The Rascals Return

With a frost predicted, we moved the plants and flowers into the house that we wanted to keep for another season: Boston ferns, angel wing begonias, fuchsia, and a large purple shamrock.  Geraniums and hydrangeas can tolerate a light frost, so we left them outside with plans to put them down into covered the window wells later. The double glass doors to the back yard filled with plants no longer served as a route outside, but the plants are protected and offer a greenhouse atmosphere  for us to enjoy all winter long.

After a day working in the yard preparing for wintry weather, we went to bed tired but satisfied. During the night I was awakened by the wind chimes hanging from the tree in the center of the back yard. Drowsily I thought to myself it must really be windy for that chime to be going like that because the center piece that each chime hits to ring was broken.  Before long the chimes were silent and my assumption was that the wind had died down.  Then I heard it, even with the window closed.  A sound that had agitated me so much several weeks earlier--the raccoons were back.

I considered the options I had.  With the temperature in the upper thirties if  I went out to chase the coons out of the yard, I would need shoes and a jacket, unlike my barefooted nightgown assault last time.  I would have to go out the door by the garage instead of straight into the yard through the glass doors.  I would wake my husband and we would both be agitated and wide awake for some time after.  Considering all of these negatives, I rationalized that the raccoons had already destroyed most of the water hyacinth on the pond and either did not seem interested or able to catch the fish, so I went back to sleep instead of accosting the invaders.

The next morning, the evidence was clear.  Raccoons had once again created mischief.  The one last water hyacinth was chewed up and on the edge of the pond.  The tangled wind chime hung silent in the tree.  The squirrel trap, closed overnight to prevent an untimely captive, lay upside down and the few remaining peanuts eaten.  I had strict instructions that if I heard the raccoons again, I was to let John know so he could deal with the situation in the night.  We certainly do not want this to become a common occurrence.  Ah, the joys of city wildlife!

Mysterious Marauders

We enjoy our back yard so much,  having lunch outside nearly every day, relaxing in the shade and coolness under the shady trees, or sitting by the pond watching the goldfish swish and swirl around the water plants.  Last week in preparation for watering that day, John came inside while I was getting ready for work and told me to go look at the pond. Puzzled I asked if the fish were still alive.  "Just go look at the pond," he responded. When I got out to the pond, I was astonished at the destruction before me.  Nearly every water hyacinth was decimated, chewed and strewn around the pond, the water grass shredded and limp in the water, but the fish were fine.

We considered the cause of this spiteful event.  We have too many squirrels in the area, and they insist on chewing the bark off the tree that provides the main shade in the center of the yard.  John has a live trap that he uses to relocate these destructive animals to rural areas. However, squirrels have never damaged anything other than the tree, but they were the first suspects.  Since the damage was in the pond, raccoons came to mind, but all of the fish were fine, so we dismissed that idea.  At lunch that day, a rabbit popped in through a space at the back gate.  Even though we were talking and very close, the rabbit calmly hopped around nibbling on various plants. Surprised at his boldness, we thought he might be the culprit.  John coaxed and directed the rabbit out of the yard through the spot the unwanted visitor had entered and then he blocked up that entry. We hoped that this was our culprit and the problem was solved.

Several nights later about one in the morning through the open window by our bed, I heard strange noises.  I told John to go look out the back door so when I turned on the light he could see what was out there.  The high-powered backyard light exposed the intruders--four raccoons, three large ones and one super-sized one. They looked curiously at the house, but did not scamper away.  John hollered at them and they ambled over the fence and away.  Agitated but enlightened to the real culprits of our backyard destruction, we turned off the light and went back to bed.  About half an hour later, I heard the noises again.  I jumped out of bed, switched on the back light to see the coons wrestling and tumbling in the grass having a delightful time.  Angrily, I threw open the door and charged out barefooted in my nightgown to make sure they left my yard.  Three full-size raccoons scampered over the fence.  The fourth and largest one paused at the base of the tree by the pond looking up as if to use that escape route, but decided that would take too much effort to climb, so she ambled to the back corner hoping to hide in the bushes.  I was having none of that and kept after her scolding and insisting she leave the yard.

Getting back to sleep proved elusive that night as I breathed deeply to slow down my heart beat and indignation.  I continued to listen for any more indication of the coons' return but heard none. Since that night, the days and nights have been rainy and stormy with no further indication of coons.  I certainly do not want those raccoons to decide our yard is their playground.  The pond still has all of our fish even though the plants no longer provide them cover.  We wait to see if this story is concluded or not.  I certainly hope so!

Cabela's and Ikea

We were considering what to do with our three-day weekend, and I suggested we visit the newly opened Cabela's in Denver (we missed the grand opening several weeks ago), and since Ikea had been open over a year and we had not made it there yet, this seemed like a win-win situation for both of us.  So with that  plan and we headed off to Denver.

  John had a knife he had been looking at in the Cabela's catalog that he wanted to see.  Unfortunately, the south Cabela's did not have it in-store, but we did see a friend from my husband's home community in the southern part of the state and enjoyed catching up with them.  The amazing animals and fish on display in the store are much like a natural history museum emphasizing God's amazing creations.  I did not really know what to expect from Ikea other than advertisements I had seen in magazines, and people warned me that it could take all day.  The huge store with arrows on the floor from one section to another made me feel like a rat in a maze, and the volume of merchandise flooded me with sensory overload.  I might want to go back at some point, but for now it is a "been there, done that" experience.

As we headed home northbound, we were so thankful not to be in the lengthy traffic crawl on the southbound lanes.  With time to spare, we decided to stop at the north Cabela's.  Though a smaller store, the knife he wanted to see was on display and this provided additional information to consider. We got home in time to watch a college football game and see Todd Helton hit the 2500th hit of his career. It was a lovely day and we were both happy.

As I think about this day and the fact that we will soon celebrate our 42nd anniversary, I realize that days like this make for a happy marriage.  We can have very different interests and yet enjoy sharing what the other enjoys.  Mostly, we enjoy being together, and we plan to continue that for as long as the Lord allows!
 

Adventures with Grandsons

Our grandsons, ages seven, five and two-and-a-half live on the family ranch about five hours away in northern New Mexico.  We visit frequently and when we do, I usually go on a hike with the boys through the trees and brush over rocks, up hills, and down the creek.  We enjoy these adventures exploring, discovering, pretending.  This last week, they wanted to go down the hill to a pond formed by a dam across the road filled by recent heavy rains. We all knew that when boys are near water, they are likely to get muddy, so they wore old shoes and boots for this adventure;  I, however, did not.  The boys wanted to ride their bikes down the winding narrow road for the thrill of speed and turns. I drove the Expedition to the pond to bring their bikes back up the hill and take the youngest with me. 

Once at the pond they located flat rocks for skipping or finding the biggest ones they could lug to the edge to toss in.  I do not think there is any limit to how many rocks boys can throw into water.  The edges of the pond near the dam are steep, so the two older boys started around the edges of the pond where they could get closer to the water.  A sand bar at the far end of the pond offered a chance to get close to the water; this area was sandy and only slightly muddy.  I observed their route and declined to come with them because I had on shoes that I did not want to get dirty, but I saw no reason they could not proceed.  Soon the oldest hollered out that he was stuck and the middle grandson echoed his plight. They tried to help each other pull their feet from the muck but to no avail.  A grandma to the rescue was forthcoming.

I took off my shoes, rolled up my jeans to mid-calf and went out to help.  Since I am quite a bit heavier than these small boys, I sank to the edges of my rolled-up jeans quite quickly.  With effort, I pulled each foot out of the muck to reach the boys, shaking my head at our predicament.  The youngest was wearing cowboy boots, so when he pulled his foot up, the boot remained in the mud, but I could pull each mud-encased empty boot out and to set him on firmer ground with his boots in hand with instructions to scrape the mud off.   He had on socks, so his feet were still clean.  The older boy had on athletic type shoes that sucked in the mud the moment his foot pulled free. I had to quickly dig down to the shoe or there would be no chance of finding it.  Once he was on firmer ground as well, I brought his shoes to the shore.  We found sticks to scrape the gooey mess from their shoes and boots.  I scooped handfuls of mud from inside the shoes and then rinsed them in the pond water so he could get them back on.

