Thawing Out

As a small child growing up in the deep south, snow was a fantasy only revealed once every seven or so years.  Like the mystical unicorn that materializes for fleeting erratic moments to keep the romance alive.  It didn't matter if there was just a dusting or an actual accumulation that could be measured in inches.  School was canceled.  You hustled to put on layers of mismatched clothes to get out in it...to embrace it...to touch the unicorn!  We would not come in for hours, not until there was no feeling left in our little hands and feet.  Wind chapped red faces and raspy breathing, we would only be staying in long enough to thaw out.  Pining to get back outside and complete the biggest snowman out of whatever white stuff could be gathered.

These were the days before I had cows in my life.  You see, there is something about animals that whenever there is a change in the atmospheric pressure their bodies decide "hey, this would be a great time to give birth."  This will be on my list of great mysteries that I save until that day that I get to crawl up in the lap of my Father.  He will lovingly brush my hair out of my face and ask me "child, what is it that you want to know?"

Storm Titan blew through the ranch in the dead of night on the second of March.  It got down to negative nine degrees that night.  There was a thick layer of snow on the ground from the last round of winter storms before this one blew through.  Nights like that I can't sleep.  In the darkness, I curl up into the fetal position and pray fervently over the animals as I listen to the wind howl over and around the house.  Please protect them I ask over and over.

Morning comes.  We hustle to put on layers of clothes covered by insulated coveralls and muck boots.  The diesel truck is loud but the crunching snow and ice under the tires is louder.  We have to put out hay because all their normal food is covered up by white stuff.  We have to break the ice in the water tanks so these lactating mommas can stay hydrated to make milk for their babies.  When it is nine degrees you hope the whole tank isn't frozen solid.  

We stop to cut the netting off the hay bale and my eyes start darting from cow to cow.  Noting which have had babies, if their babies were with them, do their bags look like they've been sucked.  The cows that just had babies are off at a distance....as is their custom.  They go off by themselves to give birth.  I see a white faced cow by herself.  Her big black calf laying there at her feet.  He is frozen solid.  She had him in the dead of night and she couldn't get him up and cleaned off fast enough.  He stuck to the ground and there was nothing she could do to get him up.  So he froze to death as she watched.

She saw us putting out the hay.  She was hungry.  Her maternal instincts were stronger.  She would not leave her baby.  Tears welled up in both my eyes and were about to spill over onto my checks.  I turned to hide my head and walked to the other side of the truck.  I wanted to hide the shame of my tears.  Kept telling myself to suck it up, this is life, this is what happens when you have cows....but my tender mother's heart was broken for my white face cow.  

We saw another cow a little further out who looked to have a new baby stashed under the cedar tree.  She would not leave her baby to come eat either, so we took some hay to her.  Her calf was black with a white face.  His black patches around his eyes made him look more like a panda bear than cow.  This momma loved her baby and wanted to take care of it, but it was obvious he hadn't eaten yet even though he was a couple hours old.  Ed jumped out of the truck and ripped the calf off of the ground.  He was starting to freeze to the ground and frost bite was evident on his tail and ears.  Ed shoved him in the front seat with me and I held him all the way to the cabin.  I studied his white eyelashes and deep dark eyes while holding onto the soft damp fur his mama had cleaned off.  

Once at the cabin, the storm of activity begins to save the calf.  Heater placed in bathroom, plastic covering the the floors, quilts gathered to maintain body heat, and rubbing all over to stimulate him.  The giant white plastic bottles filled with powdered colostrum replacement mixed with warm water have been prepared and topped with giant red nipples.  This calf didn't need much convincing.  He latched on and was eager to fill his empty belly.  He made it clear he wanted to live.  Titan wanted to live.

This is what snow means to me now. Trying not to focus on the calves lost...but find joy in the ones we rescued from an early icy end.  

Deep Abiding Love

There was a knock at my door...which doesn't happen very often out in the middle of no where.  It was my neighbor, Mr. Fields.  He was stopping by to talk to my husband about repairing some fences that separate our properties.  Mr. Fields is 96 years old. 

He stood outside my back door wearing a crisp light blue shirt, khaki pants, and nice leather loafer style shoes.  These are his work clothes and he was about to get on his tractor and plow up his fields preparing for the eventual planting of wheat when our chances of rain are better than pigs taking flight.  I told him that Ed wasn't home and had been gone every day since they last spoke.  Mr. Fields said he understood...stating that he was a hard worker too and there was nothing wrong with being a hard working man.

