The Call

The phone rang just after midnight.  Phone calls in the middle of the night are never good at our house. It usually means that a cow is out and needs to be put back where it belongs.  Most of the time, you get there to discover it is not even your cow, but instead your neighbor's.  Since you are already awake and there, you do the neighborly thing and return the lost animal to its proper place.

That phone call two years ago changed our lives.  It was the news that there had been a fire and James was dead.  James was a young cowboy that had worked for us for many years and was like a son to us.  Things seemed to be in slow motion and each second painfully lasted a full minute which made everything blurred and surreal.  Grasping to process it all and at the same time searching mentally for a place to retreat and make it all go away.

We found out in the darkness of night and there was no way to go back to sleep with the world crashing down around us.  I remember being on the front porch, coffee in hand and seeing the sun come up that morning.  How dare the sun rise.  Did it not get the memo that the world was to stand still?  I went to get another cup of coffee and returned to the porch.  It was a beautiful sunrise and the sun seemed closer than normal.  I realized it was a clear message that life for the rest of us goes on.  It may be painful and hard at first, but it must go on.

He was too young to die and had too much ahead of him, we reasoned over and over.  The feeling of loss was overwhelming, especially for Ed. They spent more time together every day than Ed and I did as husband and wife. Both were private and quiet, but together they shared things as they rode pens and worked cattle.  Ed loved James and wanted the best for him, teaching him things and helping him mature.  Just like the ground work on a young colt, James was being slowly groomed, bridled and refined.  Amazing what a loving hand and a kind word can do to a wild thing.  James was really starting to come into his own and become a man.

Because James was not our real son, it was awkward to let him go back to his family that were genetically linked to him.  I did not like the idea of his body being so far away from us, but I kept reminding myself of the importance of family and that James was gone...this was just the earthly remains.  What we had with him was real and lasting...transcending DNA...the family that you deliberately choose.

For over a year, we could not escape that feeling that James would be just around the corner waiting to surprise us.  We saw him everywhere.  He was at the feedyard, the horse barn, the arena, the round pen, the open pasture with the cattle, and the horse sale.  I longed to see his shy expressions, hear him excitedly describe a horse with more words than he would use for the rest of the week, or laugh at a cowboy who just got bucked off in the sale ring who just moments before described the horse as bomb proof. 

We speak of James quite often.  We have come to place of acceptance, remembering the good times and laughing with fondness.  Choosing again and again to celebrate his life and the time we had with him.  To celebrate that relationships that we have make us better in the end and that family means a forged bond not just blood.

James is gone but part of him remains with us....in every horse and in every pasture.

O Christmas Tree

At my grandmother's house, the signal that the holiday season was upon us meant plugging in the snow capped ceramic Christmas tree with colored lights. It sat on top of a large toaster oven in the corner of her dining room. Year round. That was it. I lamented even as a small child how sad and pitiful it was that she didn't do more

While I realize that some stores put out Christmas decorations in July, I have always felt it was disrespectful to the Thanksgiving holiday to not wait until the day after to hose down the house with all things celebrating the birth of Sweet Infant Baby Jesus.  This year I am not even sure where we are going to be for Christmas Day so I am reluctant to even think about my usual five decorated trees and four nativities.  It is a whole lot of work and I don't need one more thing to pack....and I don't have the time.  I really don't.

I wrestle with the question of how it will effect my Christmas spirit if I don't go all out like normal.  Is playing Elvis' Blue Christmas album and the concession of one tree enough?  It is hard to suppress my inner Martha Stewart and not make every square inch of my home scream Christmas. 

I admit it.  I bought into this commercialization of the infant savior's birth a long time ago.  Hook, line, and sinker.  I actually enjoy the decorating and embrace the creativity that comes with it....but really...what is this holiday really about?  Is baby Jesus displeased with us for not lighting things up so they can be seen from space?  Would He be happy about the hours spent decorating everything that will stand still?  Is the purpose of it all killing yourself trying to find the holy grail of gifts for each person you've ever met?

Maybe this year, in honor of simplicity....in honor of my grandmother...in honor of the true meaning of Christmas I will focus on the things that would please Sweet Infant Baby Jesus and let go of (most) all the superficial, commercial, meaningless decorations.  Just this year.  Maybe.  Okay...maybe just one tree.

I'm still playing my Elvis music...."I'll have a blue Christmas without you"...cause Christmas is not Christmas without the King...both of them!

One Moon At A Time

The sun came up today....as it does every day.  Before the sun made its grand appearance, the sky was lit up by the full moon.  It was beautiful and commanded my undivided attention for a whole minute.  Just so you know...a full minute is impressive by today's standards.  A full sixty seconds of silence, being motionless, and appreciating the beauty of the moon and what it did to the sky around it.  Not wishing it away to usher in the sun, but appreciating it in that moment.  Stunning.

It never fails, lately when I go into town I encounter at least one person who says "Have you moved yet?"  It is the same irksome feeling as when I was heavy pregnant in my last month and people would bug out their eyes when they saw you and asked "You haven't had that baby yet?"  You struggle to be polite but silently you scream on the inside.  You reason they are just making conversation and are not privy to the constant ticking clock inside your head.  You hear it so loudly...that clock ticking...it wears on your nerves.  Painfully aware of what all needs to be done within a roughly estimated time frame.  A time not yet revealed...the suspense of when has worn me out.

OK...so I am a control freak.  A planner.  A list maker.  A doer.  Asking me to stand still and be patient is not in my bag of tricks. My internal wiring is at constant conflict with this whole process.  I hate those things in life that are out of my control.  Things I have to wait and let happen on their own...or worse yet...are in the hands of somebody else.