With both boys rescued and their shoes and boots at least wearable, I had to figure a way to clean my feet so I could put my shoes back on.  We tried putting rocks down to the edge of the pond to give me a path to the water.  The boys searched for larger rocks and packed them down to the edge.  We thought we had a good path set, but when I set foot on these, the rocks started sliding into the water, throwing me off balance onto my bottom.  We all laughed at our hilarious failed efforts.  The boys were getting thirsty from being out in the hot sun and working so hard packing rocks, and I decided that I was not going to be able to get my feet clean to put my shoes back on.  I began slowly picking my way through the pasture around the edge of the pond back to the car.  The cactus, yucca, dried sunflowers and rocks along the way demanded carefully placement of each foot step.

Once back at the car, I loaded the bikes  and boys and headed back to the house.  There I scrapped dried mud off my legs and feet.  The boys brought me a bowl of water and I rinsed the mud off to get cleaned up.  We all laughed, got a cook drink and shared our adventure with their mom, dad and papa.  This might have been the biggest mess we have been in to date, but it was a memorable adventure!

Freezing Sweet Corn

Fresh sweet corn, full yellow kernels bursting with flavor, lasts only for a short time in the summer, but freezing this corn on the same day it is picked preserves this peak fresh flavor all winter long.  My dad's sister and her husband raised sweet corn and other crops on their farm about 70 miles from the ranch.  Every year my aunts, mother, brother, sister and cousins would load up and drive to their farm early in the morning to pick the sweet corn.  The thick rows of corn filtered the hot sun, but the moist soil in the irrigation rows made the humidity rise.  Corn stalks offered multiple ears  sprouting transparent silk with brown tips.  We had empty burlap sacks to fill with ripe corn, pulling back the husk slightly to see if the kernels were filled out enough. With so many people picking we soon had the back of the pickup filled with sacks of corn.  After a quick lunch, we headed back home to preserve our harvest.

All the kids were sent to the garage which had a dirt floor and provided a shady place to work to shuck all those ears of corn.  We all had something to sit on and a box to put the corn in.  We had a great time laughing, teasing, and working together.  Sometimes we would find a big fat corn worm eating away at the tender kernels, which we would flick onto the ground and squish--disgusting! The silk on each ear of corn needed to be carefully removed as well.  One of the kids would take the full box into the kitchen where our moms were busy preparing the ears of corn for freezing.  One would wash the ears, check for any remaining silks, and cut off the worm-damaged portion.  Another put the ears into a pot of boiling water to blanch for several minutes.  Once the hot ears came out of the boiling water, another mom plunged these into a sink of ice water to cool them down.  Then another person cut the kernels from each ear and finally bags were filled with these kernels to be put into the freezer. We all kept at this process until all the corn, except for what we would eat in the next several days, was tucked away in the freezer to enjoy throughout the year.  This might take until way into the night, but we saw it through to completion.  We would put up enough corn to feed four families until the next year's harvest.

The kids loved being together and had a great time.  Moms were exhausted but satisfied with their work, and our dads enjoyed the fruits of our labor.  These memories make me appreciate the extended family circle we enjoyed.

A Perfect Summer Day

Birds begin to chirp and twitter in the pre-dawn morning light.  A light cool breeze gently drifts in the open window bringing a fresh scent of abundant foliage. No alarm, no pressing schedule to meet, just savoring the freedom of a summer day.  Although no alarm buzzes, I am eager to savor the delights of a long summer day.  Soon the sun is up. First thing after breakfast, we go for a walk through the neighborhood lined with mature trees observing the beauty in the variety of landscaping.  On the final leg of our walk we meander through the neighborhood park with an island in the small lake which various birds use for nesting and raising their young and a lily pond with a bridge over a waterfall. These daily walks provide ample opportunity to talk and enjoy each other's company uninterrupted.

When we reach home, we focus on taking care of the yard before the day warms up too much.  We start with picking raspberries requiring bending and searching for the ripe luscious berries that we enjoy on homemade yogurt or ice cream in addition to freezing enough to savor throughout the entire year. We water the flowers and garden noting the growing plants and produce. It is fun to see the progress we have made over the years in the yard that had nothing more than grass and several old trees on the perimeter when we moved in twenty years ago.  Now a tree in the center backyard provides ample shade and the fish pond adds serenity and a focal point surrounded by flower borders. Two trees in the front yard keep the house cool from the morning summer sun.  Flower beds hug the house in front and a berm with perennials, flowers in pots and bushes anchors the grass next to the street.

We enjoy lunch in the backyard under the tree in the center. With the vine covering the fence, the abundant shade, the pond and flowers, we have a secluded venue to visit and enjoy deviled eggs, homemade yogurt and fruit.  Even after school starts and I am back at work, we do lunch outside as long as the weather permits. During the heat of the afternoon, we find projects inside to work on.

After supper, I feed the fish, sprinkling their food on the surface of the pond, watching them hungrily nibbling till the surface is clear.  They swish and swirl around the water hyacinth that floats on the water and the tall grass spikes.  I enjoy sitting in my Adirondack chair savoring the beauty of the growing plants in the garden and flower beds.  The evenings usually cool off enough to open the windows before going to bed. Through the open window I listen to the crickets happily chirruping in the evening calm.  I love summer!

4-H Calves

My seven-year-old grandson begins his 4-H experience this year as a Clover Bud--a program for children who are not yet 9 years old.  He has a young calf that he has bottle-fed which he will show at the county fair next week.  He is the fourth generation in our family to participate in 4-H--his great-grandfathers, grandparents, parents, and now our grandson.

I joined 4-H when I was nine years old.  My dad and his siblings had been in 4-H when they were young and my two older cousins were already in the program, so I was excited to take part as well.  Our club the Whitecrest Hijacks, named for a small community down the highway to the east a few miles from the ranch, had about 10 members which met monthly for meetings.  I took market beef and sewing for my first projects, giving both Dad and Mom responsibility for my progress.

In late November Dad helped me choose a steer from a group of calves that our dads had selected from the ranch herd.  For a child's first year in 4-H, they would let that child choose a calf first, and later on the person in their last year got to choose first.  I named my calf Chip.  We had another steer to keep him company; I called him Dale.  Since I was the only one in our family in 4-H, my Dad focused his energies on getting me and Chip ready for fair. One of the first things we needed to do was train him to lead, something a calf does not naturally want to do.  We spent a number of days over Christmas break accomplishing this.  Dad and my uncles also broke all of the sale bulls to lead, so there were a lot of animals learning to respond to the tug of the halter.

 I had to feed Chip in the morning before school and evening chores consisted of feeding Chip, helping Dad with other chores and brushing my steer as soon as he finished his grain. This helped tame him down and developed a great coat of hair that would make him look sharp at fair.  This continued through the school year and then in the summer began the training for the show ring.  Dad had a string of bulls and a heifer that he showed at the state fair, so as he took each one of his animals around the yard, I would take Chip every time.  Dad had us both well trained by the time fair arrived.

At county fair, the judge selected Chip as the Grand Champion steer.  Dad was quite pleased and I was delighted as well.  We took Chip to the state fair and there the judge choose him for Champion Hereford steer.  So, my 4-H career started on a very good note.  I continued in 4-H for the next nine years, finishing after senior year in high school.  I have many good memories of being in 4-H; I learned responsibility and many skills that have served me well over the years.  I look forward to seeing my grandson have some similar experiences.

Our First Baby

We were married at the start of my junior year in college and my husband's third year of vet school, so we both had two years to finish our degrees.  In our Sunday school class at church of young couples, one couple had a new baby.  We all oohed and aahed over this precious little one and started thinking about starting a family of our own.  However, sage advice from my dad offered strong encouragement to wait until we were finished with school, and I have always been glad that we did wait.

