The Winter Fox

NOTE: This is a post from mid-December 2013. Much different from the 60 degree day we'll experience today in 2017.


The trees in the woods are ice covered and dusted with snow. The ground is also glassy as a frozen result of winter drizzle and cold temps. The world around me glistens like fine crystal with a powdered sugar frosting upon it. The sparkling white surrounding me makes it appear as though I’m caught in a snow globe that’s just waiting to be shaken. I hesitate to move and disturb this perfect picture of winter wonder. As I lean against an ice bound oak tree, only the fog of my breath rising from under my hat would indicate my presence.

It is perhaps my stillness that allows me to hear a steady tic, tic, tic of movement off to my left. I clear my ears to better hear, and focus on the area of sound. Soon the disturber-of-the quiet comes into view. It is tsu-la u-wo-di-ge, a red fox, that meanders down from the rise above the creek. His red fur stands out like a blazing fire against the glassy surface under his black socked feet. He stops momentarily and puts his black nose to the wind. Something, probably me, has him a little cautious. After a few seconds though, he seems satisfied that there is no danger, and moves down to the creek.

As I watch him walk, I marvel at the length of his red, bushy, white tipped tale. Its almost as long as the rest of his entire body. The tail aids him in running I’ve been told. And maybe, like a squirrel, that tail wrapped around him when he lies down, provides some comfort on these cold winter days and nights.

The fox moves to the creek and walks to a break in the snow covered ice. The water runs cold and clear as it gurgles and bubbles along a short path, then disappears under the ice again. My long-tailed friend raises his nose again and looks around, then bows his head to the cold clear offering from the creek, and drinks thirstily. After a moment of slaking his thirst, the fox licks his whiskers with his long tongue, then retreats back into the deeper woods, perhaps in search of a mouse for lunch. Better a mouse than one of my chickens, I think , as I watch him melt away among the trees and frozen undergrowth.

There has been a fox near the hen house many times at the Chicken Ranch. Once, my oldest grandson, Kirkland, looked out toward the cornfield and observed a fox just sitting at the edge of the field watching him. It was as though he was casing the place to see how to get past the dog and into the chicken pen sometime. It wasn’t until Kirkland yelled at him that the fox stood and slowly walked away.

Just a few nights ago, I happened to look out the kitchen window at the heavy snowfall, and notice another of the red/gray predators in the moonlight, trotting happily down the lane by the barn, then out to the pasture and away. We have lost a few hens over the years to these slender little speed demons. The dogs usually do a good job of keeping them at bay, however.

I don’t mind the foxes, really, as I long as I don’t lose too many egg layers to them. It would be a sad world to live in if we had none of mother natures offspring to coexist with. The creatures around the Chicken Ranch are a reminder to me of the beauty of Gods plan. The wildlife and earth around us is all one beautifully sculpted result of the Creator. Humans are the only part of His creation that seems to have a hard time fitting in to His plan. All of the rest of Nature fulfills what He intended as its purpose. Man does his best at times to go against the perfect order of things, and mottle them up. I want to be a better steward of the land, and remember that all of nature, all men, are under his feet. There is a purpose for everything under Heaven, even a hungry fox wanting chicken for dinner.

I’ll hike a bit more and watch the color of birds ornament the glacial looking trees and bushes. I’ll observe the deer, gracefully moving like shadows, out of the draws and down to the creeks. I’ll enjoy the piercing cry of the red tailed hawk, as he circles on the wind in search of a meal. And who knows, I may see that fox again, heading southwest to a hen house full of temptation, that rests on a little patch of earth that I call home.

Chimney Smoke

The blue-gray smoke is rolling from the chimney, indicating a recently lit fire. As the fire grows in the stove and the chimney warms, the smoke will gradually diminish, until it's only a ribbon of white against the cold gray winter sky. For now though, it drifts slowly upward and to the southeast, as the north and westward winds push it over rooftops and through the winter-bare trees. I stop and watch for a moment as it billows in the cold air. Its lifting, widening, up and down dance is hypnotic to me. There’s something about chimney smoke that gives a body a warm, peaceful feeling inside.

As a young lad I would climb the towering hills of Bullitt County, Kentucky to reach the very tops, and then look down over the beautiful Salt River Valley below. There, surrounded by green cedars and perched on a rocky ledge of  white limestone, I could make out the houses and farms of friends and relatives along the narrow rope of country blacktop road that meandered between the hills.

From my stony perch I could see my  maternal great-grandpa and grandpas farms. I could also see a family friends place, with their saw mill that was backed up tight to the hill behind it. The house was wrapped in old clap board siding that hadn’t felt a coat of paint for years. The roof was gray metal and slightly rusty. Old hounds wandered around usually, or stretched out lazily on the porch. The sawmill shed was rough sawed lumber and its roof matched that of the house. Piles of logs lay neatly along one side, waiting their turn to be ripped into lumber for barns and sheds along the valley floor. Some logs were shaved and squared, to be replacements for rotted logs in sheds. Up in the hills I could faintly hear the whine of the giant saw blade as it worked its way through the tree that would become lumber.

There were still a good many log outbuildings around in the 1960’s in Kentucky, and a few old timers still believed log structures to be the stoutest. A few of those log buildings are still standing solid today, proving the old farmers right. Leftover slabs of bark (slats) were piled high to be used for firewood. Smoke always rolled from the sawmill shed chimney, and in the winter and at meal time, from the chimneys of the stoves that provided warmth and food in the house. Smoke from the sawmill meant prosperity for those folks.

The valley was quite narrow in some places, maybe only 150 yards of space between where each hillside began its rise to the blue Kentucky sky. Some houses were so close to the rising hills, my great-uncle would say, that "folks had to throw their bath water out the front door. If they threw it out the back door it would just roll right back inside again". In other places, there were wide flat and level areas that made for good crop fields and pasture ground.

Tobacco was a good crop in the valley at one time, and big barns would be filled at harvest time with rows and rows of hanging or racked leafy brown plants. After the tobacco was hung in the barns, fires of smoldering hardwoods would be lit in containers to smoke and cure the leafs. Tobacco for snuff, pipes and chewing are fire cured this way yet in many areas. Many an uninformed city slicker has stopped at a house to excitedly exclaim to a grinning farmer that the barn was on fire, as the smoke from the hardwoods rolled from the long doors and gables. The barns are kept smoky for weeks at a time in some cases.  Another old building, this one on my great-grandpas farm, was only useful when smoke rose from it.