I walk from room to room looking at our stuff knowing that what we have will not fit where we are going.  Editing what stays and what goes.  I have relinquished a large amount of things already.  Mentally it was easy to rationalize and let go...but the physical act of packing it and handing it over...actually letting go...was a small struggle.  I did it...I'm glad I did it...and I'll be glad when I can stop doing it...even if it means it's all gone.

Always having a song to sing at any given moment, I find myself going back to "One day at a time sweet Jesus."  OK....so I change it to Sweet Infant Jesus when I sing it.  Keep reminding myself that I am only required to do this one day at a time.  Each day trying to enjoy still being where I am....cause I do love where I live and am in no hurry to leave just yet.  Trying to embrace the changes...all of them.  Trying to come to terms with not being in control. 

Then I burst out into song again, "I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night..."

The First Proposal

It was the fall of 1999 and we were on our way to compete in the Permian Basin Ranch Rodeo in Odessa, Texas.  Somewhere outside of Midland, one of the tires on the trailer we were pulling behind Ed's truck had a blow out.

You can't change a tire on a trailer without first unloading the horses, so there I was holding three horses in the median of Interstate 20 with Ed trying to replace the tire.  Three horses that may or may not get along well.  Cars zipping past us on both sides.  I looked around at the terminally flat desolate horizon.  There were no trees.....nothing green...just shades of grey with giant tumbleweeds dotting the landscape.  It was hopelessly ugly to me. 

Shortly after the jack broke and the whole process became extended, Ed looks over at me grinning.  Without stopping his work, he asks me to marry him.  In the middle of I-20...holding three horses.  This was his first of three proposals he would make.  I told him as long as he promised to never make me live in Midland, Texas...yes, I would marry him.

We finally get to the fairgrounds where the rodeo was held.  Ed's parents drove there to watch their sons compete in the rodeo and meet me for the first time. Big Ed (Ed's dad) sits off quietly to himself to focus on the rodeo and not be distracted by all the chatter.  His mama sits next to me in the stands so she can size up this woman her son is dating.  Getting straight to the point, she asks me if I wear a uniform at work.  I tried to explain that my job at the casino didn't have a uniform but I wore nice clothes, especially when I went to court. She looks at me puzzled as asks, "Court?  Why would the girl who swings on the trapeze and rings the bell with her toes need to go to court?" 

This has to be one of rare times I was ever momentarily speechless.  Whoa.  I do what?  And who told you this?  Ed has a seriously twisted sense of humor which I enjoy when I am not at the center of it.  Over the next couple of hours we separated fact from fiction and I got my first glimpse into Ed's childhood.  Good bonding time with my mother-in-law to be. 

It was a weekend full of firsts...first rodeo I watched Ed compete in, first time to meet his parents, his first proposal.....and...the first time that I heard I swung from a trapeze and rang a bell with my toes.

Be

For eight years I was a full time mom at home with my children.  Twenty-four hours a day seven days a week without fail or much help.  My husband and I agreed that it was important for us to raise our children this way, and we were fortunate to be in a position where it was possible.  Although I was dedicated to the task and considered it a privilege to be able to stay at home with my girls, I often felt as though I was doing a job any monkey could do.  I had degrees and years of work experience that were not being utilized and I craved adult conversations.  I missed the mental and intellectual stimulation that quite frankly Dora just can't provide. 

Confession:  I hate Swiper, back packs, and maps.  Still.

It was the first day of school for my youngest daughter. That day would be the first day that both kids were in school and I would be alone.  Alone.  I couldn't wait to rush home and pee all by myself without anybody standing there asking questions.  No fingers wiggling under the space of the locked door pleading for something.  It was going to be my time to figure out who I am again too.  No longer just the maker of peanut butter sandwiches, doer of laundry removing mysterious stains, and finder of all things lost.

In the hallways of the school there were tearful mothers who now felt incomplete when parting with their child, like half of them literally had been removed and they were forced to leave without it.  Muttering how sad they were and they couldn't believe this time was here so soon.  Then there were the children who clung to their mothers with what can only be described as a death grip.  Wrapped firmly around the mother's leg and she struggled with trying to walk with the dead weight.  The children pleading for their mothers not to leave them there like school was a war crimes camp from which no one ever returned. 

There I was doing a touch down dance end zone style outside the school.  A victory celebration of spiking an imaginary football that signified that I had been there 24/7, had willingly sacrificed it all and left nothing on the field...exhausted and triumphant...and still managed to have some of my mind left!  Can I get an amen?!!

It's true...I was not like the other mothers that day.  I was not crying or reluctant to let go.  Neither was Sophie.  Self confident, happy, and ready to face whatever might be.  She did not look back or even give it a second thought.  I was proud.  My girls were what they were supposed to be.  What I had helped make them be.  I know they will both be fine no matter what comes their way and face the world passionately, finding their rightful place in it no doubt. 

Message to my children:  I have been there this whole time holding your hand.  I am still there.  I will always be there.

A Time To Heal

The last week has not been a long clean hair flowing in the wind, make up on, dressed up nice kinda week.  It has been about going down to the barn every day twice a day to doctor on my colt. 

This horse is special to me (confession:  they all are special) because I've been the one to work with him. Daily trips to the barn to halter him, lead him around, picking up his feet, and placing blankets on his back that will be replaced with a saddle. These rituals of exposing him to these things make him gentle and much easier to break to ride. Shotgun has always been easy. He wants to please and prefers the company of people to other horses. A true gem.

Horses are like kids, they hurt themselves and sometimes you're not sure how they did it.  You just notice the injury and then dedicate yourself to the mending process.  Horses heal from the inside out so it is very important to not let the outside scab over and the inside fester.  A wound takes time, patience, and dedication.  You take a water hose and spray the area for twenty minutes to clean it and draw the blood back to the surface.  You have to forcefully spray the water too, to get the circulation going.  In the end, you're soaking wet and muddy...so is everything else.  This is not an event you get dressed up for and since there are no bonus points awarded for appearance, practical is best.