Following our graduation on June 1, we left town to interview for a mixed vet practice in western Kansas.  John took the job and we moved shortly thereafter to begin "real" life.  He began to learn the ropes and roads of the country practice and I substitute taught in the local school.  Now that we were getting settled in, we decided that we were ready to start a family.  Four months later I suspected that I was pregnant and after several more months I went to the doctor.  The small community we lived in had a six room hospital and a wonderful family practice doctor.  He confirmed that we were expecting a baby due May 24.  We were thrilled; this child would be the first grandchild for both of our parents and first great-grandchild for my dad's parents.  Needless to say we were all quite excited.  I experienced some morning sickness, but generally, I felt great.

I often would either go with John on his vet calls out in the country or assist with c-sections on cows at the clinic.  Donning his coveralls when I helped to keep from getting too dirty, I gradually could not zip the coveralls up any more.  After one particularly late and stressful night, I had some early labor pains, so my days of vet assistant were over.  John would bring his stethoscope home so we could listen to the heartbeat and offer insights on the similarities of human and animal pregnancies.

Monthly checkups went well.  A nurse in the community taught childbirth classes which was surprising in light of it being in a rural area and the idea being relatively new. We gladly attended classes later in the pregnancy eager to learn all we could to better prepare for the birth.  These classes helped me understand what would happen and how to work with the labor process.

A week past my due date, the doctor found that my blood pressure had gone up causing some concern.  Being over-due and now the blood pressure issue discouraged me, nine months pregnant in the Kansas summer heat.  The baby had missed the due date, my mother-in-law's birthday and now it was John's birthday.  We invited friends over for strawberry short cake to celebrate his birthday and take our minds off our troubles. After our friends left and we had gone to bed, I began to feel what I anticipated were labor pains.  Sure enough, as the night wore on it was clear I was in labor, but my veterinary husband who had been called out many times in the middle of the night wanted to wait until morning to go to the hospital. 

We waited until after 8 am to go to the hospital.  My doctor was out of town, but his son who had just completed his residency in obstetrics was there for the delivery.  John was in the delivery room and the two guys discussed the similarities and differences of the deliveries they had done.  The doctor decided he needed to use forceps and this prompted a discussion of how many pounds of pressure applied with jack when pulling a calf!  Soon our first child was born, an 8 lb. 6 oz. baby girl 20 1/2 inches long.  We named her Jennifer Ann. Her head was covered with peach fuzz, her tiny ears scrunched to her head and a tiny rosebud mouth. She chose her own birthday, missing her dad's by one day.   One year after our college graduation, we were now parents. How blessed we were!

Living Intentionally

Sunday the sermon addressed the admonition in Eph. 5:15 "Be very careful, then, how you live--not as unwise, but as wise, making the most of every opportunity..."  The pastor noted that "life is so daily"--we get so wrapped up in work, errands, household duties that we do not take time to consider the significance of each day, of each interaction with others.  He also shared that the Greek word used here for opportunity is kairos, which indicates time charged with potential or opportunity that must be siezed.  Do I see life as charged with potential?  When I realize the opportunity before me do I seize it?  I am guilty of plowing through life just looking at the next thing before me instead of seeing the opportunities God sets up all around me and responding.  Reading the paper Monday morning, I was confronted with the reality of this;  I read about the passing of a friend dealing with cancer.  I had thought of her often and prayed for her, but I had not called recently and now it is too late. I had the opportunity but did not seize it.  I grieve for her passing, for her family, though I know she is celebrating with the Savior.  I do not want to miss what God intends for me to be part of; I want to respond to the opportunities He places before me instead of merely reacting to the dayliness of life.  I need to listen carefully and stay close to Him. Oh, may I be intentional about living!

Spiritual Heritage

My mother's father was a strong believer in Jesus and his atoning sacrifice.  He raised seven children during the Depression, my mother being the youngest at four, after losing his wife in childbirth with their eighth baby. He spent time reading God's Word, praying, and trusting God to see him through the difficulties he faced raising his family.  He passed this trust in God on to his children who shared their faith with the next generation.

My mother went to Pepperdine and Biola colleges where she received further Bible teaching.  Her favorite was an Old Testament class taught by J. Vernon McGee.  She said he made these passages come to life.  She married my dad and moved to the Wyoming ranch where fellowship and Bible study were not as readily available as her times in college.  They attended her family church thirty-five miles away, a General Conference Baptist, or Swedish Baptist church for a number of years. Her outreach in ministry was the Bible school she organized for the rural community families. Over the years my dad grew in his understanding of his walk with God and provided a strong spiritual partnership with my mother.  He taught a boys Sunday school class for quite awhile and served as a role model for these boys and for us as a family.

Going to church and being a Christian was an accepted part of my life.  At five, I asked Jesus to be my savior in response to many Bible stories I had heard and specifically in response to what my mother had shared with me.  I did not understand all that this meant at the time, but I did know that Jesus loved me and wanted me to accept his gift of salvation and eternal life. I continued to attend Sunday school and church, vacation Bible School and church camp. When I was eleven, I decided to be baptized and join the church.   In high school I participated in Youth for Christ where I had fellowship with other Christian teenagers and solid teaching from the leaders.  I was surrounded in my growing up years with this Christian influence.

When I went to college, there were many of my Christian friends on campus, and I participated in Inter Varsity Christian Fellowship where I made many new friends.  However, I lived in the dorm and was surrounded by many people who did not share my faith.  Their values were quite different from what I had grown up with and I began to wonder if my faith was based on truth or just tradition.  During my freshman year, I struggled with determining where I stood with my belief in Jesus. I came to the firm conviction that what the Bible said was true and I wanted to live my life based on my relationship with Jesus.

 I value the Christian heritage I have and  the impact it had on my growing-up years.  But I also realize that I had to make it mine--each generation does.  God does not have grandchildren.  Each of us must decide for ourselves where we stand in relation to Jesus' invitation to believe.  We have shared our faith with our children and now we have grandchildren.  I pray fervently for their walk with God and their salvation.

Summertime Activities

Summer on the ranch growing up meant swim lessons and music lessons in town for the cousins and our family.  My mom and two aunts would take turns being the chauffeur for the group. The younger kids would stay at home with the mom who wasn't making the trip to town. The five oldest kids all played an instrument:  Bob played the tuba, Dick the trumpet, I played the flute, Don the clarient and Dave the saxaphone.  In the summer, the band director wanted everyone to come to sectionals at which our individual instrument group practiced the music.  Since we all played a different instrument, we all had different times we needed to be at school.  Later my brother learned play the trombone and my sister the French horn, but they were not old enough at the time to be part of this adventure.

We all also took swimming lessons, which were sandwiched between the different music lesson times. The high school swimming pool was quite a step up from messing around in the muddy pond in the pasture after an occasional big rain. Needless to say, it made for a hectic schedule for the mom in town with five kids in one car (and we did not have SUVs or minivans). We all packed a lunch and ate in the park between lessons; fast food was not a way of life then. But the cousins loved being together since there was no school for socializing. Everyone was tired on the ride home and having been in the pool we were all a little damp squeezed together in the car with a trunk full of instruments (except the tuba which stayed at school).

When we were in high school and old enough to drive, we would go to town together to practice in the band for marching in the three Frontier Days parades. This happened in the evening when it was cooler and kids were more available.  Again, we enjoyed interacting with each other and with our friends from school, especially as teenagers we were quite interested in the opposite sex.  We would practice the music and marching up and down the shady tree-lined streets of the neighborhood around school.  Marching in a straight line and turning the corners with precision while playing your instrument took concentration.  I played the piccalo in the marching band and loved playing the Sousa marches, especially Stars and Stripes Forever.

I enjoyed the change of pace from ranch life and the chance to get be around other kids in the summer as I am sure even the kids in town did.

