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.