next 40 years or so of my life. I certainly hope I have a Back 50, or even a Back 60 . . . but the truth is, I think my life will be different after 40, and I want to commemorate that. In my first 40 years, I spent so much of my energy building my life -- growing up, leaving home, figuring out who I was . . . then marrying, having children, starting businesses and careers . . . and figuring out who I am all over again. For the next 40, I'm hoping to enjoy what I've started more, to grow what I've planted. I don't need to "reinvent" myself, as some women are wont to do at 40, so much as to quiet myself to see who and what I already am.
"The Back 40" is also a tongue-in-cheek reference to my home, a ranch in northeastern Wyoming. Here, life is lived differently than in the city, or even in the town 40 miles away. I hope to explore that a little through this blog, and to reflect on the lessons this place has to teach me. I've spent my entire day here, having returned from a Denver weekend yesterday, so that the city girl in me could be satisfied. This ranch is a good place to spend a birthday . . . . this morning, I walked across dry, brittle grasses, through leafless cottonwood trees . . . .winter is coming, and the land is in the final stages of its annual death. It's good for me, turning 40, to reflect on the mortality of all life, a mortality we confront each day here. While the rest of the world is decorating in festive reds and greens, tying bows on packages and searching the Internet for Cyber Monday deals, I've left my orange and gold autumn decorations up. I want to look at the beauty of fullness, of the last glow of a life well lived.
In a while, I will have to leave the ranch, to travel to the vet clinic and pick up my old dog, Max. He was kicked in the head by a young gelding yesterday, and my oldest daughters had to take him to the vet. He'll probably lose sight in his eye. It saddens and humbles me, knowing that he was fine one moment, then seriously injured the next. But this, above all, is the lesson I need today: that, despite all the planning and building, despite preparations, goals, and to-do lists, life just happens. I'm not in control. Here in the Back 40, I have to learn to take life as it comes.
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