A Doherty Branding

The first summer after John and I met in Kansas City, I went home with him after the Junior Hereford Field day.  The Dohertys planned to brand at the Horseshoe ranch the next day.  Although I grew up on a ranch, I had never been much involved in the branding because calves were put through the chute and there were plenty of boy cousins to do the branding, so I helped with the lunch.  I was in for quite an education on this day!  The day began at the crack of dawn because they wanted to work the cattle before it got too hot. We all needed a  jacket in the chill of the morning, but what a beautiful time of day. All of John's brothers, sisters and cousins participated in the round-up and branding regardless how young, so there was quite a crew--ten kids plus his dad, uncle and grandfather. I was mounted on Smoky, a proven dependable horse, which was good for me because riding on the open prairie of Wyoming was a stark contrast to the rugged hills, rocks and brush of the New Mexico ranch.  I just held on over the rocks and brush and let Smoky wrangle the cows and calves as he was trained to do.

 Once the cows and calves were in the corral, they were separated.  Then the flanking crews went to work.  One guy would grab the hind leg of a calf and a second person would stand on the opposite side of the calf grabbing a front leg and lay the calf down kneeling on the neck and folding the leg up to its body.  The guy with the hind leg would stretch it out and put his foot on the other leg.  This put the calf in the position to be branded, vaccinated and if necessary castrated.  John and I were a flanking pair, so he caught the hind leg and I took the front leg. Some of the calves were quite big and a real challenge to catch and flank. All of this was a sensory overload-- cows and calves bawling for each other, dust stirred up by the cattle, the acrid stench of hair burned by the branding iron,  heat and sweat from strenous work, bruises from getting kicked by a calf, and manure on your jeans and boots from sitting on the ground in the corral.

At the end of the branding, I was exhausted, tired and dusty with manure stains on the back of my jeans, but I had the satisfaction of knowing I had passed the branding test.  It was my first of many experiences on the Doherty ranch!

What's in a Name

We all value our name and have special names for others we care for.  Our fathers each had a rather unique nicknames.  My father-in-law's name was John Franklin but he went by Tanky.  The story goes that his sister could not say his middle name Franklin so she called him Tanky, which has remained the name that everyone who knew him at all called him. In the broader family circle there were five members named John including him:  his father, his cousin, his son, and a nephew.  The family called his father Daddy John, he was Tanky, the community referred to his son a veterinarian as Dr. John, his cousin was John Albert and the nephew went by Johnny Jim.  When we had a son we knew for sure we did not want to name him John!  The family tradition of naming a child after the parent seemed like it had gone on long enough.

My father's given name was Marvin, but among close family he went by Squid, which is nothing close to his real name.   I'm not even sure of the origin of this moniker.  My mother and others referred to my dad by Squid, but his mother never would. Unlike my father-in-law's nickname that everyone used, my father's nickname of Squid caused confusion.  My mother would be talking about  her husband Marvin and then Dad would walk in and she would call him Squid leaving people scratching their heads in wonder.  So our kids have grandfathers named Tanky and Squid.

The women in our families seem to be in a quandary of what to be called.  Both of us have grandmothers named Mary and sisters with Mary as a first name as well, but who go by their middle names of Kathleen and Janette. So our sisters have gone through life being called by their first name, which they do not use. My grandmother Mary named her daughter Mary. My husband has two cousins named Mary after his grandmother in addition to his sister. My mother-in-law is Joan, but it sounds like Joann and her daughter is named Joann spelled like you would expect.  My husband has a great-aunt and an aunt named Charline. He also has an aunt Georgia who named her daughter Georgia.  So like with the men in the family, we decided on something different for our daughter--Jennifer.  I only knew one little girl named Jennifer when she was born.  When she went to college, I think there were six Jennifers on her floor in the dorm!

Names are a reflection of our heritage and our times and every family has its own treasures.

China Cups

My mother had beautiful ivory china plates rimmed in gold encircled with a lovely green wreath of leaves around the edge, but not cups and saucers to match.  However, the eclectic patterns of the various cups provided a special charm because each cup had a story.  My grandparents spent part of the winter in Arizona in their later years and each year Grandma brought her daughters-in-law a new china cup and saucer. One cup had pink, purple and white sweet peas twining around the cup, one blossomed with lily of the valley and another had magenta and pink roses adorning the sides with a rosebud peeking down the inside rim. One of my aunt's mother hand painted china and my mother had several of her cups.  These cups were more ornate in their shape and painted with delicate wild roses or lily of the valley.  One even had three golden curved legs and a broad open bowl. A deep yellow cup adorned with purple, burgandy and yellow pansies had gold trim with a gold interior.  One of mother's aunts gave her an elegant mocha bordered cup.  The favorite cup of all had a petite pattern of pink and blue cross-stitched  roses.  This dainty cup nipped inwards near the rim before fluting open wider giving a pleasing silhouette which also helped keep the coffee from cooling too quickly. Part of the fun at a family dinner was waiting to see which cup your coffee came in, and this cup was always the one each woman wanted to have because if it's delicate pattern and shape. ( I doubt the men took any note of which cup they were given.)

When I was a teenager, Grandma began bringing me a china cup and saucer as well.  I have one with dramatic red, pink and yellow roses, while tiny pink rosebuds decorate the entire outer surface on another cup. Because I love pansies, my daughter has given me several cups with these pretty purple and yellow flowers on the sides. She surprised me once on my birthday by flying in from Indiana bringing a hand-painted china tea pot, mug and teabag holder with pansies painted by a friend of hers at work.  From her world travels she also brought home a cup and saucer swirled with rich blue rose and gold from Estonia.  My sister gave me a demitasse cup in an elegant design from her visit to France, and I have several demitasse cups, one with violets and one with rosebuds from Winnipeg, Canada when I traveled with an aunt and uncle of mine.  When my husband's grandmother passed away, I received a diminutive hand painted cup with a spring green trim above a row of tiny pink roses from her collection with a note on the bottom indicating it had belonged to an aunt of hers.

My husband and I enjoy antiquing and I am drawn to the china cups I see as we visit our favorite antique stores.  Once I saw a cup just like the favorite cross-stitched one of my mother's and did not buy it, wishing later that I had.  The next time I saw that cup, I did not hesitate in my purchase, so now I have that favorite for my very own.  Even though it is not Mother's cup, it is just like it. Mom also gave me one of her hand painted cups, so the collection grows adding stories and memories.

 Below the china display shelf are pegs with mugs each telling it's own story.  One hand-painted by my aunt Gertie, who was an artist, with Mary and her little lambs and her pet name for me.  The mug is chipped and cracked but dearly loved. A black mug with a gold Mickey Mouse from Disney World reminds me of my son and daughter-in-law's honeymoon.  Another in navy blue with a gold Parker Ranch in Hawaii logo represents their visit to the ranch as part of her previous job responsibilities. A rugged pottery cup with Colorado mountains and a pretty flowered mug are mementos from my daughter's senior trip when I was the class sponsor. And finally a set of six artisan pottery cups in blue and brown swirled stripes from my son and daughter-in-law from her hometown of Salida, which I use for cappuccinos every Saturday morning. 

I delight in the beauty of each of these cups or mugs and am reminded of the people and places that I have known and visited. I am blessed to have so many wonderful memories.

Memories generation after generation

This weekend we celebrated our oldest grandson's seventh birthday. As usual, family and friends gathered for a meal, cake and ice cream and gifts. One couple's dog had caught a baby bunny that they rescued from the dog's jaws.  They brought the bunny to the party for the kids to see.  The little cottontail bunny's experiences spanned quite a range of surprises from a morning with its mother, out of the jaws of a dog, and into the hands of delighted children.  The bunny sat quietly in the hands that held him, from one child to another as they oohed and ahhed over his soft fur, his tiny nose that wiggled, and ears laid back.

After the older children had held the bunny, they were off to play with each other.  However, our youngest grandson, a two-year-old, was enamoured with the bunny and didn't want to part with him.  He insisted on holding the bunny delighting in his whiskers, his ears perking up, and his every move.  Occasionally I reminded him to hold the tiny animal gently, to which he responded he was just loving the bunny.  I suggested that he might love the bunny a little more softly.  A large bucket with hay held the bunny while we ate and opened gifts.  Our little one decided the bunny needed something to eat too, so his mom found a carrot and some fresh spinach to put in with the bunny.