The smokehouse provided a wide variety of good meats for cooking. The old log and wood plank structure was designed to allow air to filter just right through it, and surround the hams, bacon and other salted meats with curing smoke. The many days of curing from hickory and apple smoke yielded some of the best tasting pork a man can imagine. An old wood-fired cook stove in the kitchen of the house, always had some leftover biscuits and homemade sausage sitting on the back. A quick snack for hungry boys passing through. Yes, when smoke rose from that old wooden building, you knew that good food was in the making.That old smokehouse still stands today; but sadly smoke rises from it no longer. I miss the smoke that meant good family meals together.

While some of the houses had “coal oil” heaters in them, there was usually a wood stove or fireplace in sheds or some other part of the house. At some place, at some time, wood was burning and the chimney smoking on those little farms. Looking for miles out over the valley,  seeing dots of houses, sheds, and barns, each sporting a puff of white floating over them, was a sign that all was well. It was if each chimney was answering roll call. Folks were harvesting, working, and eating there. Necessities were being met. Comfort was there. The smoke signaled that peace was in the valley, and day to day living was good.

So, as I head into my shop, I take another glance at the rising white ribbon passing over the rooftop, and I smile. The wood stove crackles and pops as I enter. It’s like being greeted by an old friend. I open the door to the stove and toss in another piece of oak. The smoke from my chimney will answer the roll call today. It writes in wispy letters across the winter landscape, “ Yes we are here at the Chicken Ranch, alive and well, warm and comforted, and pray others find themselves the same.”

 

 Our old family smokehouse.

Talking Turkey

The air is frigid and stings my ears as the wind rounds the woodshed. My big plaid coat has been buttoned up, and the sheep's skin collar wrapped against my neck. My leather gloves are stiff at first as I begin  to gather wood, but they'll soften after a bit. It's gonna be a cold Thanksgiving Day, but that won't stop the celebrating here at the Chicken Ranch. Time to be sociable.

Thanksgiving is the beginning of the winter holidays. Wintertime can be gray and dreary at times, driving and holding us indoors. It is good thing to have a few days of festive celebration to shake me out of the doldrums and into the social scene. Now, as anyone will tell you, I am not a highly sociable person. Oh I make the best of it when I'm with folks I like. I crack jokes, try to start and listen to engaging conversations, and if I'm at the Chicken Ranch I try to be a good host. But mostly I'm a private person.

My wife, Patty, is a joiner. She seldom misses an opportunity to be a part of a social gathering. From book clubs to funerals, Pampered Chef to anniversary parties, you can count on Patty to show. People appreciate her humor, participation in activities, and her great baking, so she never lacks for an invitation to some event. Make no mistake, she loves her time at home in front of the fire, and she has slowed down a fraction, but she does enjoy being with people in a social setting. I'm a really private person. I prefer to be alone. A good book or magazine, a warm fire, and a hot cup of coffee is all the company I need most of the time.

It's not that I don't like people. I love and cherish my family.  I can't see enough of my grandsons. It's crowds and noise that I avoid like a mouse does a tom cat.. After a few handshakes and conversations that start with "how you been..? where is it you work..? still play that guitar and sing...?" at some human flesh packed gathering, I'm looking for means of egress and developing an escape plan. I mean, there are only so many ways to say the same thing. I've thought about making brochures that answer every question folks ask at gatherings.  For answers I want to provide, I'd just hand one to every person I shake hands with. "Kevin how are you?" Here's my brochure, read line 13. "Have you retired yet?" Have a brochure, see line 6. "Gettin' near retirement age aren't you?" Personal profile is on the back, gotta run. I could then head home from the patronizing politeness, and the din of conversation to the quiet and solitude of the Chicken Ranch. All that being said, holiday dinners are a little different. I tend to be more people freindly when food is involved.

When folks from far and wide gather at the Chicken Ranch, bringing dishes of  homemade efforts, and grinning from ear to ear, it's special. We have a cast of characters out of a movie to be sure, but they're family, and well.... they're family. We all are happy to see each other, maybe for the first time in 365 days, and just glad we're still this side of the sod. There are enough hugs, pats on the back, and babies kissed to satisfy a politician in an election year. The food is amazing, with meats, pies and other dishes galore. We always have corn and green beans from the garden saved for the occasion. There's turkey, ham, corn bread dressing and- slap my mouth- pumpkin pie. The list is endless. And the conversation is all over the map.

We have Democrats, Republicans and Independents. We have conservatives and liberals and in betweeners. Some years we have more ethnic cultures represented than the United Nations. But, on this day of winter feasting, we all just want to be on the same family middle ground. Kinda like the Pilgrims and Indians. We have the old 60's and 70's "different strokes for different folks" thing going on, at least for this day together. I guess on these days we just sit around the table or the fireplace or the football game and talk turkey... or ham, or prime rib.

It is a different social atmosphere at holiday time and, well, I actually enjoy it. Those that are no longer with us are remembered in fondness, childhood pranks are recalled in fresh laughter, and bittersweet memories of the long ago are brought to mind, in this comfortable gathering of family and friends.We remark about our ages, brag about the grand kids, tease the ones old enough to spark, and the ones old enough that they can't. I like to just sit in a place sometimes where I can hear two or three conversations at one time and just listen to folks enjoying each others company. My oh my, what we can find to talk about. It's good to take it all in. No brochures needed here, lets just visit awhile, and all can go home feelin warm and full inside, no matter what the temps may be.

Yes,these two or three times in the year, I find myself more sociable, relaxed, and well... not so ready to leave. I mean, after all, it is my house.

Warm Side of The Glass

The rainy mist is cold upon my skin today as I feed the animals. The water beads on my duster and Stetson in little BB sized drops until gravity persuades them to the ground. My breath steams as I load the containers with recently purchased feed. The fifty pound sacks make my muscles work, and the heat from the exertion feels good.

The ground is soggy beneath my boots. The recent days of rain have left the ground  a damp multicolored carpet of brown, yellow, and red  leaves. The high winds from a recent storm stripped nearly every bit of foliage from the trees, and has left their winter skeletons bare before the gloomy gray sky. A huge late autumn storm passed by us before it unleashed the many tornadoes that left horrible devastation in their wake. I will not complain about the wet and cold; my shelter from both is still thankfully intact. I have a warm fire and a hot cup of java to comfort me. Some folks now have neither, and my heart goes out to them.

I move to the lean-to shed and grab a bale of straw. The dog house, for that chicken herding pet of ours, needs a little bedding. A fresh floor of straw will provide a warm and dry haven for this chocolate covered "mans best friend". Hershey sniffs the golden bale, then runs off to the chicken pen to harass the chickens as they feed. He runs by and gives one half-hearted woof. The hens look annoyed but don't respond.They have a meal to finish, and no dog, safely on the other side of the fence, will be allowed to disturb that.

