Horses

Horses were not a large part of ranch life for our operation when I was growing up.  The rolling Wyoming gramma grass prairie is treeless, perfect for grazing cattle and easily navigated in the pickup truck.  Our pastures were small to accommodate small groups of registered Hereford bulls, which needed to be separated into groups to keep their fighting to a minimum.  When Dad fed his bulls twice daily, he would hook the feed bunk to the back of the truck and drag it to where the bulls were in the pasture, or he would send us kids out on foot to bring the bulls into the corrals around the barn to be fed.  So we did not have horses around that we rode to do the daily work.

My grandfather gave me a horse when I was five years old.  My two older cousins got matching white and red paint Shetland ponies and mine was brown with black and a little white named Shorty. Dad kept his mane shaved except for a handhold at the base of his neck giving him a bristly look.  I am sure this made keeping his mane tangle and burr free easier, but it meant no mane for a little girl to brush through like the toy ponies in the store.  Shetland ponies are just the right size for a child; however, their temperament is anything but child suited.    My dad would saddle Shorty and get me settled on his back.  I am sure that Dad did not just turn me loose to ride Shorty in the beginning, but  most of my  memories are ones riding by myself and are not pleasant ones.  I did not have fantasies about horses like many young girls; I had realities of scrapes and bruises.

Shorty seemed quite determined to dislodge any child-sized person off his back  before the end of the intended ride was finished.  Windbreaks of caragania trees, scotch pines, juniper trees and Chinese elms protected the house and barn from the stiff Wyoming winds.  These trees offered Shorty a convenient means of scraping me off his back.  I was not strong enough or big enough to convince that child-sized  horse that I was in charge, so when he decided he had enough, that was it.  If the trees were not convenient, the clothes line was a possibility as well.  Out in the pasture the barbwire fence could be quite effective as a deterrent to continue the ride.  Having several kids on his back bareback could prompt him to rear up and dump one rider off the back and then kick up his heels to dump the other rider off over his head.  I did not look forward to riding Shorty, but Dad seemed certain that I could make Shorty behave.  By the time I was confident and strong enough to show him I was boss, Shorty was not a big enough horse for me. 

There were other horses on the ranch over the years that I had good experiences on, but horseback riding was never a favorite pastime for me.  I am sure those early memories did not help my perspective.  My husband's family ranch is rugged with hills, rocks and trees that requires riding horses to work the cattle on a regular basis. All the kids started riding young on old trustworthy horses and had mostly good experiences to build on. Our grandsons ride a gentle horse that our son has ridden for years. Our daughter-in-law gives the boys riding lessons, making sure that they know how to handle the horse and how to handle themselves on the horses. Thankfully, their experiences will be much different from mine. 

Barn Adventures

The barn  offered various options for entertaining me and my cousins as children.  The hayloft filled with hay provided a wonderful place to let our imaginations soar. A ladder on the center partition was the only way to reach the loft from the ground level. With the only light provided by the windows below in the barn, the dimly lit space was secretive.  Protected from the Wyoming wind the hayloft offered a warm space to play on the bales when the weather outside was less than hospitable.  We would rearrange a few bales to make a cozy spot to crawl in and pretend it was a secret hideout.  The stacked bales also made it possible to access to the air vents in the roof which turned with the wind. We were on top of the ranch world from that vantage point.  The hayloft was open on each side to the cattle pens down below so bales could be tossed down as needed throughout the year and giving a bird's eye view of the activities on the ground level. When we had cousins visiting from out of state, one of the cousins did not catch on to the fact that you could not go down off the side at just any point and ended up hanging off the edge yelling for help. He was rescued in time to prevent an injury from falling from that distance.

The hayloft took up two-thirds of the upper level of the barn.  The other partition was a boarded up the sides to make an oats bin to store oats raised on the ranch. This bin had a lever in the ceiling of the ground level in the center of the alley which could be opened over the bed of a truck.  When the bin was fairly full we would jump from the top of the wall into the grain below, which shifted and slid when we hit it.  Depending on how full the bin was, it could be quiet a jump and took some courage to make the leap.  The itchy and dusty oats made a bath before bed a necessity.