The next day, a Sunday, the rabbit was still the focus of their attention.  Our three grandsons had the bunny  on their laps, or on the floor so he could scoot around between their outstretched legs.  They decided to build a little home for the rabbit out of giant legos.  The bunny didn't seem afraid just curious with all the new experiences.  They even asked and were give permission to take the bunny to church to show their friends there.

All this brought back memories of my childhood when Dad brought baby bunnies home for us to raise.  Our kids also had the same experience because Dad gave them a bunny he found while haying.  And now a third generation later, the children can experience the wonder of God's creation and care for it as well. 

Summer at Aunt Mary's

Every summer, my two older cousins and I spent a week with Aunt Mary, my dad's younger sister who did not have children at the time. Aunt Mary and my uncle lived on a farm  about 70 miles from the ranch, but the surroundings made it seem a world away.  The elevation dropped about 2,000 feet in that 70 miles and water enabled things to grow and prosper.  My uncle farmed irrigated fields of corn and sugar beets.  Huge old cottonwood trees shaded the house and  lined the irrigation ditch.  Green foliage lushness, water and shade--all such a contrast to the sun bleached windswept prairie of gramma grass growing on the treeless plains surrounding the ranch. We savored every minute of our time in this paradise.

We loved climbing the massive old cottonwood trees and because of the abundance of these trees, we each had a tree that we claimed as our own "house."  We nailed boards for steps onto the trunk to climb up to the massive horizontal branches. The view from high up offered a perspective of many areas of the farm, so we could observe the comings and goings of activity while concealed in the leafy branches. We spent hours in the trees shouting to each other, climbing around to different branches.  The spindly Chinese Elm trees at home in the windbreak couldn't offer such a hide-out.

Messing around in the water occupied hours of our time as well.  The large irrigation ditch had a board to cross and was deep and fast enough that my aunt did not feel comfortable letting us into the ditch.  But we made boats to send down the ditch and threw rocks to splash in the ditch.  We weren't used to moving water--any water at home was in a metal tank pumped by the windmill.

Aunt Mary made sure we had some special fun times while we were with her.  She usually took us into town to the swimming pool once during our time there.  Since we did not have an outdoor pool in our hometown, we basked in the sun-warmed water at the pool.  Once she even arranged for  us ride the train, consisting of the engine, one car and the caboose, from their small community into town about seven miles away. We felt special and enjoyed our week at her house for a break from the summer routine at home.

Adjusting to Country Life

Lately I have read several books about city women adjusting to living in the country:  Fifty Acres and a Poodle, Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl, and Black Heels to Tractor Wheels.The first two books relate the experiences of two different city couples who choose to move to the country and how they cope with living a rural lifestyle, raising animals, and doing some farming.  In the third book, a city girl tells her story of meeting a rancher, falling in love and marrying him.  She experiences a multitude of adjustments because she moves into his sphere.

 It isn't surprising for a county guy to marry a city girl--there aren't that many country girls.  Even in my marriage with all the similarities between our two families and operations, there were still many differences which meant adjustments. Our daughter lived in a rural setting growing up near the family ranch, but her new situation as a ranch wife brings with it many new experiences as well. As my husband notes, life is a series of adjustments!

Distance proves a challenge for everyone new to the country.  Distance means more time spent getting to everything--the grocery store, school, appointments. Growing up for me, twenty miles meant half an hour getting to town, but on my husband's family ranch the trip to town took twice as long. So instead of traffic jams you deal with long stretches of empty roads, my preference any day.  Planning and anticipating needs is essential whether it means making a list or a menu. You can't run to the store for that essential recipe ingredient or for pepto bismol. I learned to plan menus for several weeks at a time and I kept the pantry well stocked. Distance also limits socializing; meeting someone for coffee or going out to lunch happens much less.  When visiting friends would offer to take us out to dinner in town, we usually declined preferring to have them eat at our house rather than drive an hour to get to the restaurant.

Dealing with animals brings a whole new perspective on life--and death.  The first thing my grandson asks about a new born calf is if it is alive. You also soon realize that you are not in control; animals get loose or  into things they shouldn't, and you can't wait until it is convenient to take care of the situation.  If you haven't seen branding or preg checking before it's an eye-opening experience.  My family always used a branding chute, but my husband's family flanked all the calves.  Our daughter has learned about chickens and pigs which we never raised.

Yes, life is as series of adjustments, but adjustments indicate learning and growing and I think that is a good thing!

Milking a Cow

Our son-in-law emailed us a picture of our daughter milking a cow today. She had opportunity to try her hand at milking a cow with her granddad as a kid, so it is not entirely new to her, but that was a long time ago. Her husband has been gathering the equipment for milking: an electric cream separator, a pasteurizer, butter churn, and directions on how to make various cheeses. So this is shaping up to be more than a one-time experience for them.

When I went to school, we learned about where our milk came from.  The book showed a pristine dairy where cows were cleaned and milked by machines in sanitary conditions tended by men in white uniforms.  The milk was loaded into shiny silver milk trucks, pasteurized, put into containers and sold at the store.  None of this matched the picture of what went on in our barn. We had one milk cow.  You do not milk a cow when you need milk or if it fits into your schedule; you milk a cow twice a day regardless.  My dad eased his work load by putting two bull calves in with the cow in the mornings so he did not have to milk, plus these calves  really grew with the added nutrition.  At night, he would milk the hobbled cow who was switching her tail back and forth, surrounded by meowing cats, waiting for their share of the warm milk. Once he finished milking the cow, he would pour some steaming milk into a pan for the cats and hang the bucket of milk on a peg above the pen where the cats could not reach it.  Once we had finished feeding and brushing our calves, one of us took it to the house to mom.  I tested centrifugal force on my way to the house with the bucket, swinging it around horizontally and finally vertically over my head.  I never did loose any milk.

I can remember mom using a cream separator which swirled the milk separating the cream into one container and milk into another.  The machine worked very well, but cleaning it was time consuming, so before long the machine sat idle. (As an adult, I asked my dad if I could have the cream separator, and he thought I was crazy.  Now it sits by my back door holding flowers.)  Mom would strain the warm milk through cheesecloth into a gallon glass jar.  When the milk cooled, the cream rose to the top so she could skim the cream off and we drank the milk.  Mom used soured cream to make tender  sour cream cinnamon twist rolls and an awesome sour cream chocolate cake.  After dad quit milking and she did not have the cream, she didn't make the rolls or cake any longer because she did not realize that you could use commercial sour cream, which was nothing like our sour cream.

When we moved back my husband's family ranch on his grandparents place shortly after we graduated from college, my husband had a cow to milk.  He milked first thing in the morning and the milk cow could be quite contrary, which did not get the day off to a good start.  I used the same approach to taking care of the milk as my mother did straining it into a gallon jar.  I made butter using a blender--quick and easy pressing the buttermilk out of the butter and shaping it into cubes.  The butter was delicious on our homemade bread. I also made cottage cheese, which turned out better some times than others.  There were times when it turned so rubbery that I think it would have bounced! I remember reading our kids a book about people who had car trouble and got help from a nearby farmer.  The children in the story were amazed to see the cow and the milking process because they thought milk came from a carton.  My son looked up from the book and asked me, "Mom, what is a carton?"  He had no idea because that was not how our milk came to the house.

 We enjoyed having the milk, but I know that milking was not an enjoyable task for my husband. It is such a daily task! Our son and daughter-in-law would also like a milk cow for their family's needs as well.  It will be interesting to see how all of this works out in this next generation.

Dating as a Country Girl

In high school when I was old enough to date, I faced some challenges my city classmates didn't--twenty miles.  In my high school of 1200 students, only about ten of us lived outside the city limits. You either lived close, or way out, and we were way out. We only went to town for church on Sundays and one other day of the week for groceries or appointments.  This distance limited our extra curricular activities and that included dating.  My dad was delighted at this prospect, but I agonized over it. Any boy who wanted to take me out for a date had to drive 20 miles out to the ranch to pick me up.  Then we would drive back into town to a movie or activity and another 20 miles back to the ranch.  Finally, my date would drive the 20 miles back to town for an 80 mile round trip.  For a guy counting his pennies, the additional gas money made dating me a less attractive proposition.  Then there were the guys whose mothers didn't want their little boys out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. 

