A Cowboy's Christmas Prayer

The cowboys I know are simple folk, and for the most part, God-fearing. Also for the most part, you won't find them ranting on about how if you just do your cinches just right and wear your hat a certain way, the Good Lord will smile down on you and bless your britches off.

No, sir. Their faith is earthy. Only a few simple things are asked of us. Take care of kinfolk, even the nasty ones. Be kind to critters and tend to them in the best way possible. Treasure children. Be humble. Be respectful. 

Be grateful for every mouthful of grub, even if it's just coffee and beans. Food is food, and whatever it is, it's all from the hand of the Good Lord.

They are praying people. But they don't waste their breath on frivolous prayers that might take God away from more important matters. They pray before rodeos, for no injuries and honesty. They pray before eating. And when you go to Cowboy Church, it's just fine to wear your work-worn boots and dusty jeans. Be yourself. It's the way the Good Lord meant it to be. 

There is a classic cowboy prayer I'd like to share. Each year, we get at least one Christmas card bearing these timeless words. It best tells the heart of a true cowboy.

A COWBOY'S CHRISTMAS PRAYER
By S. Omar Barker (1894-1985)

I ain't much good at prayin', and You may not know me, Lord-
I ain't much seen in churches where they preach Thy Holy Word,
But you may have observed me out here on the lonely plains,
A-lookin' after cattle, feelin' thankful when it rains,
Admirin' Thy great handiwork, the miracle of grass,
Aware of Thy kind spirit in the way it comes to pass
That hired men on horseback and the livestock we tend
Can look up at the stars at night and know we've got a friend.

So here's ol' Christmas comin' on, remindin' us again
Of Him whose coming brought good will into the hearts of men.
A cowboy ain't no preacher, Lord, but if You'll hear my prayer,
I'll ask as good as we have got for all men everywhere.
Don't let no hearts be bitter, Lord.
Don't let no child be cold.
Make easy beds for them that's sick and them that's weak and old.
Let kindness bless the trail we ride, no matter what we're after,
And sorter keep us on Your side, in tears as well as laughter.

I've seen ol' cows a-starvin, and it ain't no happy sight:
Please don't leave no one hungry, Lord, on thy good Christmas night-
No man, no child, no woman, and no critter on four feet-
I'll aim to do my best to help You find 'em chuck to eat.

I'm just a sinful cowpoke, Lord-ain't got no business prayin'-
But still I hope You'll ketch a word or two of what I'm sayin':
We speak of Merry Christmas, Lord-I reckon you'll agree
There ain't no Merry Christmas for nobody that ain't free.
So one thing more I'll ask You, Lord: Just help us what you can
To save some seeds of freedom for the future sons of man. 

May your neighbours respect you,
Trouble neglect you,
The angels protect you and
Heaven accept you. - Unknown

Merry Christmas -- from the Ranch 

The Ranch in Winter

Welcome to the Ranch!

Merriest of Greetings to all my readers. Again, it's been a long spell since my last post. It's been busy, as usual.

Earlier this fall, we brought in the three thousand cows. It was time to be preg-checked, vaccinated, dewormed, and put on winter feed. The calves were shipped out.

Bringing in the cows.

For every day but one, the temperatures while gathering cattle plunged between -20 to -30 C. Blizzard conditions that frostbit the cowboys' faces and gave them icicles on their moustaches. Then it was cold working in the unheated barn processing the cows. Anything we do in the summertime is a hundred times more difficult in the winter. It takes a good fifteen minutes to get dressed to go outside, and by then you're all sweated up. Machinery is ornery. So are cattle. And people.

“Winter is not a season, it's an occupation.” 
― Sinclair Lewis

Lunchtimes gave us a brief opportunity to warm up with cocoa and a sandwich and a Tim Hortons donut, but then it was back to work. I discovered "Hot Hands" hand warmers, but I think I need a onesie made entirely of them!