The entire time I've spent with Shotgun to help him heal, he has stood there like a true gentlemen.  He doesn't give me any problems...just returned love and appreciation.  I wish they all could be this easy.  During this extensive quality time, it occurred to me that people should be no different.  We should daily expose ourselves to the things that build our character so they are customary, put into practice good habits til they become second nature.  We should also learn to heal from the inside out and not let things fester.   File it under "life is too short" or Tourette's, but honesty is usually the best policy.  Get it all out there...drawing it to the surface; get over it.....let it heal properly and not sabatoge potential progress with infection; and get on with it...don't make it hard when it doesn't have to be. 

I am always amazed at what I lessons I learn at the barn.

To everything there is a season...and a time to every purpose under heaven. 

The Veteran

I was on my way back to Alva from taking my six year old daughter, Sophie, to a doctor appointment in Enid.   As is my custom, I stopped to gas up at the usual place on the edge of town - very nice, clean, big bathrooms and usually has the cheapest gas.  It seems as I get older the more obsessed I am about finding the lowest priced gasoline.

Always trying to be aware of my surroundings, I noticed an old man next to me putting gas in his car.  He had to be a 100.  I observed him slightly bent over and wearing clothes that old men wear with dark sensible shoes.  He was also wearing a ball cap with the Marine eagle/anchor on it.  His license plate noted that he was a veteran and was awarded a purple heart.

Over whelmed by emotion and compelled by my heart, I stopped washing my windows for a minute and approached him. I stuck out my hand and said "Sir, I don't know you, but I see you proudly served our country and I just want to tell you thank you and I appreciate your sacrifice."

He gently took my hand and then grasped the other side of it with his other hand. You can tell a lot about people by their hands and as I looked down at his...old, wrinkled and worn, but not worn out completely...I was wondering if he even heard me as old as he was.  He studied my face for a full minute and then he spoke. He told me he hadn't heard that in a long time and thanked me. I told him no thanks was needed on his part and further added that our great country was built by the blood, sweat, and tears of good men like him and we owe them a huge debt of gratitude. He just smiled an old man smile and tilted his head to the side and said "that's good to know." He seemed half choked up when he said it and I could have sworn there was much more he wanted to say...which I would have gladly listened to.   He straightened his posture, held his head high and managed a solid, dignified "Semper Fi" and then slowly turned around and got back into his car.

When I returned to my car, Sophie asked who that old man was that I was talking to. I told her he was an American hero. She looked at me funny, crinkled her nose up, and then wanted to know if he could fly....I told her "I think so."

Left At The Alter

Sitting in the parking lot of Monjunni's restaurant in Bossier City, Louisiana, Ed handed me a credit card and said "I want a ring on your second left finger by the end of next week."  My eyes widened as I stared at the plastic card.  How much can I spend, I asked?  He said he was only buying one ring and to "knock myself out."  There was also the explanation that I was terribly picky and he wanted me to be thrilled with a ring that signified our union.  It doesn't get any more romantic than that I tell you.

A short five months later, I came down the aisle like a grown woman with a purpose, not like a child bride playing dress up.  There was organ music playing and I noticed the fifty people who were kind and crazy enough to come to a remote location to bear witness to it all.  At the end of my path, there was the man I was going to marry.  After facing Ed at the front of the church, my hands touched his and I felt my beautiful ring on the end of his finger.  That warm and fuzzy feeling lasted about thirty seconds before a feeling of panic took over.  I did not have his ring with me.  I knew right where I had left...on the stairs where I was hiding out before the wedding. 

The groom's ring belonged to my grandfather.  He was a man who was the strong silent type.  Robust with moral character and deeply private.  Ed shares a lot of characteristics with this man and it seemed more than fitting that I should use his ring in our ceremony. 

It was a split second reaction which took what seemed like an eternity in my head.  I could either fake the part of the ceremony with the exchanging of rings, or I could take 60 seconds to make it right.  I don't fake things and pride myself on always being real. There was only one choice to make.   I looked at the preacher and softly whispered...."pardon me, I forgot something."  With that and no more, I was headed back down the aisle to collect the ring from the place I left it.  Ed turns to watch me leave and yells "are you coming back?"  I could hear my mother lean over to explain "she probably just has to pee."  I snatched up the sentimental gold band and marched rapidly back down the aisle with the organist trying to keep up with my quickened pace for the second time.  I joined Ed back at the alter and told the preacher "you may proceed."

Ed loves to tell people I left him at the alter....but not as much as he loves to tell them I came back.

 

Full Circle

Nothing really prepares you emotionally for the birth of your child.  You can read countless books that describe every minute detail and scenario, watch TV programs that show women graphically giving birth, or be in the room with a friend and witness it all first hand....but until it is you...you really have no idea.

When the nurse brought my daughter to me that first night to stay with me in the room, she was all wadded up in a blanket a mile long.  Just a small part of her face was peeking out.  I carefully unwrapped her like a special treasure that was fragile and rare.  This baby girl was mine and she would not be spending the night in a cold plastic nursery bassinet alone in a room full of stranger babies.  I wanted to see the tiny toes and count the little fingers.  To marvel at what I had created that was no longer inside me but out in the world...and in my arms.

I spent the whole night gazing at her and singing to her.  I sang Elvis, Patsy Cline, gospel music, You Are My Sunshine, and countless songs from the 80's.  I think I sang so I wouldn't fall asleep.  As tired as I was, I wanted the moment to last as long as possible.  So, I sang...nursed...and studied my child. 