O woe, woe! That was until I met John.  Now compared to where John grew up, I lived in the suburbs.  His family ranch in southern Colorado was 45 miles out of town and 20 miles from school, located in a very small community consisting of two churches, a post office and a few homes.  The kids in his family participated in every school activity because each person was essential to make it happen. So after we had met in Kansas City, John was not put off by the fact that we were 65 miles apart.  In fact that was close since he was attending CSU and not at home, 365 miles from my house! He drove up to the ranch to pick me up, back into town, then home again to the ranch and then the long lonely trip back to college--a round trip of 170 miles, over twice what the local boys were willing to do. This delighted me on multiple levels, an awesome guy and willing to make the effort.

So twenty miles out in the country didn't deter the right guy, and I only needed one!

Meet Me in Kansas City!

In the fall of my senior year of high school, I attended the American Junior Hereford convention held in Kansas City during the American Royal Livestock show. As secretary of the Wyo. Junior Hereford Association, I went as one of the delegates to the convention. The other Wyo. delegates, which included my older cousin, and our sponser were to fly out of Denver on the evening of my high school homecoming football game.  I had been asked to homecoming for a first date by guy I had liked for some time, making this a special date. Our flight left that evening, so unfortunately we were only able to attend the game. Troubles with the flight out of Denver meant that we arrived in Kansas City much later than expected, acutally just in time for the morning session of the convention. Euphoria from the nignt before and weariness from the trip swirled together in my mind during those opening sessions as I struggled without success to stay awake. However, I did make a mental note of the handsome tall blonde delegate from Colorado who was one of the presenters.

Lunch sponsered by a registered breeder from Nebraska included a slide show presentation on his operation.  Following the lunch and presentation, delegates filed by thanking the  host for his generosity.  Near the last of the line, I thanked the host family and started the walk back to the hotel for the afternoon sessions.  As it happened, the Colorado delegate I had noticed that morning was just behind me in the line and joined me for the walk. As we walked we found out about each other.  His name was John and he was attending CSU planning on going to vet school.  His family ranching operation had many similarities to ours including extended family and cousins. We sat together during the afternoon sessions, enjoying each other's company which resulted in his asking me to the dance that evening.  I was delighted but also somewhat mortified because I had very little experience dancing, and certainly not western dancing. Thankfully, my paltry dancing skills did not deter him and we spent every available moment together during the rest of the convention.

All too soon, the convention came to a close and it was time to part and head back home.  The Wyoming delegation was scheduled to fly out of Kansas City an hour before the Colorado group, so we came up with a plan for me to trade seats with one of the other Colorado delegates enabling us to fly to Denver together.  The Wyoming group had a layover in Denver before catching the flight to Cheyenne where my cousin and the girl who traded seats with me were to have someone to take them back to UW in Laramie.  Our plan would have worked out just fine except that a severe thunderstorm in Kansas City delayed the Colorado flight, which created a domino effect of complications.

The first group arrived in Denver just fine, but since the Colorado flight was delayed, I missed the flight to Cheyenne.  John's younger brother, a freshman at CSU who had used his car while John was in Kansas City, was supposed to bring the car to the airport to take him and others back to Ft. Collins.  However, he had an accident with his brother's car and so a fraternity brother was there to provide a ride instead. Oh my, how to work through all of the trouble we had created that faced us then. John ended up borrowing a car and taking me home to the ranch twenty miles beyond Cheyenne, a 130 mile round trip out of his way. My cousin assured my mother that he would not have let me trade seats if he had not thought John was a great guy.  Although my parents had little reason to put much confidence in the decision making of seventeen-, eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds, everything eventually worked out. 

  In coming years, our younger sisters eagerly anticipated attending the American Junior Hereford Association convention in Kansas City hoping for a similar experience.  However, each person's love story is unique, so none had the same experience there, and the homecoming date before Kansas City became a distant memory. Thus began a relationship that has lasted over 44 years!

Country Bible School

In our ranching community, everyone had to travel a number of miles to town, to school, shopping, church or to do anything.  Many did not go to church very often if at all because of the distance, so every summer my mother organized a Bible School for the country kids. Bible school was held in an old two-room school house that my dad had attended as a child. The school house sat lonely on the wide-open prairie, no other buildings in sight, no trees.  Two outhouses, one for boys and one for girls, anchored the barbwire fence which kept the curious cattle out of the small school yard.  The school had no running water either, so it seemed like an adventure to go back in time in these surroundings. We kids enjoyed getting together with our cousins and other neighborhood kids that we either had not seen since school was out, or saw rarely because we went to different schools than they did.

Bible school began in the afternoons after lunch with all ages together.  One child carried the American  flag, one the Christian flag and one in the middle carried a Bible in the opening ceremony in which we all recited the pledge of allegiance to each.  We then sang songs, accompanied by an adult playing on the old upright piano left behind. We vigorously acted out the songs with motions, Praise Ye the Lord Hallelujah, Deep and Wide, Happy All the Time,  or robustly belted the lively tunes like I Have the Joy, Joy, Joy.

 We separated into two age groups, one for the younger kids and one for the older ones.  An adult leader would share a Bible lesson with questions for us to answer.  We would memorize verses from the lesson.  Each group had an age-appropriate craft that reflected what the story was about.  We would take a break after this going outside to have kool-aide and cookies that our moms had baked, each taking a turn to bring refreshments.  Outside we played games such as Red Rover or tag burning up  restless energy before coming back in for a final large group session to summarize what we had learned. We had Bible Drills where we tried to be the fastest to find a verse in the Bible, or contests to see who could recite the memory verse for that day. We always had a missionary story and offering for that endeavor. Stories of sharing the gospel in foreign countries fascinated us with the unknown cultures and customs.

 Bible school went on for two weeks in mid-summer.  On the final day we had a program, inviting our dads and grandparents.  Many a child in that rural area heard the gospel in Bible school for the first time, and in following summers.  The seeds were planted for understanding God's love and the path of salvation.  I know that these times helped me to understand biblical truths and impressed on me the importance of  missionary work around the world and in our own community. We always looked forward to these two weeks in the summer.  The adults who made this time possible will probably never know the impact on our young lives.

A Special Sense of Humor

My dad was a very quite reserved person, a man of few words, but that reserve camouflaged a wry sense of humor.  Rather than sing us to sleep, he would threaten to sing if we didn't go to sleep at night! His favorite song "Cranky Poodle" had humorous lyrics and a loud clap at one point that always surprised those who heard it for the first time: "Cranky Poodle bit my pa, cranky poodle done it, if there'd been a prize for runnin' fast, my pa would sure have won it!" Singing this song to a young cousin of mine who was riding in the front seat of the car next to him, Dad let loose of the steering wheel and clapped his hands together once very loudly while singing.  My cousin's eyes were wide with surprise and fear that the car would go off the road. 

Dad was in a play in grade school, a one-room schoolhouse out in the country.  His character had a very long name which he would rattle off many years later that we never could catch in its entirety:  Johonnas Hubbard Lubbard something something something Van Slackamore Jones.  He would quickly slide the words by when we were not prepared, so we never figured out what the middle part was.  His teasing smile and the twinkle in his eye let you know that he enjoyed this game, and he always won.  We never did catch all of it.  Mom made him promise to tape it so it would not be lost to posterity forever, but we cannot find the tape.  I am sure he is smiling as us even now.

The birthday spanking ritual was another of his favorite escapades.  All of us, cousins included, knew that we would get a birthday "spanking" from Dad.  He would put the birthday boy or girl over his knee and ask how old you were and then begin to give gentle swats for how many years old you were.  However, he would always stop part way through and ask again, "How old are you?" which meant he had to start over.  Then he would loose track of how many swats he had given you and have to start over.  The end result meant that you received many many more swats that you were years old.

Dad enjoyed wrestling on the floor with the younger kids.  My brother and sister would try to wrestle him, but he always managed to get them wrapped in his arms or legs. My sister was famous for squealing, "I can't breathe, I can't breathe!" when he would have her legs or arms pinned against the floor. Years later he wrestled with his grandchildren in similar fashion.  Everyone loved the fun of trying to be stronger than Dad or Grandpa.