Preg-checking is often done by ultrasound these days, although if a cow is proving difficult to evaluate, it's back to the old fashioned way: "Arming It." Donning a plastic "evening glove," the vet does a manual check. It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it. Yesterday, as we processed pregnant cow after pregnant cow, the vet expressed a wish for an "open" -- a non-pregnant bovine -- because her hand was getting cold!

Thankfully, it's all done now. All the animals are in close now and on feed.

We have snow, snow, and more snow. It's still cold.

Snow Removal - Ranch Style

Despite the frigid weather and deep snow, we are warm in spirit and heart. Our families are healthy, though not near enough to enjoy near often enough, and we have much to be thankful for, including Facebook and phone plans that offer free long distance to loved ones.

The view from the back door.

With most of the fall work done now that I have a part in, I should be adding a flurry of posts within the next few weeks. Until then, keep warm and joyful.

Winter is the time for comfort, for warm food and warmth,

for a touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire:

it is the time for home. ~ Edith Sitwell

Snow, By Any Other Name

It's been said that the Inuit have over 50 words for snow. Some are listed here. Many people I know have just one word for snow, a multi-purpose, not-nice word that doesn't at all reflect the vast variety of wondrous textures and colours displayed by snow.  

The first story I ever wrote featured snow. 

It certainly wouldn't earn me an Editors Choice at FaithWriters, but Mrs. S, my Grade One teacher,  rewarded me with an awesome lion sticker.

Obviously, I didn't know very much about winter yet, living in the Fraser Valley in southern B.C. In 1968, we experienced record cold temperatures and snowfall. As I walked to school in my slip-on galoshes, I pondered what it would be like to live where there was LOTS of snow and VERY cold temperatures. It would be amazing, I thought. What did I know?

The arrival of snow seems like a magical and even mystical phenomenon, a harbinger of glad tidings and jolly, cozy days to come, of fuzzy, plaid blankets and baked apples. It has been memorialized in our best loved childhood literature, and perhaps that is why many of us have such sweet and nostalgic sentiments about snow.

“Anne came dancing home in the purple winter twilight across the snowy places.” 
― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

 “One winter morning Peter woke up and looked out the window. Snow had fallen during the night. It covered everything as far as he could see.” ― Ezra Jack Keats, The Snowy Day

We had a few half-hearted flurries a few weeks ago, but last Friday, the snow came in earnest, and it has been snowing ever since. On Saturday evening, a truck careened off the road, taking out at least 100 feet of our fence, along with several posts. 500 cows and their calves live in that particular field, so we went out in the dark and waded through knee to thigh-deep snow, finding, matching, and patching the broken wires.

Most of our work on the ranch is outdoors, so the cold, long, snowy winter is not as romantic as it once was, and the older we get, the longer winter seems to be. And the more inconvenient. It's desperately hard on equipment, livestock, and six-decades old knees and shoulders. Trips to town revolve around "how bad the roads are."

My happy place, our porch swing and garden. 

No mowing for at least seven months. Two weeks ago, the petunias were overflowing the planters and the sunflowers were blazing like miniature suns.

Even though I have no more illusions about snow, I still love the first days of snowfall, the inspiration to bake, sew, read, and play carols. It's still magical, still makes me feel wistful, but these days, I would like snow to come in smaller doses, arriving politely in time for Christmas, and like a yuletide ornament, gleaming brightly for a few lustrous days, and then quietly melting away. I'd like to retire my boots (guaranteed to 40 below) and settle someplace where we don't need heated seats in the truck. 

Until then, "See it come down." 

Building and Mending

The Cowboy has better than a hundred western shirts. That's not an exaggeration, says me, who gets to iron many of them every other week or so, along with a goodly amount of my own shirts. Fortunately, after dozens of washings the shirts no longer need ironing. They become soft and comfy. But sadly, they are also wearing out.

Dust, sweat, sun, "neck whiskers," multiple washings, and the aforementioned ironings do a number on shirt collars. 

I asked the ladies at my quilting group if they could teach me how to "turn" these worn out collars. They got the "deer caught in the headlights" look. Actually, it was more than that. They had a collective look of terror. I said I know it can be done, because my mom used to fix the collars on my dad's work shirts, getting a few more months of wear out of them.