Staring at the dark eyes of this child and the insane mop of inky dark hair on her head, I beamed with pride.  It was starting to wash over me in waves.  I realized that the torch had been passed. The circle was moving and I had a new role.  I was no longer a child of my mother's...I was a mother to this child.  In that moment I gained a new appreciation for the sacrifices my mother had made for me.  Grasping completely and instantly what this new role meant.

Then the waves crashed again.  Driving deeper still this time.  All this love I felt for this child...all the responsibility...my pride and joy...this creation lovingly knit and nourished in my body....knowing that no matter what she ever would do or say....that I loved her unconditionally.  It struck me hard....this is the same love that our heavenly Father has for each one of us.   I am His pride and joy.   He knit me together so carefully and knew me before anybody else.  That He still loves me even though I am not perfect and have run away from Him from time to time. I can lash out all I want to and He is still right there with a love that is abundant. I am His child and He loves me unconditionally.

It was a full circle moment.  Washed away in love.

Quiet Your Mind

Sunday was not a day of rest.  Ed took the day off from his regular work at the feedyard (this never ever happens) and he and the girls went for doughnuts first thing.  I got a whole bag of doughnut holes to myself and enjoyed the moment with creamer and splash of coffee.  Then we set about cleaning the horse barn and the tack room where we store the saddles, blankets, and other riding equipment.  It was time for the task any way and would help with putting a best foot forward with listing the house on the market, making sure things are tidy and neat.

What an odd feeling this is, having a house for sale.  People you don't know coming into your home and making judgements about you based off of what they see.  We are quiet, private people and have escaped this examination up to this point.  I feel violated like I've been striped naked and forced to walk down the freezer section of Wal-Mart. My nerves are raw and exposed.  I am a little concerned to write or speak, feeling like too much has all ready been revealed.  My obsessive compulsive disorder is at an all time high as you can imagine.  I have worn myself out stalking the house inside and out with a discerning eye, looking for any imperfections.  It is the Salem witch hunt of cleaning expeditions. 

While we were at the barn clearing cobwebs and organizing, I thought it was a good time to groom some of the horses.  This is one of my fondest ways to release stress.  Ed knows this and kindly did not say a word about me leaving him with the rest of the cleaning.  I set about combing out manes and tails carefully like they are tender headed children, brushing off fuzzy coats that are thickening for the winter, oiling hooves that are dry and cracking from drought conditions.  Something about pressing your face into the neck of a horse and breathing in that wonderful smell sets the world back on its axis.  Each horse lightened the mental load. 

In between grooming horses, I noticed the girls were riding their new horses in the arena.  Smiles on their faces and practicing their stops, spins, and patterns.  So confident and totally content in the moment.  Not worried about what changes lie ahead or over analyzing what it all means. 

Everything is happening so quickly it is almost blurred.  I reach out to grasp it...to stop it....and it is already gone.  Instinctively I feel the need to hurry my pace...to catch up...struggling with doing it all or getting it all done.  A quiet voice within hushes me and tells me to be still.  Conflicted, I consider both options.  At the barn I chose to be still.  Just for a little bit and in my own way.  Returning to the ways of a child and allowing myself to be in the moment. 

Quiet your mind.  Soak it all in.  It's a game you can't win.  Enjoy the ride.

He's A Peach

Some horses take a long time to earn a name, but one big headed gray horse got his name the day we bought him and brought him home. A soon as the horse was unloaded, James, a young cowboy who was like a son to us and expert in the ways of horses, immediately crawled on him and rode off. When they showed back up James was grinning ear to ear and I asked the guru of horses what his opinion was. Without hesitation, he declared that "He's a peach." So, Peaches it was. James had nailed it perfectly. 

My family argued often over who was going to ride Peaches and James even commandeered him quite a bit.  He didn't know he was big and still got around quickly and with authority. It was his personality that we all adored too.  He loved his people and enjoyed us as much as we enjoyed him. 

Much of this past weekend was spent doing what my family loves to do. Just being on a horse can make anything worth doing for them. There was a ranch horse competition close by and we spent the better part of two days watching and performing.  When I arrived at the fairgrounds early Saturday morning, Ed was unloading the horses.  There was a stout dark gray one with a huge head among them.  My eyes widened with surprise and my heart leapt for joy.  It was Peaches.  I was told that Peaches was "going to live on that big ranch in the sky where he'd always have food and be happy" this week, so him being there was a shock.  A pleasant one. 

After seven months of being kicked out to pasture, Ed wanted to try Peaches in the ranch horse competition one more time before committing him to his fate. They competed, and despite a flawed performance, they qualified to go to the finals in Abilene in May. More importantly, Peaches didn't look to be in any discomfort and I think he enjoyed himself too. I don't know how long this will last, but I do know that any more time we can spend with Peaches is better than no time at all.

Although he is a family favorite, at the young age of four he has issues that make him unable to be used for work and these issues will not get any better despite expensive injections.  He's big, he eats a lot (you can graze up to four cows for every one horse), and keeping a horse is not a cheap proposition.  You especially can't ask an animal to live in pain with no hope.  From my short time in this world, I can reason all that in my head but my heart still feels what it wants to.  It's hard to let go when it is time. Hard to not hold on and be selfish.

Fingers crossed, hopeful heart, and prayers said.  You will have to excuse me now, I have to go down to the barn.  A big headed gray horse is waiting for me.

Wants and Needs

Days rip off the calender like a tornado is bearing down on them.  Before you know it, Christmas will be here and we will be moving to the ranch. In complete, brutal honesty, as excited as I am about our new adventure, I am not crazy about leaving my house behind.  We built this house four years ago and a lot of love went into choosing each thing in it.  More than just walls and roof, it has been home.  A place for my family to enjoy our animals and each other.  Even though I know what lies ahead is better than anything we might leave behind, I still love this place. 