I gather the eggs, which are few in number today, from the many nest boxes. We don't provide artificial light to our hen house. We allow the hens to rest in the short lit days of winter. Our hens lay for up to eight years, partly, I believe, because we let the girls lay when they feel like it. Spring, summer, and fall production is plenty to provide us with 40 or 50 dozen eggs in the garage fridge at all times. We sell some, barter some, give some to family, and use the rest for good ole Chicken Ranch cooking. There is no comparison to store-bought eggs. Dark rich yellow yolks are much preferred here over the anemic Super Market type, which are six months old and hardly "farm fresh" when you buy them.

The wind picks up a little and ruffles the feathers on the hens. A couple of stubborn leaves are finally urged from their hold on the limbs, and they make their final descent to the wet ground. The wet olive drab and brown prairie grasses are bent low in one direction, looking like a bad comb-over on the bald soil. Here and there, dark puddles are garnished with colored leaves floating  like little sailboats in them. I look around and realize that much has  been altered in the last few weeks.  It is only the pines that stand resolute and unchanged by the seasons touch.

I stop by the woodshed to gather an armload for the fire. The pile is lean, time to call the woodman or head out to my daughters land and cut some more. Hmmm, think I'll call the woodman to get me by for awhile. I head up to the house and balance the wood in one arm as I open the door to the mud room. I give my boots a kick and walk sock footed to the rack by the fireplace. I unload my arms with a clunk clunk on the hearth.I arrange the longs so that small wood is available to start the fires, and larger logs are left to carry through the night. I notice that I need a little kindling, so I put on my boots again, and walk out the kindling pile.

As I make my way to the back porch, kindling in hand, the rain picks up again, and the wind blows a chilly wetness down my upturned collar.  It helps me hasten my steps a bit.There is a quiet moan in the pines as I walk by, and I recognize the sound. It is the whisper of Old Man Winter, warning that he's on his way. I smile to myself as I think of the warmth of the crackling fires in the shop stove and living room fireplace. And the hot coffee waiting in the pot.The hen house and Hersheys abode are freshly strawed and prepared for icy cold nights. My sheeps' wool lined Indian moccasins are waiting by the door. " I hear you old man", I think to myself, "we've been expecting you."

I step in to the mud room,  and set the kindling on the step to the kitchen. I put the door between me and the wet chill blowing across the back porch. I hang up my drippin' duster and cowboy hat. As I slip the warm moc's on my feet and gather up the kindling again, I take in the slight smoky smell of the fire that is mingled with the roasted aroma of the coffee in the pot.With the fireplace squared away, I walk over to the west window and look at the rain falling from the cold gray sky. It is a pleasant thing to be on this side of the glass on this cold and wet late autumns day.

Yep, Old Man Winter, we know that it's time. It's been a year since we've seen you. Come when you will, I think we're ready for you now.

Boys will be boys ..if they are allowed to be.

An eight year old boy was suspended from school recently because he had a toy gun with him. He didn't brandish the plastic piece, it was in his overnight bag. He was going to his friends house for a sleepover, and mentioned that he brought it so they could play together later. Someone overheard that he had it, and he was suspended. In another incident, a Policeman stopped and questioned two boys when he saw one chasing the other with a gun, a toy gun, in their own yard. They were playing cops and robbers, the boy with the gun was playing the police. And in another more tragic occurrence, a teenage boy was killed by a policeman while he carried a pellet gun replica of an assault rifle, and a toy pistol that belonged to a friend.You know the stories, probably have a few of your own like this." Boys will be boys" it is said. Boys being boys isn't what it used to be.

Now, before you go thinking that I'm going to rant about police brutality and gun control, let me clarify. My wife has been involved in law enforcement for over twenty years, and so has my son-in-law. I count among my friends a county sheriff or two, deputies, a Chief of Police, and employees of the  State Police. I have cousins who were detectives, state policemen and a Circuit Judge. I fully understand how difficult law enforcement is these days. Much of the time, members of the justice system feel like they are working with one hand tied behind their backs. Law enforcement is not the problem in this country, outside of the few bad apples that cast a negative light on it sometimes.

  I live in rural America, and have been a hunter since I was old enough to tag along with my great-grandpa, grandpa, cousins and uncles. I am not, therefore, a gun control advocate by any means. I  do understand though, the voiced concerns of many about full auto assault rifles needing to be monitored and restricted. I am a strong believer in teaching children young, to understand that a firearm can maim or kill; that it's not like on a video game where you can hit stop and return to normal after someone is shot. A gun is to be respected as a useful but potentially dangerous tool that, if used properly, can put food on the table, provide target marksmanship, and protect your family and hard won possessions.  No, guns are not the problem in this country. Parenting is.

Teaching children the hard realities of this life is the key to saving them and others from a lot of heartache and grief down the road. It is an easy thing to donate sperm and become a father. It is a mighty task, however to become a Dad. Giving birth will make a woman a mother, but a life of dedication makes her a Mom. Just having kids and allowing them to grow up is easy. Raising kids, however, is a long and challenging effort. Parenting is hard work at times. And that is why many kids are not raised, they just grow up. Far too many people are too lazy to be good parents.

When you raise children, you teach them that they will not always be number one. They are taught that some kids will be better at certain things than they will be. That is reality, and it's OK.You teach them that they won't always be the winner, but being a participator is so worthwhile. You teach them to speak up when they need to, but to make every effort to listen more.You teach that it's okay not to like something that everyone else seems to, but that just because they don't like a thing, doesn't mean no one else should either. You teach them not to drink or text and drive; because a car can kill you and others if not responsibly driven. You teach them that a gun can kill if not responsibly used also. You teach them to own up to mistakes, and not place blame.You teach them responsibility. I was taught these things by my parents and family, and my friends.

When I was a child I played with toy guns, sometimes every day. My friends, brother, and I played cowboys and Indians.  Boys will be boys.... We didn't hate Indians. We had an uncle and a one great-grandfather who were Native American. Heck, we loved Tonto on the Lone Ranger. We just played good cowboys chasing some bad Indians.We played cops and robbers. We played soldiers, and in those days it was the (gasp) Germans or "Japs" we were after. World War Two was still fresh on our grandparents' and aunts and uncles minds, and the Korean war had just ended the year I was born.We were taught repeatedly, however, that not all Indians, Germans, or Asians were bad; the rulers or governments at the time may well have been evil, but most of the people were certainly not.  We were also taught not to point even a toy gun at people in an angry or threatening manner. Guns could hurt terribly or kill.The key is we were taught.