One of the ladies said she'd rather sew a whole shirt from scratch.

Well, so would I. Honestly. Even if the worn out shirts are The Cowboy's favourites.

It reminds me of a motto we'd recite at church years and years ago.

It is better to build than to mend.

Not that a spanking, new shirt won't eventually succumb to worn cuffs and collars. It will. But mending is Just. Not. Fun. Whether it's patching up a pair of snagged-on-barbed-wire jeans or restoring a broken relationship, setting things right is often unpleasant.

Everyday activity at the ranch -- Mending fences.  Livestock, wildlife, and Men Driving Equipment have a way of taking down fences.

And somehow, things are never quite the same after things are pieced together and patched up. That fence is weakened. The turned and mended collar is still thin and worn on the backside. The broken relationship may still be vulnerable, all because of something said foolishly or in haste.

What breaks in a moment may take years to mend. -- Swedish Proverb

Wearing out and breaking down may be inevitable. But we can still take care to build well in the first place. Use good wire and posts. Good quality shirts last longer in the long run. Build relationships based on trust and respect.

As for the shirts with the worn collars, there will be no "after" photos.
The Cowboy said, "Cut 'em up into grease rags."
Somehow, that seems like a dismal requiem for those faithful, old shirts.
The ladies said, "Cut them up and make a quilt."

Maybe building something completely new is the best way to mend.

Stuck in the Mud

It's hard to believe that three short months ago, we were lamenting about the never-ending rainfall. How we needed to get the branding done. And crops planted.

The rain did go away. And stayed away. Except for a few miserly droplets, we've had nothing since June. We are running out of grass. Which is doable, because we can start bringing the cattle in closer and start feeding hay.

But we are running out of water, too. NOT so doable.

We use "dug-outs" for cattle water. There are over 120 of them on the ranch. Dug-outs are large man-made ponds that fill up with run-off water in the spring and are maintained with regular rainfall. But no rainfall means no run-off means no water for the cows. So the dug-outs are drying up.

Yesterday, a cow waded out too far in a mud-hole of a dug-out, and got herself stuck. I went along with The Cowboy, just for the drive, thinking to enjoy the fall colours.

Help!

What followed was a series of maneuvers involving a chain, a cable attached to the bumper of a pick-up truck, two lariats, two cowboys, and yours truly. I was given the dubious honour of driving the pick-up in reverse to pull the cow out. I could not see over the berm of the dug-out and so had no idea if Bossy was being sucked out of the mire or if she was cemented in place forever. The Cowboy waved his arms wildly in a series of gestures, the meanings of which were known only to him, and I translated the best I could.

First thing I know, The Cowboy started running, and then the other cowboy came skedaddling over the berm, followed by a very mucky, very angry cow. Bellowing furiously, she ran hard and fast, until she came to end of the line still attached to her. (Apparently, I missed the signal for "drive hard in reverse and then stop and drive forward so we can detach the line".)

I have to admit, I was frightened. I just knew that crazed cow was going to drag me through fences and forests and farms, and maybe all the way to the highway.)

Eventually, and this is where the lariats came in, she was roped down, loosed from the chain, and set free.

Not a word of thanks or farewell.

Horribly cliché, I know, but there is never a dull moment around here. If it isn't one thing, it's twenty others.

If you think of it, prayer for a little rainfall would be appreciated. Before the snow comes. Before the ground freezes.

Good Idea, Chloe

As promised, I have a guest writer on my blog today. Jan Ackerson lives in Michigan and is mother to two grown daughters. She is also grandma to a delightful and adorable little girl.

Jan's own blog, One Hundred Words, is fascinating. Each entry is a complete story, totally contained within, you guessed it, one hundred words. Jan's stories are thought-provoking little gems of inspiration and sometimes, a direct-hitting "ouch" or two.

Jan asked me what her story should be about. I suggested something "country," in keeping with my own blog's theme, maybe earthy, maybe humorous, maybe with a little life-lesson. With her well-known mastery of precision, Jan was able to pull it off with this wonderful little jewel.