Equally disturbing as leaving my home, is packing all the stuff in it.  There is a lot of stuff.  That's right.  Stuff.  Amazing how much you accumulate over time and don't realize it.  It is time to get honest about what we own and let go of things we don't need and don't have room for.  We will be downsizing to about half of what we live in now until we can get a home built.  After watching a couple episodes of that Hoarder's show on A&E, I am extremely motivated to get rid of stuff left and right. 

As I deeply purge these belongings, I am reminded of a saying that my grandfather used all the time.  He was a quiet, methodical, practical man who had a saying for everything.  If ever you were considering a purchase, he would have you briefly pause and answer these questions:  1) I know you want it, but do you really need it?  2) You may think you need it, but can you afford it? (brace yourself...this one is the kicker) 3) Can you live without it?

By the time you had gone through this series of questions, you had reasoned your way out of the purchase most of the time.  In this modern day Babylon of ours there is no want (much less need) that goes unfulfilled.  Worse yet, we don't even have to pay for it, we can just charge it.  Some times, we buy things we think will make us happy or to impress people we don't even like.  There is too much stuff.  Most of us are drowning in stuff.  My grandfather's sage reasoning is softly repeated every time I pick up an item to determine if this is a "need" or a "want."  I hear him urging me to consider living without it. 

Thank you Paw Paw for still being with me and guiding me with love. 

The Shirt Off My Back

When I was single, I had a real job that required wearing nice work clothes. I enjoyed all the closets in my little house being full of my selections from stores that I patronized.  Suits, dresses, shoes, purses, jewelry.  Dressing up to go to work was an event.  When I moved to the ranch these clothes were no longer appropriate for my new environment, but it was hard to let go.  I liked my clothes.  I looked good in my clothes.  They were a part of me I reasoned.  It took time to realize I was not that "me" any more.

I loved to wear linen shirts in the summer.  One day, to make myself feel better, I wore one of my linen shirts I used to wear for court.  It was a nice white one from Talbot's and that night I put it in the laundry basket.  The next day while I was gone running an errand, Ed needed to wash something and shoved the whole contents of the laundry basket in the washer and then the dryer...without sorting for color or removing the "hang to dry only."  I acknowledge this is a cerebral task that escapes some folks.  I came home and Ed happily announced he had done the laundry.  I was in shock and terribly pleased with the news.  Until I started to fold the laundry and came across my linen shirt....which was no longer white...or my size.  I told Ed he was forever fired from doing laundry.  He smiled and agreed quickly.  Best $90 ever wasted on a shirt got him fired permanently from a chore he hated.  Well played.

A year later, Ed was desperate for help...and by help I clearly mean a warm body.  Although I had never been asked to do "cowboy" work, he was instructing me to take his truck and trailer loaded with cattle from one pasture to another.  ME.  Lord, what was he thinking? He was very re-assuring about how easy it was all going to be.  I climbed in the Ford truck whose color was obscured by dirt and the floorboards were littered with empty Levi Garrett bags, honey bun wrappers, and God knows what else.  I had never driven a truck and it was a big, dirty truck.  I had never hauled a trailer...with or without cows.  I was getting good at being out of my element.  I went to put the truck in gear and I noticed the sleeve of my shirt.  My linen shirt.  With a smile, I drove that truck right down the drive way to the destination ahead.  I did.  I drove right over the mail box on the way out too.  Uh huh.  I was promptly fired from my new job and banned for life from ever driving his truck and trailer.  That's right, no more moving cattle for me.  Best $55 ever spent on a replacement mailbox.

Confucious say "he who rolls up his sleeves seldom loses his shirt."

Dun is Dun

When introduced to new things, you feel compelled to learn about it as much as you can. You want to be knowledgeable so you don't feel stupid and out of place.  There are certain safety reasons too...like never walk behind a horse you don't know.

Ed and I went to a high dollar horse sale in Fort Worth, Texas.  It was my very first horse sale and I was actually excited about it.  I sat there studying the catalog of several hundred horses that listed each one with the important information: registered name, year model, gender, color, brief description and pedigree.  Some people like a certain "line" of horses thinking that they pass certain traits onto their offspring that they find desirable.  Reminded me of the Daughters of the American Revolution who recognized my classmates for tracing their genealogy back to the birth of our country.  Looking up from the Sears and Roebuck of horse listings, there was the first horse in the ring.  The color of Jiff creamy peanut butter, he was a big, sturdy animal who was groomed like he was going to the prom.  I wondered if he was a Tea Party horse.  I leaned over and asked Ed "what kind of horse is that?"  Without even looking at me, he said "It's a dun."  That wasn't enough of an answer for my inquiring mind, so I pressed, "what makes it a dun?" Ed turned to face me and flatly said "A dun is a dun." 

I sat there shaking my head and silently scowling.  Funny when something has been with you all your life you just know it.  It just is and requires no explanation.  Dun is dun.  Got it.  Being who I am, however, I leaned over to the other side of me and pestered that guy asking him the same question.  He gave me a nice explanation of "dun refers to the color of the horse which can range from sandy yellow to reddish brown and has the tale-tell darker dorsal stripe."  He then went on to discuss the darker shading on the points and darker mane and tail.  Wow.  A real answer.  I liked it. 

Over the next couple of months I asked more questions about horses and cows.   They were all met with brief responses.  Simmental cattle suck.  They just do.  Finally irritated with my husband's lack of enthusiasm about my attempt to learn more about his world, I asked him what his problem was.  He didn't have a problem he explained, he just didn't expect or require me to lose myself in these things.  He had fallen in love with me for who I was and changing was not required on my part.  He was allowing me to stay "me."  I was deeply touched by this after much reflection.  This explains why I still wear flip flops to rodeos.  I just gotta be me.