Dad loved telling a good joke and was very effective with the punchline.  At one family gathering there was a tape recorder going during the dinner.  There were multiple conversations all muddled together, but everyone was silent when Dad spoke.  He did not talk a lot, but when he did, everyone wanted to make sure they heard what he had to say. Dad was a man of few words, but he made them count and enjoyed the result.

Baby Bunnies and Birds

In the summer when Dad was mowing in the hay fields, he would occasionally come across a nest with baby cottontail rabbits.  He would get off the tractor and catch a baby bunny or two and tuck them inside his plaid snap-closure work shirt.  After getting home in the late afternoon, he would come to the house with a slight smile on his face dusty from working in the field, reach inside his shirt and hand us the baby bunnies.  Their variegated brown fur, which camouflaged them well in the field, was soft to the touch covering their tiny frame. A tiny little puff of white fur for the cottontail tucked  under the bottom was only evident when they hopped along.  Their big brown eyes opened wide with wonder and fear, tiny noses quivered and short ears laid flat on their back.  They would try to hide under an arm or burrow in the fold of our clothes.

Since the basement was not yet finished at the time, we fixed up an enclosure with a piece of plywood blocking off a corner.  We used my brother's play barn and silo laid on its side covered with a towel to give the rabbits a place like a burrow to sleep and hide.  We fed the baby bunnies warm milk in a jar lid. After having their noses dunked in the milk , they quickly learned to drink it just like a cat would.  The bunnies eagerly awaited their milk, standing on their hind legs to get it sooner. Freshly picked grass from the yard and bits of lettuce and carrots supplemented their diets.  Because we gave them lots of attention playing with them daily, the bunnies were tame in no time. We would take them out on the front lawn to play, but we had to watch carefully to keep the cats and dog away. However, they also grew very fast and soon were too big to keep in the house, so we would release them out away from the house in the hopes that the cats would not get them. 

One summer, I had also rescued some baby sparrows from a nest that had fallen down in the barn.  It seemed logical to me to keep the birds in the enclosure with the bunnies since the sparrows weren't able to fly yet.  The birds and bunnies made for interesting roommates and watching them interact with each other was comical.  The birds would hop around the space stretching their fledgling wings.  The bunnies were curious but not very brave. This arrangement worked fine for a little while, but on coming home from church one Sunday, we found the sparrows roosting on the music rack on the piano upstairs. Mom had enough at that point and the animals were out of the house.  Any further attempts at keeping baby bunnies or birds had to be done outside in the garage or barn.

I enjoyed being able to have these experiences with wild animals, nurturing and caring for them.  I imagined being a naturalist  watching and  understanding animal ways;  life on the ranch allowed me glimpses of that life.

Feeding the Cats

I found this essay I wrote in college.

Feeding the Cats

With the curtains drawn the room glowed with a golden orange hue.  The warm color seemed to make the room unbearably hot and stuffy.  The men had all eaten and were leaning back in their chairs satisfied and silent, each enjoying the moments of rest before returning to the hay fields to finish stacking hay.  My mother began clearing away the dishes from the table.  The entire kitchen was cluttered with pans and cooking utensils.  The clutter added to the oppression of heat, silence and stuffiness.  Mom scraped scraps of food off into a pan and stacked the dishes on the table.

“I’ll take the scraps out to the barn for the cats,” I volunteered.  She hated having all the cats sitting on the door step meowing hungrily and managing to be continually underfoot, so she usually insisted they be fed in the barn,  a task which I didn’t particularly enjoy doing because it was just an extra trip.  But today, I wanted out of the house and she was a little surprised at me but said fine.  As I picked up the pan and headed out the door of the kitchen, my dad called after me:  I stopped to listen.

“Hey! County fair isn’t too far away; if you want those steers looking like anything, you’d better get with it out there.”  His voice was a warning command, not a mere suggestion.

“Yeah, I will.”  I started on out the porch door.

“Hey!”  I paused again getting impatient and wanting to go on out.  “Why don’t you put your steers and my heifer in the pens.  Give them some water and a flake of hay.”

“Okay.”  I was a little perturbed at having a job to do when I went to the barn.  I wanted to just sit there and play with the cats.  I went on out the door towards the barn kicking the gravel as I went along, thinking to myself what a lot of trouble the calves were, wishing that brushing wasn’t one of those vital ingredients to a champion steer.  But Dad was the boss, and what he said went.

The barn was a special place.  The walls were made of cement blocks with large many-paned windows evenly -spaced all around.  A big hayloft and oats bin stretched the full length of the barn, making it a haven for sparrows.  The barn had a high wooden wall dividing it; the north part was a large open pen converted into a sale arena in the fall and a storage area for feed equipment.  The south half had an alley down the middle with pens lining either side.  It was quiet and airy, a slight breeze stirred the dust in the alley, flies buzzed and bounced against the windows.  I unlatched the gate to the pen where hay and straw were piled.

“Here kittykittykitty.”  Immediately cats emerged from everywhere, from on top of the hay, in holes left between bales, the hay loft, outside, just everywhere.  Meowing and standing on their hind legs, they begged to be fed.  When I set the pan down, they all stuck their heads in and made the pan invisible.  I went over to the corner of the pen and reached into a dark hole between two bales, sharp dried hay scratching my arm until I felt a warm furry ball.   Faint hisses drifted out of the dark hole as I intruded.  I pulled the kittens out one by one until all four were out blinking in the light.  Two were all white, one a tiger gray and the fourth black with a white streak on its forehead and white feet.  I lay down in the hay on my side, propping my head on my hand, and pulled the kittens up close to my body.  Awake, they were playful:  chasing after my fingers, attacking each other, tumbling and rolling.  Their fat little bodies and short legs made them clumsy and yet they would spring straight up in the air to pounce on each other.  I chuckled softly to myself; how much I enjoyed these kittens.  “Say, little one, come here,” I pulled the little black one closer rolling him over on his back, scratching his stomach gently.  He chewed on my finger and purred softly.  After playing with the kittens, little red welts appeared all over my hands and forearms where their tiny sharp claws had scratched.

The larger cats slowly finished eating the scraps and sat down to clean themselves, licking their paws and rubbing over their ears.  (I often wondered why their hair didn’t tickle their throat when the cleaned their furry coats with rough pink tongues.  I couldn’t stand to have a piece of hair in my mouth. )  Slowly the cats drifted around the kittens and me.  One settled down on my hip with her front paws curled under her, slanted eyes closed, purring loudly.  Another came close to my face, lightly touching my cheek with her tiny pink nose.  I talked softly to the cats, calling each one by its name, asking how its kittens were or if it had caught a ground squirrel that day.  It seemed petting them wasn’t enough, I had to talk with them and share feelings with each one.

I loved the cats.  They were clean and smelled good.  As I ran my hand down their silky coats that crackled with electricity, the cats purred with pleasure.  They would press against my hand as I scratched their ears.  The cats were independent, coming and going as they pleased.  I liked their arrogant manner that refused control and yet they freely offered their love to me.  In a sense, they were my people, my friends.

Being alone with the cats in the quite of the barn, I had no sense of time.  I felt we were enjoying and sharing together with no concern of what had happened prior to my coming to the barn and no feeling of urgency for anything to come.  Everything around me blended into one.  The cats, the barn, the flies buzzing in the quiet, prickly pieces of hay and the smell of animals were all a part of me, not something I could separate myself from.  There is a unique contentment and satisfaction found in being alone like that.  A warm feeling of happiness filled my body until it was full, not bursting, just full.  The vibrations from the purring cat’s body lying against mine soothed me into a floating sleep, letting my mind free from everything except a deep satisfaction.