Without any more rambling, here is Jan's story.

Good Idea, Chloe

Chloe held Dack’s hand as her mother stepped out of her car at the farmhouse driveway. It was Mother’s first visit.

“Mom, your shoes!” Chanel pumps, buttery and sleek.

“These old things? Don’t worry, darling,” she said, presenting her cheeks to be kissed.

To her credit, Chloe’s mother was fine, if wobbly, for the tour of the farm. Back at the house, she held Dack’s arm as she slipped one shoe off. She licked her thumb, rubbed at a smudge, and then with a shrug, she licked her thumb again.

Chloe couldn’t tell her—that wasn’t a smudge of dirt.

Ignorance is bliss, so they say.

Please visit and enjoy Jan's blog.

Family and Other Wildlife

Having a place to go - is a home.  Having someone to love - is a family.  Having both - is a blessing. ~Donna Hedges

We had the privilege of travelling to the Okanagan region of British Columbia last week to celebrate the 50th Birthday of The Cowboy's baby sister. The Okanagan is famous for its fruit and wine, lakes and sunshine.

Each day, we sat in the sunshine and enjoyed the view from the sundeck, visiting together for hours each day.

We were treated by the birthday girl to a dinner cruise on board the Casabella Princess. The lake was a little rough when we boarded, so we ate while moored in the marina, then set out for the cruise.

Incredible food, incredible family and friends.

On our 15 hour drive home, we stopped for a break at Jasper National Park.

Maligne Canyon

A masterpiece carved by water over thousands of years.

No journey through a Canadian National Park would be complete without seeing some wildlife.

A rare treat. A bull elk swims the river right before us.

A group of 10 or so Rocky Mountain Sheep, all ewes and lambs, gather by the road, stopping traffic.

Caribou- - north of Jasper.

We are home, back to "flat land" and ranch work, exhausted, but so blessed to have had this special time with the family in a beautiful part of God's world. An apple pie is cooling on the counter, made with freshly picked Okanagan apples. Another 45 pounds of apples are waiting to be peeled and sliced for the winter, when we'll taste summer and remember happy, warmer days.

*I'll be having a guest writer and friend visit my blog in the near future. To sample Jan's superb writing, visit One Hundred Words.

Three Cowboys and a Cowgirl

I've said it before. I'll say it again. The problem with writing about life on a ranch is . . . living on the ranch. There's no time. There's always something happening. Something urgent. And if nothing is happening, you rest.

In the last two months, we've had family from Norway come for a visit, kids and grandkids stay for a few days, a 100 year family reunion in Alberta, two funerals, and our own road trip to southern Alberta. All that besides regular ranch work of moving cattle, shipping cattle, stacking hay, and on and on.

Tucked in between the reunion and kids coming, we entered our own team in the Ranch Rodeo at the Dawson Creek Exhibition and Stampede. Being a participant in a ranch rodeo has always been on The Cowboy's Bucket List. And this year, he was able to finally check it off, and just as quickly, add it again!

The events at a ranch rodeo are not the typical events you'd see at a pro rodeo or any regular rodeo. Each event is an activity you'd see on a real working ranch on any given day.

Team Doctoring - Heifer is "headed and heeled" and then dabbed with a marker to show "doctoring" has been completed.
Dan hands the marker off to Mike on the ground.

Our team is poised for action as Jessica heads out to rope a heifer for Team Branding. The animal is  roped, then dragged across the line. 

Aaron and Mike "flatass" the heifer, while Dan plants a paint-coated iron on the flank. The brand is judged for clarity and positioning. 

Team Sorting - The heifers have numbered stickers on their backs. A number is announced and the cowboys must start with that number and drive as many animals across the line as quickly as possible - IN ORDER. Any errors in order or other animals crossing the line results in a No Time.

Saddle Bronc - Mike tries to hang on for 8 seconds. In a Ranch Rodeo Saddle Bronc event, a two-hand hold is allowed.

There were two other events in the Dawson Creek ranch rodeo.

Trailer loading. An animal is roped and loaded into a stock trailer.