I was taught so well that when I was ten years old I was given a .22 caliber rifle by my grandpa. His dad had given it to him. It was a 1935 Harrington Richardson. It still hangs on my wall in the den today. I was instructed how to use it...safely. "Carry the gun with the barrel down, safety on. Don't load till you're ready to shoot. Never point at anything you don't intend to kill. And never, ever kill needlessly." I had all this instruction and more. After practicing, and demonstrating good gun safety for awhile on hunts with others, at just ten years old, I went to the woods alone to hunt.

I'll never forget the first time I killed. There was a certain kind bird in Kentucky that my great-uncle hated. It robbed the eggs out of songbirds nests. He told me to shoot all of them I could. On a beautiful fall morning I was out in the colorful frosty woods, squirrel hunting for the first time. It wasn't long before I spotted one of these birds, took aim, and shot it. I was jubilant over my good marksmanship.  I watched the bird plummet to the ground, and went to pick it up.  I felt the warmth of the soft feathered body in my hands. As I looked at this pretty bird I suddenly didn't feel victorious. Honestly, I felt a little sick. I couldn't eat this bird for food, and even though it was a nest robber, it was how God made it. I felt I had killed needlessly, and all the wishing in the world would not put that bird back to flight again. Although I had a great deal of respect for my WWII  Army veteran uncle, and would do anything he asked, I couldn't shoot another of those birds again. Never did. At ten years old I learned a valuable lesson about gun control, it's about thinking things through to the end. It's also about impulse control.

In the Navy during Desert Storm, I was trained in firearms again. These weren't just guns, they were weapons. I was trained to kill using them; along with a knife and my hands. I was taught how best to protect myself...and to kill another human being. I am grateful that I never had to. Many did, and most felt the way I did that first day in the woods with my gun, looking down at that bird. They were right in doing what they did, they were justified, but very,very few enjoyed it. It made some a little sick. Once the shot is fired there is no coming back, but sometimes shoot you must . Good teaching makes you know the difference between when and when not to place your finger on the trigger.

Parents have to begin early to teach a child right from wrong, good from bad, and how not to yield to impulse when that right or wrong line is a little blurry.Of course, there are some children who are challenged and can't understand. I get that. But for the vast majority of those who are capable, it's up to parents to guide them. It's not chance, that too often children go off the deep end and kill others. Often, I'm afraid, it's a lack of good early parenting, and the ability to choose wisely, that can be blamed.

"Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." Solomon wrote that a couple of thousand years ago. It made sense then. It makes sense now; in a world where little else does anymore. Maybe, if the world gets back to raising kids, instead of coddling to them and/or just letting them grow up, just maybe the day will come when kids can be kids. Maybe boys (and girls) can play good guys verses bad guys or hunters against ferocious beasts, with toy guns and swords in the guilt free privacy of their yards and homes. Maybe parents won't get condescending looks from self righteous know-it-alls when they buy a toy gun for their child at the store. Maybe, just maybe, boys will be boys again. And those boys can grow up to be healthy, contributing, responsible men.

A Grand Soft Day

A steady rain is falling on the Chicken Ranch. As my Scottish ancestors would say “ Tis a grond sooft dee.” It is a cold rain that causes me to raise my collar on my duster, and give thanks for a wide brim of my Stetson. The pitter-patter of raindrops can be heard as they cascade leaf to leaf from the top to the bottom of the trees. The looser leaves give under the weight of the wetness, and surf the wind in an aerobatic dance to the ground below. The tic-tic of leaves landing in the grass, grows more insistent as the rain continues to seep from the sky. The air holds the distinct fall perfume of decaying leaves and autumn rain. The gentle breeze carries the damp chill of seasonal change.

The nights are often cold now, and Jack Frost has visited more than once. I find that the low tempered evenings are refreshing to me. I like to walk out on the back porch and respire the freshness of the autumn air. With my hands around my coffee cup for warmth, and my wool hat on my head, it is the non bearded parts of my face that first feels the chill. My nostrils absorb the not unpleasant burn of the cold night air. These are fireplace and wood stove nights, and they are welcomed by me.

The smoke rises from the chimney and floats low  as it drifts on the wind. The West wind is the wind of autumn. Some Cherokee tribes believe that the earth was created in autumn, and celebrate the new year each year with a harvest feast of corn, beans, pumpkin and more. It begins at the first autumn moon. The ceremony of Going To The Water is performed during this time. The men and women who keep the ‘old ways’ place themselves in a lake or stream at sunrise, and dip 7 times in a purification ritual to rid themselves of bad spirits from the past year. The fall represents a rest; before a new beginning comes with the East wind in the spring.

As this days rain falls upon us, I marvel at the trees that have cloaked us with many colors. Even on a gray sunless day, the red, yellow, orange, and gold that have been splashed upon the trees, presents a canvas of fall beauty. The yard and garden area is a carpet of foliage of varying hue, as wind and rain shower the ground in a multi colored confetti.

The lane beside the barn is glistening black in the few places where the asphalt shines through the blanket of moisture heavy maple and hackberry leaves. The upturned leaves that I leave behind as I trod this path, are soon covered with a new contribution from the surrounding tree line. I remove my hat from time to time and dislodge a few leaves that have come along for the ride on the brim.

As I head back to the house, I think that it is indeed a grand soft day. A moisture laden day of kaleidoscope views, of soggy walks, and winds of change. The fall season is full upon us here at the Chicken Ranch, and I am soaking up every minute of it.

Autumn State of Mind

What is it that Autumn does to us? What causes us to accept, even appreciate, weather that would be unacceptable in summer? There is definitely a state of mind that is unique to fall.

When I walk on to my porch on early summer mornings, for instance, I want to feel a warm breeze and the promise of bright sunshine. I expect a sky of blue that is uninterrupted by clouds. Trees that are lush and green, and grass like an emerald carpet are anticipated all spring, then realized in summer. A dry breeze wicks the perspiration from my skin in the summer, and I expect shirt sleeve weather to chore in.

When conditions aren’t this way in summer, I’m often disappointed. But when autumn comes… well, my taste in climate seems to change with the season. Peculiarly, what is less than pleasing weather in summer is perfect weather in autumn.