He has always gotten up at 5 AM without an alarm.  He goes to the café and orders one egg and one piece of toast to go with his coffee.  The other men in the café give him a hard time cause that's all he ever orders, to which he replies "I only eat what I need to.  I don't eat too much and I don't get fat or tired." His wife used to cook breakfast for him every morning.

Her name was Kate. 

When he was a spry nineteen year old, he was at the stock barn at the county fair.  He looked up to see a vision of loveliness and followed her to the building where the handmade quilts were on display.  He recalls just walking up to her and plainly stating "I'd like to know you."  They courted for the next four years.  It might be up to six months in between their dates.  In a day and time where relationships are quickly started and ended with nonstop communication, this fascinates me deeply.  They were married for sixty-four years.  Impressive by any one's standards.  In all that time he said he never found a fault with her and their time together was peaceful, without quarrel.  He said a woman like that doesn't come around very often.  She left for her eternal home nine years ago.

For an hour I watched his face as he spoke of her with such love and devotion.  His eyes lit up and there was such a respectful tone in his voice recalling the memories which he holds more dearly than any earthly possession.  I felt like I knew Kate personally when he was done talking.

I promised Mr. Fields that we would eat lunch with him this week and flush out the details on our shared fence project.  He was starting to walk towards his new shiny white Ford pickup truck with all the bells and whistles, and I asked him if he had a picture of Kate he could bring with him next week.  I want to attach a face to name and see this woman that still abides within the heart of her husband.

The word love gets thrown around a lot these days.  So much so it seems, that it has lost its meaning.  We use it to describe shoes, food, and many other temporary things that could never return an emotion.  The word so cheapened that it is forgotten as soon as the next sentence is spoken, but love...real love...isn't temporary.  It isn't a possession.  It was right in front of me as plain as day.  It was beautiful.

My Inner Indian

It is not unusual to look up and see my oldest daughter totally absorbed in reading a book.  She is an obsessive reader and it has become my parental challenge to keep her in books.  I was alarmed, however, to see her with big tears rolling down her cheeks while doing so.  She slowly closed her book and sat there and cried.  On the verge of being a moody little tween-ager,  I had to ask..."Gracie, what's wrong?"  She proceeded to explain that she just finished a series of books that she enjoyed and there were no more books to read in that series.  It was over.  She had to say goodbye to those characters and move on.  You'd have thought somebody she knows very well in real life had died.

Oh, the drama.

I breathed a small sigh of relief.  She then asked me what my favorite book was.  I used to love to read and always had a book in progress, but the last book I had read was What To Expect When You Are Expecting, which if you don't know is the worst book ever written to tell pregnant women what all COULD happen...and to EXPECT it!

Gracie then wanted to know why I didn't read any more.  The plain truth is I didn't think I had time any more.  Since becoming a wife and mother my time was filled with other things and books didn't make the Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs pyramid.  It was replaced with laundry, cooking, cleaning, and being the finder of lost things.  For the last twelve years I have told myself I didn't have time for books.  My child, the lover of books, told me that was the saddest thing she had ever heard.  Ever.  She publicly vowed that she would never let things get in the way of her love for books.

It broke my heart and my inner Indian cried.

My mind flashed to the Keep America Beautiful campaign/ public service announcement against littering that used to be in heavy rotation way back in my childhood.  The crying Indian standing on the side of the highway mourning people's trashy habits.  Tears for people who did not appreciate the beauty of what surrounded them.  Those big tears that rolled down his weathered face and the sadness in his eyes have haunted me to this very day.

So I promised her....as soon as the move is over....I would read a book. 

Move completed.  I read a book.  I did. I am in love with reading again and consuming books like they were puffy Cheetos. 

My inner Indian is now doing a happy dance despite the litter still on the side of the highway.

Riff Off

The last couple of weeks have been a blur of constant activity.  That activity primarily being building fence.  It may seem logical that when you buy a ranch you need fences to keep the cattle where you want them. Logical.  I have no idea why I didn't see this coming.  I have no idea why I didn't understand that I was now an integral part of the fence building committee.  I didn't get a vote.