The south side of the barn had two rows of pens separated by an alleyway where dad kept his show cattle.  Made of 1 x 6 inch planks, the top board of the pens was ideal for perfecting the balancing act of walking the entire length of the barn without falling off. Each pen had a hay manger next to the gate into the alleyway with a feed box on each end to feed individual animals.  These hay mangers were favorite spots for the cats to have their kittens.  They could tuck the kittens in under the feed box and yet have a safe place for their babies to scamper about without being trampled by the bulls.  In the spring we enjoyed the treasure hunt of finding the new litters of kittens.

The barn was used to store feed in sacks until my dad would need to refill his feed box, a  long wooden bin divided into multiple sections covered with a hinged lid.  Grain draws mice, so in addition to the multitude of cats in the barn there was a mouse trap.   This specialized mouse trap consisted of a metal box with a tunnel through the center.  When a mouse scurried through the trap, it flipped the mouse to one side of the box or the other--alive.  We checked it frequently to see if an unfortunate mouse was imprisoned.  On more than one occasion, we would find a mother mouse who had birthed her babies in confinement.  These hairless babies fascinated us and we even tried raising some with a dripper.

When I had guests from town, I always showed them the barn.  Unfamiliar with the smells associated with animals, they would usually wrinkle their noses at first, but when we began exploring the hayloft, the oats bin and other areas of the barn, they usually forgot their discomfort and reveled in the new experience.  The barn provided a place of adventure, learning, and discovery for me and others.  We did not need to have someone provide entertainment, we just let our imaginations lead us.

Filling the Hayloft

The barn on the ranch  was at its peak on sale day, but it was fully utilized all throughout the year. Situated above the sale ring, a large hayloft brimmed with bales stacked high from the summer crop. Most of the haying was done on our part of the ranch and it was a family affair. My dad and uncles ran the machinery that would cut the hay, rake to pull it into rows after it dried to the optimum level, and then use the baler to to form individual bales, which it plopped out at regular intervals onto the field. Two lengths of yellow baling twine tightly held each grayish-green rectangular bale together. Loading and stacking these bales from the field to the hayloft provided plenty opportunity for my boy cousins to build their muscles and deepen their tans as they stuck each  fifty-plus pound bale from the field with a hay hook and tossed them to the truck where other cousins would stack the bales.

 Then the loaded truck went to the barn where the transfer to the hayloft transpired.  A long elevator angled from the ground up to the hayloft doors pulling bales from the truck up to the loft where the guys began stacking at the back of the barn from the hayloft floor to near the roof.  Each layer of bales was stacked perpendicular to the previous layer providing stability. In the summer, the hayloft air was dense and heavy with the sweet grassy smell intensified by the heat under the roof and lack of air movement. Stacking hay in the loft was hot and dusty work, and the guys frequently joked that they needed to remember how warm this was when they were dealing with the bitter cold in the winter. Because there were three men and four boy cousins big enough to help, I never had to drive a tractor or stack bales.  This was the men's work. 

My mom and I were responsible for keeping them fed. We baked cookies and took the guys a snack and cool drinks in mid-morning and again in the afternoon out in the field or at the barn, which was a welcome break from the kitchen for me.  We provided a substantial  meal at noon  such a meatloaf, scalloped potatoes, jello, green beans, a dessert and gallons of iced tea. And we washed lots of dishes. One summer for my 4-H bread baking project,  I had to make two loaves nearly every day of haying to meet the project requirements.  The guys ate both loaves each day.  My dad observed that the boys were so full that they were not nearly as much help after lunch as they were as before.  Mom even left me to do the cooking for the haying crew one summer when I was twelve while she went to a cousin's wedding in California.  I learned a lot about cooking for a crew in those days!

Times have certainly changed on the ranch.  It does not take a family crew to put up the hay because there are machines designed to do most of the work.  The hayloft sits empty and big round bales stacked by a forklift line the edge of the field.  There is no need for a big noon meal to feed a crew of hungry guys, and any dishes used are loaded into the dishwasher. I doubt that the guys miss the hot, dirty work, and the women do not miss spending all day cooking and washing dishes. But many good memories remain  of a family joining efforts to accomplish a big project.

Sale Day

Every year on the family ranch we had a sale to market the bulls that my dad and uncles had raised.  My cousins, siblings and I enjoyed the event for many reasons,  never really understanding all the effort and stress our parents experienced to make it happen.