About a year after I married Ed, we bought a new place in Oklahoma and sold the Texas ranch.  It was not hard to say goodbye to caliche dust roads, neighbor's Sasquatch bulls, or the drought.  Ed went ahead to Oklahoma while I wrapped up the packing in Texas.  Without selling a horse, I had paid for new carpet in the ranch house we'd be moving into and they were installing it before I was to move there with the furniture.  There was one giant room in the house that had berber carpet that was still in good condition and not shag burnt orange.  I didn't want to be wasteful, but it couldn't stay because it wouldn't match.  Matching is a Southern commandment ingrained into us as small children. I left explicit instructions that the berber be saved when removed so we could put it in the office. The carpet guys arrived and set about their work.  Ed called me and wanted to know which carpet was supposed to be recycled, to which I replied "the berber carpet."  The phone was briefly silent.  Ed then asked "which one is Berber?"  I couldn't help myself..."If dun is dun...then berber is berber."

The Tale of Two Lucilles

My grandmothers were both named Lucille. They were larger than life, each in their own way.  I spent a lot of time with them as a child and they taught me many things that shaped who I am today.  Most of my skills in areas of cooking, sewing, gardening, and just living life were their years of experience passed onto me.  There were many hours of patiently shelling peas sitting on the cold concrete steps of the back porch while drinking sweet tea, walking through dirt path garden rows explaining what was ready to pick so we could can some chow chow, and pointing to trees, shrubs, and flowers pausing to provide the proper names. 

My mom's mom lived on a farm with my grandfather.  She often referred to this as the happiest time in her life.  They sold the farm and moved to town shortly after I was born so I have no memory of this place, only a few faded pictures remain.  When she was in later stages of Alzheimer's and still able to speak, she had reverted back to this era and was happy again to be back in the company of my grandfather and the cows.  She would put Martha Stewart to shame flocking her own Christmas trees, cooking foreign cuisine, and could slip cover anything if it stood still long enough.  Sometimes, when the wind is whistling around my house, I can hear her laugh that I have come full circle to back to where she is.

My dad's mom was a force to be reckoned with.  Some of my favorite memories with her are going to "town" to the feed store to buy fabric that matched to cut squares and make quilt blocks. We would sit for hours with the radio playing just stitching these small pieces of fabric together.  I would hand her my quilt block for inspection of the stitches. Were they small and straight enough to suit her? If they didn't make the cut she would take out her small scissors and remove my thread and tell me sternly to "lick the calf over." There was no getting by.  When you got in trouble with her you got to cut your own branch from the weeping willow tree out front for her to swat you with, or if you were really bad she threatened you with the old man that came by and collected "the bad children."  What was she supposed to tell him when he knocked at the door?

What I learned from my grandmothers:

1) Life is too short to lie about it.  Call it Tourette's or just not having much of a filter, but you never worried where she stood on an issue or what she thought about anything.  Like a deep sense of trust between people that said "I'm gonna just be me and you just be you."  Even with complete strangers.

2) Be as nice as you can, but don't take any shit off of anybody.  This advice was given to me on the morning of my grandfather's funeral after 50+ years of  marriage when considering whom to marry and what to do to ensure a long union.  After a brief pause she added "and always have a little something put back that he doesn't know about."

3) Never trust anybody that says "trust me."  It's true.  Just is.

4) Pretty is as pretty does.  How you act is just as important, if not more so, than how you present yourself.  Play nice also was verbally thrown around...which I always considered the same thing. 

5) (when faced with a failed dessert) Cool Whip covers a multitude of sins.  That cake recipe off the side of the can that she decided to be brave and try...with the cratered center cause it didn't turn out right...still tasted good and nobody was the wiser when Cool Whip came to the rescue.  Same applies to life I found out...be brave, try it, if it doesn't quite work out, then drown it in something pretty and go on with your bad self.

6) When all else fails...Let's cut up and act silly.  Both Lucilles knew how to laugh.  At most things.  Even somethings that were considered inappropriate to laugh at.  They didn't care.  They lived.  They laughed.  They loved.  Fearlessly.

The New Frontier

Frontier is a word used to describe a region at the edge of a settled area.  It is a transition zone where explorers, pioneers, and settlers were arriving.  As pioneers moved into the "frontier zone" they were changed by the encounter and were offered the psychological sense of unlimited opportunity.  

Some people stay in one place all their lives.  Both physically and mentally. Never exploring new things and never getting outside their comfort zone.  Roots can be a wonderful thing.  They anchor and ground you, giving you a sense of security and contentment.  Everything is familiar and safe.

Then there are the gypsies.  Those people who don't seem to stay in one place for very long.  Always longing  to take more in of what life has to offer.  Different is not bad or scary...it is to be fully explored and appreciated.  The discoveries become a part of you leaving you changed, hopefully for the better.  Traveling frequently means being honest about what you own. Keep your load light - only what is important and necessary makes the cut.  

Many times over the last decade I found myself staring at the reflecting image in the mirror and asking "who are you?"  I no longer see the young woman I once was...inside or out.  Up until I married Ed there was not a spontaneous bone in my body.  I liked roots, routine, the familiar.  My wedding marked the turning point.  It was time to grow wings and discover what else was out there.  Let go of all I knew, step out in faith, and be determined to enjoy the journey.  My newest frontier awaits, and I accept that there are many more frontiers ahead.  Each offering new opportunities for personal growth. I have learned to keep my load light and embrace the changes.  My motto has been "bloom where you are planted."  You can be as happy or as miserable as you are determined to be.  

The next frontier for my family is on the horizon.  It takes the shape of a ranch north and west of where we live now.  Located outside of a ghost town and the closest gas station, grocery store, or school for my girls is 30 miles away down dirt roads.  No neighbors to be heard or seen.  Surrounded by land.  Heaven to some and hell to others.  What do we miss when we refuse to explore these new frontiers?  Are we too busy hanging on to what has been to see what lies ahead?  What do we sacrifice to leave?  What do we sacrifice to stay?   What is important enough to take with us?  Will we bloom and thrive where we are planted or wilt and die because we were unwilling to adapt and grow?