There is no frown upon my face when the fall rains come. I expect the rain to ride the leaves as they surf the wind to the ground below. I just grab another cup of coffee and listen happily to the tapping on the window, as the wind forces the raindrops against the pane. When the autumn rains come, it just takes a log on the fire to dry the air. The pop and crackle of the fireplace along with the pitter-patter of the rain make a comforting symphony of autumn music.
I am content now with skies of peek-a-boo blue, where the gray and lavender clouds dominate from horizon to horizon. The absence of the sun, and the cool air that results, is not a grievous but welcome thing to me. I throw on a jacket, switch from a straw cowboy hat to wool, turn up my collar, and bask in the chilliness. My fingers are warmed by the cup in my hands, as I sip and watch the effects of seasonal change on the Chicken Ranch.

Some hold the opposite opinion, I am aware. I have heard some say that they cannot enjoy the fall because they know winter is right behind it. To me that is like despising life, because it will one day end in death. I prefer to enjoy the moment and soak up the experience of what is here now. I'll deal with the other when the times comes, and I’ll not be robbed of this particular day, because someday a less joyful one may come along.

No, autumn is to be given its due. It brings rest to the plants and trees. It brings a greater amount of moisture to a thirsty earth. It brings relief from summer heat, and pesky insects.
Autumn brings peace to the Chicken Ranch, or at least a peaceful and accepting state of mind.

I know winter is coming. It is whispered on the viento solitario, lonely wind. And I say let it come. After all, one thing autumn does, is break you in gently. It makes the transition from summer to winter a most pleasant thing. At least it does for an old cowboy like me.

　

Country Commerce

Discussions about money are a little different in farm and ranch country than in the concrete jungles of the big cities. Listen in on conversations at the local eateries and the difference is clear. Oh, you will hear the same complaints about the price of gas and groceries. The same head shaking over how much a truck or car sets a person back these days. And the cost of a doctor visit or hospital stay are a hot topic no matter where you live. Discussions of government waste of our tax dollars, and just how many zeroes are in a trillion, can be heard anywhere if you stop long enough to listen. There are a few things about commerce you hear in a country cafe or feed store that are unique to rural America though.

The price per ton of soybean meal, the cost of a bushel of corn, are always a major concern. Hay prices per ton; is it good quality, are you buying large square or round bales? These items are an area of influence in rural America. Along with the weather, bean meal, hay and corn prices directly affect feed costs to ranchers and farmers raising livestock. It oft determines how much livestock they'll raise, and that reaches every meat and poultry item on America's grocery shopping list eventually.

 Farmers who strictly raise grain are interested in their profit margins too of course. Tractors, combines, grain wagons, and a host of other equipment costs, can be heard discussed around a table full of coffee drinking men with leather cased pliers or Leathermen hanging from their belts. How big will the crop be this year in Brazil or some other grain producing country is also a question.Whether it's the price of barbed wire or cattle panels, feeder calves or bred heifer prices, a pair of work boots or Carharts, it's still all about the money. And its about family livelihoods.

But, here at the  Chicken Ranch, we have an additional form of commerce... good old fashioned bartering.

Our hens lay very large brown eggs. The hens are not in commercial cages. They are allowed to roam some, and we don't overcrowd them, so we don't have fill them with antibiotics. People who want non-commercial, honestly farm fresh eggs ask to buy them, and we do sell them, but a good portion of  our transactions are barter. Neighbors down the road trade  beautiful golden potatoes, squash, or pumpkins, grown on their farm, for eggs for instance. My sister-in-law barters with home made pickles; a few dozen eggs = a few jars of pickles. I love simple math.

My daughter here in Illinois brings me, well... she brings my grandsons. (I come out way ahead on that deal.)  And every trip I make back home to Kentucky, I take a few dozen to my daughter there, in trade for the smiles on her and my grandsons' faces. It's like taking them a little piece of the Chicken Ranch. Another good friend from a nearby town gets 8 dozen at a time, and has brought stove and fireplace wood for years, and ...well, you get the idea.

Now I know ole Adam Smith, the  father of modern economy, would offer a few disparaging comments here concerning barter, but I say if folks trade, and both get what they want, then how can you lose? Pretty much a win-win if you ask me. We just trade the sweat of our brow. We share the best results of our country labors. We simply meet each others needs in country commerce. And Uncle Sam doesn't get a cut of the money... or part of the potatoes or pickles in this case.

Yeah, if you stop by the local coffee shop sometime, you may catch me and the boys  talking corn, hay, and feed prices. We'll be complaining about the weather like we could do something about it. And you'll likely catch us talking world trade and commerce from an agricultural point of view, and how to fix the government  (like we can do anything about that either).

Yes, country commerce is a conversation all its own, but if you stop in, feel free to join in and offer an opinion. I mean, everybody has one,right? Offer up a way to fix congress! If you can come up with a solution for that, well, I know you'll get a free cup of coffee, and there's a dozen guaranteed farm fresh grade A large eggs in it for you. Heck of a trade that would be!

Painful Losses

Within four weeks  time our area suffered the terrible losses of four beautiful young people to car accidents. In one instance a brother and sister died together, their parents’ only children, and in another, a young couple in love.  No alcohol or improper driving was involved in either case. Just accidents; things went wrong, and heart break happened. The great sweeping net of chance fell upon them, and suddenly they were gone.

 The communities have lost some of their best and brightest girls and boys. A  wonderful piece of the future is now missing. Parents, friends, and relatives are making their way through the  fog of pain and finality that comes with death. Words escape us in expressing the sorrow felt for the families. There is no poetic phrase, no eloquent quote of wisdom, that can fully dissipate the grief of a loss so devastating.

Men and women that have lost a spouse are referred to as widowers and widows. Children who lose their parents are called orphans. It has been said though, that in all the worlds’ many and varied forms of communication, there is no name for a parent who has lost a child. Perhaps the depth of despair, the agony of the emptiness, the rending of the soul, is just too much to put into words… in any language.

Sadly, the story of the loss of a child is told over and again during war time. I remember a day when I saw an olive drab Army vehicle pull into the drive of our neighbors across the road. It was during the Vietnam War, and those folks had a son, a friend  a little older than me, in-country with the infantry. As a teenager that was coming up for the draft, I feared what this Army Chaplain visit might mean. We soon learned that those folks had lost their son, as did tens of thousands of other parents during that Asian war.

  When a son or daughter goes in harms way in the service of their country, the potential for loss is agonized over until their safe return. Some parents  have lost every one of their children to the battlefield. The loss of a child in  sudden unexpected and/or unexplained circumstances, however, seems to add one more element of despair. The loss isn’t less because it is expected or feared, but being blindsided by fate only adds to -and perhaps intensifies- the pain.