  Preparations began in early September with transforming the barn on our part of the ranch into the sale ring.  The large barn had two distinct partitions to it.  The south side had an alleyway lined with pens for two animals each where my dad kept his show cattle and a feed pen.  On the north side was a large open pen using two-thirds of the area with the rest used for storing equipment and feed sacks.  This side had bleacher-type seats pulled up to the bottom of the hayloft above and an auctioneer's stand raised above the ground level of the pen below.  For the sale, the large pen was cleaned out and the  auctioneer's stand set at the back wall and the seats were lowered to form a semi-circle.  The men built a wire grid fence for the sale ring. This provided a fantastic venue for us kids to play, especially a game of team tag.  We would dash up and down the seats chasing each other, ducking through the seats to avoid being caught. If  tagged, we had to go into the sale ring and wait until someone else on our side came to free us. Amazingly enough I do not remember anyone getting hurt with this wild and crazy chase.

 Daily after the school bus would drop all of the cousins off at our house, we would play tag until our parents finished for that day. The women cleaned the seats where the sparrows had roosted for the last year or washed the barn windows. The men were fencing, fixing and getting things in order for the big day.  To the adults, sale meant intense preparations.  To the kids, sale was fun and games.  One time, when we were younger, we decided that it would be fun to pound the knotholes out of the bleacher seats.  Though this was quite entertaining to us, my dad was not amused as this made sitting on seats with holes less comfortable.  Unfortunately for me, I faced the discipline for this caper after my cousins had gone home.

We got to miss school on sale day, which was delightful from our perspective.  The day began early in the morning before sunrise.  The men brought the bulls in from the pastures and put them into various pens outside the barn to feed them and to start getting them groomed for the sale.  We kids were the errand runners taking homemade cinnamon rolls and coffee out to the workers and getting anything else that we might be instructed to accomplish.  Prospective buyers began arriving shortly after daybreak to look over the different animals and begin making decisions on which bull would be the best fit for their herd. 

The women served lunch to everyone before the sale began at one in the afternoon.  Our mothers fixed barbecued beef sandwiches, salads and a dessert.  There was a soda dispenser for drinks that we kids thought was awesome, never realizing that our parents had to pay for all that we were drinking as well.

At the end of the day, everyone was exhausted.  We kids had played ourselves out and filled up with soda.  Our mothers had fed over a hundred people and cleaned up after them.  Our dads had seen the result of a year's hard work.  Sale day was the culmination of their efforts and the majority of the ranch income for the year--a big day for all of us.

Make It Do

One of my husband's favorite sayings is "use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without."  This quotation reflects an attitude that both of us grew up with on our respective family ranches. We were conservative with resources because they were limited or not easily accessible.  Most ranchers do not choose to ranch for the money or the ease of the work, but because they enjoy working with the animals and the lifestyle for raising a family.  Town was twenty miles away for me growing up, but we only went to town on Sunday for church and one other day for groceries or other commitments like music lessons or a doctor's appointment.  This meant that if you did not have the ingredient for a recipe, you either figured out a substitute or didn't make it. This also encouraged creativity to come up with ideas of how to use what we did have to meet our needs.  It is amazing what you can fix with baling wire and duct tape!

  Now, even in the city, we try use our resources efficiently. I hang clothes out on the line to dry rather than watching the electric meter whiz around, plus I like being outside in the yard. I love the fresh smell of line-dried sheets and I'm willing to deal with towels that are not quite as soft as those from the dryer because it saves so much energy. I smile and nod when I see current magazines recommend going green by hanging clothes on the line.  I save the buttons off my husband's old shirts finding opportunity to use them again on other projects.  I mend his work jeans multiple times so he can continue to use them for tough jobs.  I like to make use of what we have if at all possible.
 Our pantry is well stocked, a habit from days on the ranch when the store was many miles away. I stock-up when items are on sale and plan menus for a week at a time so that I can shop once a week and have what I need for meals.  I can fresh garden produce, make jelly, bread, and usually make things from scratch rather than mixes.  All of these things are a reflection of the self-sufficiency and independence required on the ranch.  Yes, it is easier to buy things, but there is great satisfaction in seeing the fruits of your own labor because you realize  what it takes for the end product.

 I was raised with this is the perspective of using resources sparingly, and it is one that I continue to value many years later and in a different circumstance.

Ranch Roots

I have lived in the city for the last 20 years. During this time I have adapted to city life-- the ease of shopping, going out to eat, dealing with traffic and neighbors. Working on a college campus around young adults, I am aware of the current fashions, trends and issues. Yet, even surrounded by these influences, my foundational outlook on life harks back to being raised on a Wyoming ranch during my growing up years and our experiences with my husband's ranching family since my marriage.