For each new frontier, the responses are as different as the person giving it...yet the answer to each one lies within us.  

The Forecast

I remember being at a county fair as a small child and getting a snow cone at a concession stand that backed up to a rodeo arena.  While I was waiting, I peeked around the corner and saw lots of activity in the arena, none of which stands out.  However, the music that was playing has been etched firmly in my memory.  Waylon Jennings telling us that we should get back "to the basics of life" in a place I'd never heard of called Luckenbach, Texas.  I liked the way he growled out the song and the lyrics evoked an overall cowboy feeling.  Cowboy as I understood it at that time.

Fast forward about two and half decades.  Ed tells me he got us tickets to go to a rodeo in Wichita Falls, Texas.  It's a real ranch rodeo he explains and the men in it actually work with cattle and ride horses for a living.  They weren't just playing dress up.   How odd, I thought.  Real live cowboys.  I looked at him like he had said pirates....real live pirates.  Arghhh.  Those are things you read about in books and see recreated in movies, but do you mean to tell me there are still real cowboys?  Ed was probably in disbelief that I was in disbelief.

Before the events of the rodeo began, a group of riders on horseback came out with the Texas state flag and the flag of the United States of America. The national anthem was sung and I looked around at the people that were there.  They looked like the men at the sale barn did.  Good people who loved their country, led a respectful way of life taking care of what had been entrusted to them, and were God fearing.  They announced it was time to offer up a prayer.  Deeply bowed heads, hats removed and placed over chest, eyes closed or staring at the ground.   I noticed I was the only one wearing flip flops...really cute flip flops.  It was a pretty standard prayer until they got to the end and made what I thought was an odd request.  They prayed for rain.  Rain.  That wet stuff that fell out of the sky every other day where I lived whether you wanted it to or not.  For me it meant I had to wash my car, mow my grass more often, and I couldn't go outside.  I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  When I heard the Amen, I turned to ask Ed why would people pray for rain.  He patiently explained that this part of the country was in a bad drought.  People, crops, and animals were all hurting and rain was badly needed.  If it didn't rain there would be no crops to sell and no food for the animals to eat.  They would die or have to be sold off.  Too many cattle sold at one time floods the market and they sell cheaply, which leaves the ranchers broke and possibly unable to try again next year.  Too many cows sold at once creates a shortage later and the cost goes through the roof at the store.

Rain meant life.  Life for the crops, life for the animals, and a continued way of life for the people who tried to keep this delicate circle going.  I would never look at the weather the same way.  I had no idea what was hanging in the balance.  That everything that you do and own hinges on rain and the weather.  Prior to this point in my life I had never thought about where my food came from.  I went to the store, I bought it, I took it home, and I ate it.  Period.  How it got there had not been part of my thought process.  I had been so completely ignorant and now it is part of my daily reality. 

Pausing today and everyday with hands out stretched, head reverently bowed and eyes closed.  Dear Heavenly Father, Thank you for this honest way of life where we do not take for granted Your many blessings.  The sunrise, the wheat crop, the animals You've entrusted to our care, our families, and Your son, sweet infant baby Jesus.  Please send us rain Father, so that this circle will not be broken.  Amen.

Isn't It Romantic

It was our one year anniversary of marriage and Ed was bound for a horse sale two states away.  I could not go with him because I was big fat pregnant and my nonexistent bladder would be counter productive to traveling in a timely manner.  There is no glamorous way to describe the last trimester.  There just isn't.  Ed going alone to a horse sale can be dangerous.  He buys horses like I buy shoes.  He may take two horses to the sale and come home with five.  With no supervision, I was concerned.

When he pulled back into the ranch with a trailer full of horses, I was not surprised.  I stood there counting as he unloaded them.  I stopped counting when a small grey mare backed out.  I grabbed her lead rope and began walking her to her new home.  She was so friendly and sweet, like a big dog.  When I asked Ed about her, he said not to get too attached.  There was a list of reasons:  a) She's a mare. We don't ride mares.  We aren't breeding mares.  She didn't fit in his horse "program." b) He had all ready sold her on the way home sight unseen to his brother.  A deal is deal and there's no crawfishing. c) If I really wanted a horse, he would get me whatever I wanted, but not THIS one.  The wheels were turning in my head.  Reminding him that our anniversary was the next day, I asked what he was planning on getting me.  He stopped and without saying a word flipped out his phone and called his brother to tell him he had not bought a horse. 

Over the next year this mare and I became fast friends.  She would nicker at me whenever she saw me coming out of the house and I enjoyed grooming her.  Ed had named her "Tinkerbell," which was not a compliment.  He didn't like her pedigree, her big head, her small frame...oh...and she was a mare.  When I declared that we needed new carpet at the ranch house, he told me if I sold her I could use the money for the new carpet.  We didn't get new carpet. 

When she turned two it was time to break her to ride if she was going to stay.  She was staying.  Ed was concerned I had made her too much of a pet and she would be indignant when he tried to train her.  He lead her in the round pen and saddled her.  She stood there.  He stepped on her and I held my breath, waiting for it all to be my fault.  She squalled a little, took two steps backwards...then stopped...then walked forward waiting for further instruction.  Ed was shocked she was being so easy.

The breaking of Tinkerbell continued over the next couple of months.  An envelope arrived from the American Quarter Horse Association.  It held the registration papers for Tinkerbell (Tru Truckle).  They were in my name and that made it official...she was MY horse.  The more Ed rode her the more he appreciated her work ethic and her speed.  She became his favorite horse to ride and I started referring to her as "the other woman" when he would buy special bits, elaborate hand braided mecate reins, and dote on her with extra feed.  Some women may object to their husbands having another woman in his life.  This one is okay with me.  I loved her way before he did.