Some have said that you never fully get past the pain; you have to work through the pain. I am reminded of a line from the movie Lonesome Dove. In one scene, the sudden death of a cowboy, at the beginning of the cattle drive to Montana, has the rest of the hands saddened and unnerved. A brief graveside eulogy by Gus McCrae ends with “ …now lets us go on to Montana”; to which Woodrow Call adds, “He’s right boys, the best thing to do with death is to ride off from it”. Time and distance seems to help us cope with the pain and eventually place other things to the forefront of our minds. The memory of the loss is ever sharp, however, just below the surface, and pains us anew when brought to mind again.

John Steinbeck wrote:  “It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.” In the  first darkness of loss, one might feel that it would have been better to never have been exposed to the light at all, than to have it, love it, and lose it. But, for me, if I were to go blind, I believe I would be grateful for having seen all that I my eyes had seen in the past. The memories of sunlit days and starry nights, I think, would bring me joy even though the loss of that sense would  greatly sadden me.The smell, the sound, the feel, of precious things are intimate to us years past their happening. Memories are a record of our daily living, in the albums of our lives.

Death reminds us that nothing in this life lasts forever. It helps us to become more conscious of our mortality, and reminds us to glean the best from every day, every time we can. My wish for the families of these precious children lost is that they somehow learn how to press on. I hope that cherished memories can salve the wounds, and that friends and family will be able to shore them up until they find the strength to stand, and then move forward again. Broken things will mend with time, and if things are not just as they were before, we learn how to go on living...  only differently.

Life will never be the same for these families who have suffered such painful losses. Perhaps a small bit of comfort can come to them from the knowledge that there are those of us who care. We care how they feel. Although we may not know them personally, we feel we know them as part of a circle of parenthood. All of us who are mothers and fathers feel so saddened by the loss of any child; because we can only imagine how we ourselves would suffer, should it be our own.

Our wish for these families is that with each passing day the pain grows softer, the day is a bit brighter, and  that feeble feet and wounded hearts find the strength to move one step further in the path to healing. May God bless them all.

Home

After returning from Kentucky this past weekend I decided to repost this from May 2012:



“Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” Robert Frost wrote that line in his Death of the Hired Man piece, one of my personal favorites. I thought of that sentence as I walked back to the house from the garden this week. I love the picture I see of the cherry, apple, and ornamental trees and the flower gardens on the walk up to the porch.. I love coming up to the back porch through the winding, flower lined sidewalk and then sitting in my rocker, after I retrieve a jar of sweet tea from the old enameled table .As I look out across the Chicken Ranch I think, “ Home.”

Home is where you hang your hat every night at the back door. Where boots and mud shoes are lined up ready for use, and where chore jackets, sweaters, and gloves hang on winter days. It’s the place where your key fits the door if you have to lock it, and your closest relatives and friends know where to find the spare if they need in. It’s the place where your most precious material possessions are grouped together under one roof. But home is much more than something you can reach out and touch.

 Home is your sanctuary. It’s the place where your most private thoughts are expressed, uninhibited. You’re free to sob in sorrow unashamed, or laugh hysterically without embarrassment. Home is the safe place for your most intimate thoughts and actions. You sleep, eat, and convalesce here. Home is where you feel completely at ease just  being you.

 In sincerity and kindness folks often say “Our home is your home”, “Make yourself at home” or “You are at home here”. While well meaning I’m sure, the reality of what is being said most often is, ‘Be at home here… to a point’. Your own home is uniquely and wholly yours. What we love, what we hate, what we desire, what we fear, are all expressed in what we surround ourselves with, in the most personal of settings…home. And home is people.

Home is where your family is. Family, by definition, is often two parents and their offspring, and for us that is the case. We have our children and grandchildren here very often, and Patty and I feel blessed to have a place for all of us to call home. But, all of us also have friends, dear friends, that make up part of our family. Friends, who share in our joys and sorrows, our elevations and devastations. Friends, who know where the spare key is hid and are welcomed anytime, with gladness. Folks that are not part of our DNA but who are connected to us in a spiritual, personal way.
 

Home is all of these things.

I think it would be a terrible thing to be truly ‘homeless’. How sad if there is no place, when you have no place left to go, that folks will take you in. Home can be where you reside or where you grew up. Home is, after all, wherever you feel it is.

The Chicken Ranch. Home sweet Home

I’m grateful for this patch of dirt, house and sky that is unique to Patty and me. This place where all that we are, and all that we love… is. There isn’t anywhere else like it. Dorothy said it best in the Wizard of Oz. Clicking her heels together, longing for the place where she felt the most loved, and the most secure, she repeated over and over “ There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home…” And there isn’t, really, any place like home. 

Travel

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.” Mark Twain

Samuel Clemens full well recognized the danger of stagnant thinking that comes from never being exposed to other cultures or schools of thought. Limiting our thoughts and observations to parochial environments retards the developing of the mind.The mind cannot expand if it is not allowed outside the local parameters of pride and prejudices. It is through the light of opposing views that the shadows of self deceit and ignorance melt away.

I know for myself, that travelling opened my eyes to how others live, think, and act. Some prejudices and misconceptions melted away once I was exposed to the attitudes and emotions of others from regions far outside my own. Tunnel vision only dissipates when you leave the tunnel.

The Navy Seabees indoctrinated me to new cultures abroad. I learned to respect the disciplines and customs of the middle east, of Pacific isles and other regions; even though I found some of them quite strange. I learned a little about the beliefs, hopes and fears of people who didn't look like me, who didn't talk like me, who didn't think like me. I was given a better understanding of their society. If I didn't agree with their customs, at least I now understood why certain things were so important to this particular set of people. Here in the U.S, I am sorry to say that most of us don't even know the various customs and cultures of the People, the Native Americans, who live among us, who were here long before us, and suffered much from the narrow-mindedness of others.

Travelling abroad will certainly help us be more tolerant of others views, even if we still disagree.We do not have to travel too far, however, to learn that the world does not revolve around us, but is evolving around us.

 I have known some who have grown up, lived, and died in one small town. These folks never experienced life outside a 200 mile perimeter of their birthplace. Some are so locked into "how its always been done here", that nothing new stands much of a chance of being accepted. There are others from the same small town, however, whose minds are expanded to the fullest, because they have chosen to travel far and wide; not in the physical sense, but mentally. They read book after book. They've watched thought provoking documentaries. They  have sought others opinions and have listened...a lot. Their thirst for an education of how others see things, has led them on quests for knowledge of the opinions and positions of others, no matter what part of the globe, and they've used whatever resources were at there disposal to obtain it.