The living room decor in our city home clearly reflects this ranch heritage.  Above the fireplace is a trio of pictures: three Hereford calves sunning themselves; a rider on horseback navigating a rocky path in the canyon; a mare and her colt. These were drawn by an artist we knew as a high school student just playing with his talent.  Now he is a professional and these pencil drawings clearly illustrate his talent for depicting ranch life. Flanking the fireplace are a horse collar, stirrups from my husband's saddles as a child and young man, a bit, and an old tin replica of a Stetson hat box filled with rattles our son collected from the rattlesnakes he killed as a teenager.   Propped against the wall is ladder with decorative throws from Wyoming and Colorado Cowbelles edged with brands of local ranches, including our families' brands.  On the lower rungs we have hung a horseshoe, hay hook, foot nippers, a bit, and part of a horse harness.  On another wall we have pictures of our fathers both on horseback, my grandfather on a horse he sold to the US Calvary, my mother-in-law with her horse she roped calves from as a young woman, and our son holding his six-week-old son on his favorite horse.  A deer antler from the ranch holds a Mexican riata our son gave my husband one Christmas and a spur. Pictures of our three grandsons in their cowboy hats sit on the bookshelf.  Lamps made of gnarled tree roots found on the ranch sit on the end tables. Our son and daughter found the wood and made the lamps when they were in junior high shop class. A basket fashioned out of a lariat holds an African violet on the coffee table and an Indian blanket is draped over the back of the couch.  Ranch memorabilia abounds throughout the house, but these are just surface indicators of the impact this way of life has had on me. 

Life on the ranch grounded me in reality because life is lived so close to the natural rhythms of life.  Animals are born, thrive and multiply, but they also get sick or hurt or die.  The first thing our six-year-old grandson asks when a new calf is born is, "Is it alive?" because he realizes that is the first and most important factor.  The snow and rain come and the grass grows to feed the cattle, or drought stunts the grass and animals must be sold or extra money invested to buy feed.  You realize that you are not in control, you cannot make it rain. There is no set paycheck coming each month and unexpected expenses are common--a vet call, a broken-down piece of machinery, a flat tire.  These realities cause me to look to the one who created all of this, including me and to trust him for the outcome.  This is equally true in the city or on the ranch, but in the city it is easier to forget how dependent we are on God's gracious provision.


 

Crabapples

To most people when you mention crabapple trees, the image that comes to mind is the beautiful flowering trees in the spring. Fewer people are conscious of the little fruit on the trees in the fall, which are a messy nuisance for the most part.  However, on the family ranch there are old crabapple trees that not only have beautiful spring blossoms, their red fruit reaches much larger proportions which makes them worthy of canning. This last week while we were at the ranch, we went to check the trees to see if crabapples were ripe yet.  This early spring with no frost brought on all sorts of fruit earlier-- apricots, chokecherries and the crabs.  When we got to the garden, the red fruits peeked between the leaves in abundance and littered the ground as well.  We were not the first to check out the fruit as it was evident that deer and bears had already feasted on the bounty of the season.  Thankfully on this morning we were alone to harvest some of the prolific crop.  As we gathered the fruits into buckets and a large cooler, apples pelted us as they fell to the ground, ripe and ready for consumption.  The sweet fruity fragrance wafting in the air prompted thoughts of  fall.

 Crabapple jelly used to be the end product of apple picking, but what I enjoy the most now is making applesauce from these tart gems.  The Victorio Strainer squeezes every usable portion of the apple out producing a tantalizingly rich colored sauce into one bowl and pushing the seeds and peel out into another. This bold flavored and colored sauce makes a vivid contrast to the bland pale commercial sauce.  I freeze the sauce and add it later to the regular applesauce I make from Jonathan apples in the fall.  This mixture makes a beautiful rosy red sauce with an extra zing that my family loves. A by-product of making crabapple sauce is the extra juice drained from the cooked apples before putting them through the strainer.   This deep vibrant red juice with a sharp tang makes for beautiful flavor-packed jelly.

 With gallons of crabapple sauce tucked in the freezer for future use and jars of sparkling jelly on the counter cooling, I felt the satisfaction of making good use of the fruits and providing enjoyment for my family.  Although I was weary from the work of making the applesauce and jelly, I made biscuits for supper that night so we could taste the fruits of our labor--delicious!