The bouncing rattle of a pickup driving into the yard broke the spell of oneness and timelessness.  Suddenly realizing I hadn’t gotten in the steers and heifer, I jumped up leaving a bunch of sleepy-eyed cats looking after me.  Afraid that my dad would come to the barn and find the job undone, I ran the steers into their pen and the heifer in hers, slamming the gates after them.  Nearly tripping over my own feet, I ran to the hay pen and grabbed several flakes of hay, covering the cats with a layer of hay.  I tossed the hay over the fence into the hay boxes and scrambled off to get buckets for water.  Even on full force the water wasn’t filling the buckets fast enough; half-full buckets, I reasoned, would look like the cattle had been in a long time and drunk some of the water.  In my haste, I sloshed water all over my legs and shoes.  After putting the buckets in the pens, I took a brush and comb to brush up the steers.

As I began brushing one steer, I glanced out the window to see if my dad was coming.  I couldn’t believe it; the pickup wasn’t even ours-- someone else had stopped by!  I had done all that frantic rushing for nothing.  I looked around the pen and there sat several cats on their haunches on the fence looking at me.

“You think it’s funny don’t you?”  I laughed at them.  I went over to the hay box and plopped myself down to catch my breath.  One by one the cats came down, pressing their warm bodies against mine, asking for attention.

My Grandparent's House

My grandparents lived on the ranch half a mile away from our house.  The white rectangular house with shutters and awnings on the windows had a front door flanked by two large evergreen trees.  On the west side of the front yard stood a tall Chinese Elm tree anchoring the white picket fence leading to the back door.  The garage stood across the side of the driveway along the fence to the barn corrals.  The traditional red barn with white trim served as the center point for the surrounding corrals in every direction.  Trees on the north and west helped to buffer the stiff Wyoming winds.

 Evidently, as a three-year-old, I decided to go through the pasture to visit Grandma, never thinking that my absence might worry my mother. Needless to say, my parents were frantic wondering where I was.  My dad searching for me had walked all around our house, barn and trees and then down to Grandma's.  As I hear the story,  I received  a switching with a pig weed on my little bare legs on the walk home.  The message was clear and I did not go on my own again until I was older, and then only if my folks knew I was going.

We could either follow the gravel road, which went north over the cattle guard down a steep hill through the pasture over another cattle guard and a turn to the west, or diagonally northwest through the bull pasture.  If we walked, we followed the pickup trail through the pasture because it was shorter.  If we rode bikes, we went by the road because the pasture was too rough for bike riding.  The hill down from our house made for a swift and easy ride to Grandma's, but the up-hill trip home presented more of a challenge.  You felt pretty big when you could ride your bike all the way up instead of getting off to push the bike. In the spring and summer, we would pick wild yellow sweet peas, bluebells and little white and purple flowers to offer Grandma.  On the way home, we would pick more flowers for mom. Occasionally we rode the horse, but it was more effort to catch the horse even going bareback because there were gates to open and close to get there.

We loved going to Grandma's house. She always had fresh cookies: sour cream sugar cookies, soft cinnamon spice cookies, or raisin-filled cookies and a pitcher of kool-aid.  And then there was the candy dish.  We were strictly instructed that we could not ask for candy, but there was no restriction on asking what was in the candy dish.  The result of that question was an offer to have a piece--which we had technically not asked for! If Mom wanted us home, she would ring the ranch phone (a phone line strung across the fence posts between the four ranches) one ring for Grandma and Grandpa's house.  The way each person cranked the ringer gave a clue to who was calling.  Grandma knew it was mom calling for us to come home, so she would send us out the door before answering the phone, telling Mom we were already on our way.

Living close to my grandparents was a special treat in many ways, and  I am thankful for the times that we spent together.

Playground Games

Recess ranks as a favorite part of school for nearly every child. We all had to wear our coats out to recess unless it was 70 degrees or higher, which the teacher on duty enforced vigilantly. Likewise, if there was snow on the ground or it was raining, you could not get off the sidewalk unless you had on boots to keep your feet dry and warm. Each grade had a certain area of the playground to burn off energy before returning to the classroom. A thick layer of gavel coated the playground which provided material to scoop and create perimiters for rooms as we played house during recess.  We also liked to play rhythmic clapping and singing with partners.  These elaborate routines included clapping, crossing hands to meet your partner's hands and slapping your legs in a variety of formations.

  Giant  swings with deep grooves worn by many small shoes dragging swung in high arcs with daredevil children pumping as high as they could to make the swing chains jerk with their weight.  Monkey bars were popular as well, but because girls were required to wear dresses to school, you needed to have slacks under your skirt if you were climbing around and hanging upside down. Girls also played a lot of jump rope, singing songs as we jumped one after another with two people swinging the rope. We tried to outdo each other by how many times we could jump without missing. Girls and boys did not play together by choice--we didn't like the same games in the primary grades.

 What I most remember doing and enjoying was playing jacks, sitting on the cold hard sidewalks bouncing the ball and picking up one more jack each turn or tossing the ball up, picking up the prescribed number of jacks without letting the ball bounce. Another level of difficulty included "Around the World" which meant you had to circle the bouncing ball with your hand before picking up the jacks.  The boys played marbles, so there was some competition for space on the sidewalks around the playground.

By the time fifth grade rolled around, the playground had parallel bars.  Our hands were not used to swinging across the bars, so we quickly got blisters.  These white liquid pockets would pop and peel back leaving stinging raw spots on our palms.  This made writing in class after recess excruciating.  Even with the pain, we kept at it day after day until we had tough callouses and strong arms.

Missing recess because of school work not done or being sick was lonely and depressing.  Having to spend recess inside because of weather meant no one burned off energy, so we were figity all day. Expending the pent up energy from sitting in class working at our desks settled us down for another session of work.  I cannot imagine school without recess! 

Starting School

I did not learn everything I needed to know in kindergarten.  In fact, I did not attend kindergarten.  Because we lived twenty miles from town and the school bus only made the trip once in the morning to take children to school and once in the later afternoon to return the children home, there was no choice but to miss out on the first year of school that all of my classmates were experiencing. The bus, an eight-passenger two-door vehicle that required the front passenger to get out and tip up the seat so others could get into the back, drove into our yard at 7:30 in the morning.  As the youngest of seven who rode the bus, I sat in the middle front next to the bus driver for the 45 minute drive to school.

 I started school as a first grader at Clark Elementary just across the street from the high school in town. The two first grade classrooms were an addition onto the north side of the original red brick two story square building.  The bank of windows along the north side gave a clear view of the high school and the street where the buses came to deposit and pick up students from both schools.  The first graders had an entrance reserved just for them with ample space to help little ones with their snow boots and jackets.  My teacher was a lovely woman named Miss Story whom I adored and looked up to. Years later when I was in high school and had occasion to visit my former teacher, I was surprised at her diminutive stature; time had altered my perspective!

Life at school was certainly different from life at home on the ranch.  At lunch time, we all lined up and marched across the street to the high school cafeteria for lunch.  The cafeteria was on the third floor lined with long wooden tables end-to end.  Each student took a metal tray and slid it down the line for the cooks to fill a plastic partitioned tray with the lunch menu which always included a small carton of milk and a dinner roll dipped in greasy melted butter. On the first day when I sat down with my lunch, I patiently waited for someone to say the blessing as we did before every meal at home.  No one prayed; everyone else was eating and chatting away.  I decided to eat my lunch as well.  We did not have milk from cartons at home.  Milk came from the cow in the barn, brought to the house in a bucket and strained through a cloth into a large jar. Town water tasted funny too.  Ours came pumped by the windmill into a storage tank and then into the house. No one could leave the cafeteria without eating everything on their tray and drinking all of the milk.  Meals like chop suey or a dish of prunes made this a real challenge.

 I learned to read from Dick and Jane readers and began my lifetime of loving books.  I do not have many other memories of times in first grade other than once when I found myself in trouble.  I took Jocko, a monkey puppet that I had been given, to school with me.  Not surprisingly, I was playing with him, entertaining classmates seated close to me.  Miss Story did not appreciate this interruption; I was reprimanded and sent to the corner to contemplate my misdeed.  I was unaccustomed to being in such a situation, and it never happened again.  I was a model student desiring very much to please my teacher and my parents.  Overall, I loved school and found that I enjoyed learning and playing with my friends.