I have also known people who have physically travelled the globe, yet never got past their own thoughts and theories. They thought too highly of themselves and too little of the opinions of others. Their bodies made it around the world... their minds never left home.
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I don't mean to suggest that a person should change their attitudes or core beliefs toward some things just because other folks differ. Not at all. When it comes to matters of spirituality, and matters of the heart, our thoughts often are deep rooted and grounded. If we truly have gathered all the information available, and looked at our opinions or beliefs from every side, then we can feel safe in holding on to them. But, holding steadfastly to a belief based solely on a limited perception of a thing, does ourselves and others a disservice. As one man put it, "some opinions are formed in ignorance and then defended in stubbornness". If we never travel outside our little corner of the earth, our view on many things will be limited.

I plan to travel again soon. I'm going south. I'm heading for my old Kentucky home. My roots are there, but I have branched miles and miles away. I dearly love my Kentucky family, and my beautiful home state, but I have never been sorry for the experiences that taught me that there is a huge, ever changing world out there that doesn't always see things my way.. Those experiences were brought about by travelling to distant places, both physically and mentally. Travel expanded my mind, and once the mind expands, it can never go back.

I want to remember that there are many, many cultures on this planet, and not make hasty generalizations, or draw stereotypes about any group. I hope that I can listen to other ideas and beliefs with an open mind, while not feeling compelled to surrender my core beliefs. I guess I want to listen more, search a thing more, before making a stand of opinion.

I may stay steadfast in my thoughts on a thing, but I at least want to allow my mind see clearly... to let my mind grow and gain from the benefits of travel.

The Woods Call

Your voice I hear again today.

“Come rest a while” I hear you say.

You're calling, calling me away

To clear my cluttered mind.

Like folks waiting at the train

To welcome a loved one home again,

Your trees stand tall at meadows end,

Just past the dirt roads' wind. 

The well-worn path just through the gate

Offers an enticing escape

From all the many cares of late.

"Close the gate, and leave them behind."

How a walk deep into your midst,

Absorbing sights, sounds, and fragrant gifts

That cause my spirits to uplift,

Would to my weary soul be kind.

But, sadly, I cannot heed your call,

There is work to do after all.

But, I vow to return in the Fall

When brilliant colors dress you fine.

K. L. Dennie July 2013

The Final Visit

His face was wrinkled from the sun,

Leathery as the gloves he had on.

From loves lost and battles won,

His eyes held a thousand secrets.

His legs were bowed, he had a limp,

Pain was with him where ever he went.

He stood tall, though his back was bent,

He had only a few regrets.

He cinched  the saddle tight and good.

Quietly, lovingly, his horse stood

Like any faithful old friend would.

They had one more ride to make yet.

Off at a cantor, not too fast,

The old man wanted this ride to last

Long enough to travel to the past,

To where his roots were the deepest.

The fading sun in an orange ball

Lit the edges of the old stone wall,

Of the old cemetery where all

Of his family now rested.

He placed flowers gently on the graves

Of the wife and child he'd tried to save,

When fire had swept the prairie in waves,

And his faith in God had been tested.

It was all so very long ago

Yet, in his eyes the tears still flow.

Oh, the hurt a mans heart can know.

So many years it had lasted.

He sat 'neath a tree to rest his back.

They found him by following the track

Of his horse that, without him, came back

To the ranch he no longer needed.

They laid him beneath the mossy stone

That once bore his wife's name alone.

Just yesterday, he had added his own.

At long last, his heart now rested.

K.L. Dennie July 2013 



Old Cowboy, Young Eyes

One of the biggest daily battles a man fights after 60 years of breathin', is cynicism. By the time  he's that long in the tooth he has mostly seen and heard it all. The "latest and the greatest” doesn’t shine with the same gleaming luster to an old cowboy as it does to some folks. After a breathless presentation to him of the newest and most remarkable wonder of the day, you may see him nod his head, look up from under his hat, and say something like… “Well”, or “uh huh”. Over the many years, he has adopted a philosophy of “I’ll wait and see”.  
 

The fastest way to see old cowboy cringe is for a politician (or for that matter, most anyone) to say “trust me”.  To him, “trust me”, being interpreted, means “you lose”. He gives everything a second look …at the least. After 60 years, old guys (and gals)  have seen so many unsinkable ships sink, so many hard and fast rules go soft, so many unbeatable records shattered, and so many promises broken that it’s, well... just dang hard to see or hear anything that you can just instantly embrace and accept. 

Eggs are good for you, no, eggs are bad for you, well now,  eggs are good for you. Old cowboys have seen, time and again, the best new medical cure-alls pulled off the market because they were actually making people worse, and the pharmaceutical company who made them covered up the facts. A thousand of the latest catch-phrases and buzz words have come and gone. And time and space doesn’t allow a list of the decades of government promises, plans, and fixes that were supposed to be such a phenomenal help to America, and how that worked out for them. 

 Wait and see. Show an aging man the 'latest and greatest' anything, and he’ll just nod. If you study his eyes closely, you’ll read “We’ll see" in there somewhere. After six decades or more of livin' I suppose a man's earned the right to be skeptical.  In fact, when you see everything through old cautious doubting eyes, well, it can be down right paralyzing if you’re not careful. You hardly want to try or accept anything 'new and improved'. Know any 60+ year olds that still don’t own or even want a computer? Exactly. Time and experience has a way of making  some of us suspicious at every turn. Hard to impress an old set of peepers with much of anything.

That’s why I’m glad for the eyes of young folks. 

Young folks tend to be adventurous, optimistic, and accepting to a fault. They love new things and are often dazzled by them. They see things through the glass of possibility, not calculated probability. Time has not hardened them yet, and they are hopeful about almost everything. When I'm with my kids and grand kids I am compelled to see things with more promise and less doubting.
My oldest grandson would rather fish than eat...literally. When he asks me about the weather on a fishing day, and I sigh and say there's an 80 percent chance of rain, he'll just smile and say "Well, it may not rain here though." He is solidly focused on the 20 percent chance that it won't rain.

 I have a son-in-law who always drives to the front of the store, expecting to find a parking place close to the doors, no matter how packed the the parking lot is. Most of the time he just pulls right in to an open spot. Once, we were in St.Louis during a festival on the riverfront, the place was barely organized chaos. We were trying to get to the park at the base of the Arch. Cars were parked a mile away. I would have said " Forget it" and moved on. Nope, not him. He drives past block after block after block of parked cars and pulls up the steps right in front of the Arch... just as a car pulls out of a space. He slides right in just like it was to be expected. For him it is. I'd a bet a months pay you couldn't get within 3 blocks of the place. Old eyes vs. young eyes.