Team Penning. Again, the announcer gives a number of an animal, say 4, and Heifer Number 4, along with Number 5 and 6 must be driven over the line, IN ORDER, and then penned.

Other ranch rodeos may have Wild Cow Milking, Wild Horse Race, and a Ranch Horse Reining Competition. All part of our daily life here on the ranch.

At the end of two days of competition, our team came in 3rd Place! Congratulations on a job well done, Dan, Aaron, Mike, and Jessica.

(Incidentally, I made the "backpatches" for our cowboys, with our ranch brand appliqued on them, in my spare time  between guests, mowing, and road tripping. Another day, I'll post some other "spare time" or snowy day projects.)

All good things come to an end . . .

After 11 days and 2408 calves, we are finished branding for this year. The pens are silent. The mamas and their babies have been all been moved to grassy pastures where they'll stay until fall. To celebrate, I "slept in" about five minutes, and because I was so happy to finally have a "stay home" day, I made ginger snaps, lemon meringue pie, and butter tarts. A change is as good as a rest, they say, and it was.

Three days later, we drove an hour and a half to help friends brand 250 (or so) of their calves. I ask, are we suckers for punishment? Our arms and hands were still sore, I'd finally got the jeans and shirts fairly clean, and the (finally) dried manure had been scraped off our boots.

As we neared our destination, we needed to stop for directions. Did I mention the ranch we were looking for was remote? With no cell signal? The lady who lived in the log house where we asked directions had these in her yard and I couldn't resist a picture or two.

Wood cookstove used on nearby farm.

     

Propane-powered wringer washer.

We arrived at the ranch and the fun began!

Organized Chaos -- Everyone has a job to do and a place to be. Notice the two little cowboys in the background! They didn't want to stay in their "playpen." They were just itchin' to get in on the action.

In spite of how it looks, no lariats got crossed or tangled.

Just you wait and see, I'm gonna be big enough to help one of these days.

Finally, the mamas and babies are paired up again and taken to a new pasture for the summer.

At the end of the day, we had a lovely supper with the rancher and his family, including newborn twin girls, plus a pile of friends and neighbours. Although everyone is relieved that branding is finished, it's a sad-and-glad feeling. The fellowship and times of working together with a common goal is a sweet time, for sure, in spite of how much our bodies ache and complain.

But then, there's always next year, when we'll get to do it all over again.

It's all in the timing.

We are not even halfway through branding this year's calves, and we've been stalled. Rain, rain, and rain. Wet or muddy calves cannot be branded. It will cause scalding and scarring. A bad brand. Undue pain for the calves.

Not one acre of the 3500 acres to be seeded has been planted. Today is June 18. The seeding can't wait much longer.

We check the forecast on the Weather Channel several times a day, sometimes several times an hour. Plan and re-plan. Watch the skies. And wait.

I'm sure we can all point to times when, if things has been "on time," our lives would have been a little different. Couldn't find our keys or phone. Had to change an untimely wet diaper. The delay, maybe only mere seconds, meant avoiding a calamity. Or meeting someone who arrived at exactly that moment.

A year ago, I wondered if I should go to the FaithWriters Conference in Detroit, MI. It's a long way from here, and not an inexpensive venture. I pondered and wondered and finally made a deal with myself. If I could sell my mini-van, I'd go to the conference. The van had been in storage for two years. I hadn't wanted to deal with the emotional baggage of letting it go. Barely a month before the conference, I lay snuggled in bed, about to open my mouth to ask "the cowboy" if we couldn't get the van out that afternoon, clean it up, and park it out by the highway with a "for sale" sign on it.

I never got a chance to ask him. The phone rang. It was a dear friend. I hadn't spoken to her in nearly two years, and in the middle of our catching up, she asked if I still had my mini-van and was it for sale.

By that afternoon, the van was cleaned, washed, tires changed, and SOLD. For exactly the price of a round trip ticket to Detroit, my friend drove away in the van. I don't know which of us felt more blessed.

Timing is everything.

Will we get the crop in this year? Who knows?
Will we have to go to Plan B for branding? Maybe.
With unwavering confidence, I know this season will pass into the next, with its own challenges and certainties.