I've never built fence before and had zero idea what kind of physical labor it required.  Also pretty sure I have used some of those math skills I swore I'd never use.  I now have a deep appreciation for fences and those who can build one and it not look like a drunk prank afterwards.  If I had it my way....I'd never build fence again....but...it needs to be done....and there is no end to it.  Like postal workers who have a never ending job and eventually go insane..."go insane, go insane, throw some glitter and make it rain."  Speaking of....to pass the time, I drive my family crazy by coming up with a song that starts with a word they just said, change random lyrics to be about fence building, or selecting a number that perfectly suits the moment.  That's right Aca-bitches...I challenge them to a "Riff Off" right there in the pasture.  In front of God and everybody.

Any who.

Today we were building fence and a nice rain shower popped up.  While I was thanking Sweet Infant Baby Jesus for the much needed moisture and singing Milli Vanilli's "Blame it on the Rain," I notice some calves jumping up from their napping spots.  They were bawling for their mamas and trying to figure out where they wandered off to.  It seems mama cows will just plants their babies in a location and then go about the business of stuffing their faces with food with their friends.  Human mamas take note.

One big calf was heading the opposite way from where his mother was screaming in moo language..."young man, you just stop right there and I'll get to you in a minute...don't make this harder than it has to be."  But no, he didn't listen and wandered off in the opposite direction.  Just like a man child.  He was so beautiful too...acknowledging that some times the prettiest are also the least intelligent....and men refuse to ask for directions...no matter the species.

Mama cow kept screaming to him.  He kept wandering off.  Finally, he turns around and starts heading down the line of fence we were building...mama on the other side...shaking her big bovine head.  They finally get to the end of the quarter mile section, no longer separated by five strands of barbed wire, and stare at one another.  He has worked up a thirst by now calling for her and latches on for a snack. 

I clapped joyously and started singing "Reunited and it feels so good...."

I have no idea why those people I live with think I need mental help.

Shed

It's baby calf time at the ranch...circle of life renewed....new money on the ground. We spend lots of time riding around checking on the cows.  You notice the bulging milk bags and unmistakable look of a female who has clearly had enough.  Her eyes scream out "get it out already."  The new babies have been licked clean and scamper around with their tails kinked like the number nine.  One approaches his mama and repeatedly butts his head into her gorged bag and she turns to look at him with tired disdain.  I grab my boobs in empathy and quietly tell her I have felt her pain.

Driving around looking at calves and seven miles of new fence, I notice something rising from the green spiders that are called struggling wheat.  Even at a fair distance it can be seen and I yell out "stop the truck."  About that time my kids notice the shed antler too and everybody bales out of the truck leaving doors open and Ed yelling how rude we all are (truck manners indicate closed doors at all times to reduce flies and dirt).  The race is on.  In my head I can hear the theme from "Chariots of Fire" and I tell myself I don't care if they are my kids...I saw it first!  After twenty seconds of top speed in plowed dirt the muscles in my legs start to burn and remind me that I am no longer a spring chicken.  Stop Laughing.  They also scream "but you don't run!"  I tell my legs to shut up.  My oldest is right behind me as I summon just a little more strength to snatch the shed antler from the dirt.  It's a beauty.  Five points, big, and heavy.  I hold it high in victory and basked in my glory between gasps of breath.

Don't look at me that way.  I saw it first.  I won it fair and square.  Stop judging me.  I'm older and it was harder for me.  Shut up.

Every spare moment is spent canvasing wheat pastures and fence lines for shed antlers.  We each are on a quest to find the biggest one.  The kids wise up and get sneaky about it, not announcing their potential find or asking me to slow down the gator and catapult from it and start running.  My children have become natural gymnasts in two days.  Best exercise ever invented, I swear.  Even on horse back, they ride back up to the cabin with several sheds dangling from the tie strings on their saddles.

Although the antlers were dropped by the bucks as part of natural yearly process, we admire our little pile as if we had shot them all ourselves.  Each antler like reclaimed treasure from a sunken pirate ship.  Marveling at the size, heaviness, and number of points.  I smile at my children who were not in front of a TV, playing electronic games, or texting a friend.  We have a rule that no electronics are allowed at the ranch. I smile that they have shed those things and are fully engaged in the world around them...and each other.  They are happy and feel blessed beyond measure.

Amazing what happens when you let go of things that weigh you down. 

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!