That's No Bull

There were so many adjustments for me to make with my new frontier.  Besides leaving all you've ever known and getting married later in life when you are really good at being single, living on a ranch when you've always been a city folk is not as easy as one might think.

First, you have to adjust to living with a man who has been on his own for quite a while too.  There is his collection of Tupperware lids with no bottoms that you find and negotiate over (throw away).  The oven was stuck at 500 degrees and made a kick ass blackened cobbler...if that's your thing.  Cleaning out the fridge required bleach and an extra long pair of gloves that I later was informed were used to preg check cows.  Ed's brother, Zeke, came through the house right as I was about to tackle the job.  He said "Hey fella, whatcha doing?"  I told him my mission...he asked me to wait a minute...he dragged up a chair, popped the top on a beer and said I could then proceed.  It was a bonding moment as he proved to be a wealth of information on the contents of the fridge.  There were a dozen plates of half used fossilized stick butter, mayo that expired a decade ago, and the dark liquid in the bottom vegetable bin was the lost remainder of the garden from last spring. The dark brown glass bottles in the door I was told is medicine for the animals. In the human refrigerator.

Then there are the animals.  Horses always fascinated me and the brief time I got to ride a sorrel named Jubilee was among my favorite childhood memories.  Horses have personalities just like people.  Some you love and some you'd love to smack with a broom handle (read: strategically placed horse training device).  Repeatedly.  Spending time at the barn grooming the horses became my favorite thing.  It was like good therapy for whatever was wrong.  Let that brush slide over that horse's hip and you felt a release.  Mentally you just let go.  The cows are a different story.  There is really no sign of intelligent life there.  Slobber at one end and processed grass at the other.  Ed tortured me by sending me into a pen of Holstein calves that had been bottle fed and directed me to help move them to another pen.  They come to you like bovine zombies and refuse to cooperate so I started petting them on the head and naming them...Brisket, Burger, Porter House, T Bone, Rump Roast. 

Speaking of cows.  You must overcome a language barrier.  I learned quickly to stop referring to all cattle as cows. Cows are adult females who have had a baby. Cow is a badge of honor..she earns her keep. There are a whole set of vocabulary words to learn and if you don't know them and pronounce them correctly you are ridiculed by people you mistakenly thought of as "simple."  Like chaps, protective leather leggings worn over jeans that Pauly Shore once referred to as cheek chillers.  Pronounced with a "sh" sound.  If you pronounce it with a "ch" sound you are referring only to the cologne made by Ralph Lauren that was popular in the 80's.  Furthermore, a certain breed of cattle known for long ears, being heat tolerant, and have distinctive humps on their necks are "Brammers."  (bray-mur-z) If you say Brahman they look at you like you are impersonating the Queen of England.  That's not good.  When looking at this animal you may feel inspired, as I do, to start singing "My Humps," which also is frowned upon....but I ceased to care what they thought a long time ago.

Being out in the middle of no where should be quiet.  Truth:  it is so quiet that every noise is heard.  The first night I slept on the ranch I awoke to a strange noise that sounded like it was right outside the window.  Completely foreign to me and sounded angry.  The only thing I could think of was sasquatches now roamed Texas.  I woke Ed up and explained my concern about sasquatch neighbors.  The sound happened again.  Ed looks at me and asked me if that was the noise.  I confirmed it was a 'squatch.  He shook his head and explained that sound was coming from the neighbor's bull.  This sound did not resemble any sound that came from my childhood red plastic "See and Say." Ed further explained that the bull was looking for his women...he was lonely.  I laid awake for the rest of night listening to Ed snore and the bull calling out for his women.  Men.

I Found Love At The Grundy County Auction

It all started in Shreveport, Louisiana.  At a sale barn where they sell cattle.  Yes...cattle.  The sale barn was owned by family friends and "Aunt Mary" was looking for someone to help out in the office on Wednesday nights temporarily.  She called me to see if I knew of anybody.  Melrose Place had just ended and although I was single, I had no life.  We struck a deal:  if she would pay me in cheeseburgers and could wait until I got off my real job at the casino, I'd be happy to fill in for three months.

Confession:  I had never seen a cow.  I knew what they looked like and what they should sound like based on my early years with a "See and Say."  The smell was not ideal.  The people who gathered at this sale barn were foreign to me.  They wore work jeans, with cowboy boots, long sleeved snap shirts, cowboy hats, and a general smattering of "organic material" known to come from the south end of a north bound animal.  I was not impressed.  At all.  The men I was used to working with wore custom suits and expensive handmade Italian loafers.   

Slowly over the weeks that I was there, I noticed that these men that I discounted deeply for not being designer clad were truly salt of the earth people.  People who actually work hard and would help anybody who really needed it.  Looks were not important, but your word was everything.  My view had softened.  At the end of the night I was helping a buyer with his tickets.  He was young, polite and seemed shy.  Last one being the biggest lie ever perpetuated.  I asked him what kind of cows he bought, to which he replied the ones that make money.  So, cash cows it is. 

We started talking in August and were married in February.  I didn't need him...but I wanted him.  I didn't want to live another day without him.  He was the first man I looked at and saw having babies with...growing old with...and where didn't matter.  Age thirty was old enough to know what I wanted and not waste time over it.  I quit my good job, sold my little house, packed up my antiques and little yappy dog, and moved to his remote ranch in Texas.  Population 333.  Included the dogs I'm sure.  Directions to my house now included "turn off the paved road."  My momma cried in the drive way the first time she came to see me there.  My friends thought I had lost my mind.  Maybe I had.  I had lost my heart...and my mind followed.