In the meantime, I have some inside chores to catch up on. Reading. Writing. Quilting. Baking. Watching my garden grow.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. ~ Ecclesiastes 3:1

Branding Day

Today was the third day of our 2012 branding season. So far, 550 babies have been branded, vaxed, tagged, and for the little boy calves, castrated. Just over 2000 calves left to go. Whew!

You might ask why we brand cattle. It's time-consuming, and no doubt it hurts those little duffers. It all seems rather archaic, even primitive. The reason is obvious. Identification of ownership. Yes, we could tattoo them. Or put a chip in them. But, if there's doubt about ownership, that cow, bull, steer, or heifer would have to be roped and wrangled to the ground. Or brought up to the barn and put through the chute. Brands can be easily read from a safe distance and that is paramount to the rancher or brand inspector.

Cattle (livestock) branding has been used to identify domesticated herd animals since Egypt 2700 B.C. But, it was not until A.D. 1541 that the Spaniard Hernado Cortez introduced the idea of branding to Europeans. Spanish brand designs such as those used by Cortez were very elaborate compared to the cowboy-preferred simple branding that took place on cattle ranches as the West was being developed in America. The ability to read the various cattle brands is termed "callin' the brand." Different Kinds of Cattle Brands

Our morning begins with gathering up all the cattle in the pasture designated to be branded that day. Often I go out with the cowboys and spend the hour or so while they gather reading or taking pictures. Enjoying the early morning calm before the rush.

The often despised dandelion, but a sunny, sweet place for the eyes and a bee's quest for nectar.








Once the cattle are in the pen, the fun begins.

You're going to do what? To little innocent us?

The newest cowboy gets ready to throw a loop . . .

. . . and succeeds!

Lunch time - Friends, food, and fellowship.

Let me be. I've had a hard day.

After we finished Field 9 today, my day continued with laundry, baking cookies and an apple crisp, watering the garden, and preparing supper. Now, I'm debating over a time out with a cup of tea or reading my book or just going outside to enjoy the sunshine. I think I can manage all three.

The Redeeming Ranch Woman

I used to harbour a stereotyped image of the ranch woman. She's the one wearing an apron, for she's a genius in the kitchen, and a straw hat, because she's got a knack in the garden. Her pantry shelves are filled with jars of peaches and beet pickles, and she makes the best bread east of the Rockies. Her tomatoes grow big as softballs and her lilacs bloom sooner than any town folks'. She splits her own firewood, can drive a tractor, bottle-feed orphaned calves, and make a rug out of worn jeans.

She could be all that. Or not.

Redeeming Women of Rural Hardiness

communicatingacrossboundariesblog.com

We went to the British Columbia Cattlemen's Association Conference and AGM last week, and I had opportunity to speak to dozens of ranch and farm wives. First observation: none of the women I spoke to fit my stereotyped image. They came in all shapes and sizes, ages and backgrounds, abilities and talents. Some looked like they'd just stepped off a western fashion magazine, with all kinds of bling and their hair done just so. Others wore jeans. And cowboy boots. Some professed to have a job in town; others told me about their gardens or canning adventures.

For the most part, our conversations were about earthy topics, and the pains and joys of ranch life. Getting bucked off a horse. Helping a rancher husband return the uterus of a prolapsed cow to its rightful place, and then having company arrive before she could change her shirt. Helping a doomed orphaned foal. How to get clothes clean that have been saturated in various bovine fluids.

One thing we all had in common. We love the land. We love our lives.

Brian Salmond, cowboy poet and rancher, wrote a poem in tribute to the tough and tender womenfolk of the land. His own sweetheart is every inch a lady, but has had her fair share of late nights and mucky boots.

Ode To The Ranch Lady

While the countryside is stirring, from a restful quiet night

And the smoke swirls from the chimney like the eagle in its flight

The rising sun cast out its rays and heralds a welcome glow

Her busy day got underway about an hour ago

She’s got the coffee brewin’ flippin’ hotcakes in the pan

And once the kids are off to school she’s out to help her man

Feed them chickens and gather the eggs gas up the pickup for sure

Bring out some twine and the grease gun no end to what she’ll endure

She’ll rake hay with the tractor till late afternoon then wobble to go cook a meal

Help the kids with their homework and houseclean just like it was part of the deal

A doctor a lawyer a parts girl and she keeps all the books for the herd

She knows every cow by her color and age and you’d best not be doubt’n her word

She loves flowers those from the garden or growin’ out there in the wild

So pick her some bluebells she’ll squeal in delight her spirit as free as a child

She cries at funerals some weddings sad movies and still born foals

And shoulders the burdens for others as they’re strivin’ at reachin’ their goals

The lady serves council for people in need in politics she does her part

A wizard at patchin’ an old pair of jeans or mendin’ a soul’s broken heart

She’s light hearted a practical jester at times and she tells the odd smutty tale

But well knows her Lord and her master the life lines are delicate and frail

You’ll see her smilin’ come winter down at the Cattleman’s Ball

Her hair all done up and stars in her eyes with a well wish for one and for all

She’s got that same gentle aura that angels possess when they fly

This evenin’ is hers for enjoyin’ and she asks that all others comply

And when they dim the house lights and the old time waltz is played

Take her on your arm old son retrace the miles you’ve made

And trip the lights fantastic you know she dances fine

And buckaroo be proud of yours and know I’m proud of mine

Happy Trails

© Brian Salmond 

That really about sums it up.

Prairie Spring - Part Two

I apologize for the delay in getting this posted. We are well into our own "Prairie Spring" and calving adventures. 

Last week, we happened upon a heifer in obvious distress. At first, we thought she was already deceased, along with her partially emerged calf, but when we got closer, we saw her blink. And the calf was wiggling his protruding tongue.

We pulled the calf and the heifer had a total prolapse. That is, she expelled her calf bed. I'll spare you the details, but it took two men, four long arms, and a tractor to get the mass inside again. (That sounds terrible, and not how it sounds. If you're familiar with the writings of George MacDonald, you might remember a midwife in one of his novels employing a similar concept for an ailing new mother. Don't quote me on it being George MacDonald that wrote it, though. My memory, you know . . .) 


Sadly, the heifer did eventually expire, but the last I heard, the calf was still alive. As the rest of the story will reveal, spring is full of contradictions . . .

The rest of the story . . .

We headed back to the main herd, the cow following and bawling her displeasure. Then, Dad saw another smudge in the middle of the field, and we veered towards it. This time, there was no calf, just twisted bits of membrane and smears of blood. The cow looked at us with baleful eyes, as if demanding an explanation. How could we explain the she-wolf that had likely killed the calf to feed her own young, the same instinct driving both mothers.

We turned homeward. The cow still followed, mooing loudly, the calf responding with weak bleats. 

At the barn, Dad threw the reins over the saddle, leaving me on the horse while he carried the calf to the house. It was Sam’s job to herd the cow into a holding corral. I scooted forward into the saddle and tightly held the horn. The cow was intent on finding her baby, bawling frantically, but Sam countered her every move, lurching this way and that. I was jolted about, until it felt as though my arms would be wrenched from their sockets. I couldn’t hold on and fell off into a puddle of icy, filthy water.

I yelped and leaped up. With a quick glance at the cow, now in the corral and bellowing with rage, I ran for the house.

Dad was by the woodstove, rubbing the calf with sacking. He laughed when he saw me and pulled me close, dragging off my sopping clothes. He rubbed me dry with the same piece of sacking. I was soon warm, and so Dad left, taking with him the revived calf, to reunite it with its mournful mama.

I dozed, warmed by the stove’s heat and the love in my dad’s eyes. As I drifted off, I thought of the contrariness and contradictions of spring. Birth and death. Storms and sunshine. Mothers . . . and fathers. I couldn’t have spoken the words yet, but I had already learned that for each new life, a seed must die. And with hardship, there comes renewal. 

Deep thoughts for such a little boy, yet they would carry me through every season of my life.

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