My grandsons get excited and enthusiastic about some things that long ago became common place to me. When I am with them, however, I am caught up in the way they see things, and I can't help but have a renewed sense of wonder. Did a moon ever shine so bright, or look so wondrous as when a toddler discovers that lunar orb for the first time? Is an eagle ever as magnificent in flight as it is when seen with a youngster who is experiencing the sight in wide-eyed excitement? Old eyes can relive the wonder of the birth of a new colt, or calf...or child. Young folks can peel the film of time from an old cowboys eyes, and allow him to see things, and think things, in a fresh way again.

Maybe its the balance of experience and expectancy that we need. Optimism, with a healthy dose of realism, just might melt away a little of an old mans cynicism. Lifes experiences can make us wary  and jaded after many years. It's a good thing we keep bringing young people into the world to propel us forward, or we could become and remain stagnant. 

  I think that maybe we old cowboys could see things with less skepticism, less wariness, and with perhaps just a tad bit more enthusiasm  ...if we're willing to take a look at things through a pair of younger eyes.

 

 

Summer Heat

The leaves of the pole beans shrivel and wrinkle close together, looking like little old ladies whispering in a gossip circle. The bugs that feed upon the plants have sought shelter beneath them, and hesitate to devour their only shade. The golden straw mulch keeps the soil cool and damp below; on the surface the heat radiates from it in a cling wrap distorted shimmer. The herbs give off fragrant individual scents, as Ole Sol bears down relentlessly upon them. It's 95 degrees in the garden, and summertime is in full swing here at the Chicken Ranch.


Squash and zucchini hide beneath their elephant ear leaves. Cucumbers hesitatingly poke their bumpy heads from the viney foliage. The peppers hang red, yellow, and green from their stems like ornaments on a tree. Tomatoes are yet green in their immaturity; except for their little salad tomato cousins, who proudly glow orange and red in the baskets. All the plants look a bit withered and ill just now in this midday sun; but a nighttime escape from solar oppression will have them looking fresh, as they glisten in the shiny wetness of the mornings dew.

The chickens are spending more time in the yard since the heat has sent most of the gnats packing. Big brown egg production is on the rise again, and I joke that today the eggs will be hard boiled when I gather them. In reality, the hen house is well shaded and ventilated in the summer, and offers some respite from the hot yard. The hens spend a good deal of time today clucking and gossiping around the waterer.

The nearby horses graze a while in the tall green grass, their tails swishing the flies away, then seek the shade of oak and hackberry trees, and rest awhile in the shadows. Cows and calves do the same; although, the calves seem to have more energy to spend than mom does.

As for me I've sought the cool shelter of the back porch (imagine that) . I lift the straw cowboy hat from my head, and drink deep from my Mason jar of iced sweet tea. The drink cools my hands and my throat and, well, just plain makes me happy.

 

I'll not complain about the days temperature. I know many of us would wish to bottle this heat, and pop the top when winter drags into March, and as frigid air and heaps of snow keep us bound up indoors in a warm fires glow.

 

No, it is proper and fitting, this sweat upon my brow, and the dark water spots on my shirt. It is July after all, and what is July without a burning sun, singing birds and insects, and a jar full of southern-strong, honey-sweet, cold iced tea.
 Ahhh...  yes, bring on the summer heat, I'm ready for it.

 

Summer In The Heartland

I remove the straw hat from my head, and wipe the sweat from my brow with a big blue handkerchief. The wind is hot today as I stand by the fence row. There lies before me, a painters palate of color as I Look across the fields of summer.

The light green grasses are tall and heavy headed. The wind blows across the pasture and gently bends the prairie carpet low with its invisible palms, and then releases  it upright  again. Red and white cattle dot the meadow as they feed from it , and two horses,a roan and a bay, have their necks stretched through the fences, feeding on grass that must be “greener on the other side”. This seasons’ calves are butting heads with each other playfully; except for the few that are napping in the shade of their  mothers feet as she grazes.

The pond glitters with the reflection of the golden summer sun. The hot wind ripples the water and causes the geese to bob up and down, as they glide slowly across the  shimmering blue/ green surface. Some of the cattle are slaking their thirst at this water retreat, and one cow has decided to wade on in. She drinks heartily, as she enjoys the cool water half way up her body.

Heat rises in a cellophane mirage from the rusty metal roofs of the barns and sheds. Gnats twirl in a dizzying ball above the grass along the wooden and barbed wire fence . Martins and barn swallows dive bomb for other insects, their svelte bodies look like vintage airplanes in a dog fight across the clear blue sky.

The wheat fields are beginning to golden. Soon the combines will reap the thick ripened heads, and truck loads of grain will make their way to the shiny silver grain bins of the farm or elevators. Square bales of straw will line the fields like soldiers  on parade, as they await the wagons that will carry them to barn lofts. This winters bedding it will be too, for creatures large and small, and it is waiting to be harvested.

Other fields are turning green with standing corn and recently sprouted beans. The stripes of brown dirt in the green acres will slowly melt away, as the corn and beans grow thick and tall in true Midwestern farm fashion.   

There is only the sound of the wind in the grass as I stand, one foot on the bottom fence rail and my arms crossed on the top one. All the cattle are contented and quiet. The tails of horses and cows swing silently to and fro to ward off the flies.  The fair weather clouds tiptoe slowly through the sea of blue. I take it all in, and feel that I am grateful to live in rural America, where this picture before me is not a post card... but everyday living.

It is a scene of beauty, and I hate to leave it, but the leather gloves in my back pocket speak of work  to do, so I must move on. I take one more look around, put a stalk of grass in my mouth to chew on, then walk back to my truck. As the engine responds to the key in the ignition, I sit for a minute, take a deep breath and fill my lungs with the unpolluted country air. 

I smile as I start off down the road, the wind blowing through the window, and dust rolling up behind me.  I say to myself, "It's good to have you back, Summer. We've sure have missed you here in the Heartland."

 

The Waning

He sat quietly on his horse

And sighed as he gazed below

His heart was heavy with the grief

That many would come to know

Their lives were forever changed

The ways of The Fathers gone

Once they both were  free and sovereign

So very proud, and so strong

Tribes had numbered with the stars

But, just as the herd he watched below,

He felt they too would fade away

Like the mighty Buffalo

Natives dependent on this land,

Children of Mother Earth,

Would be forced along bitter trails

Far from their places of birth 

He rode out from the remnant herd

Into the waning sun alone

Farewell to the last of both their kind

And this land  called "Yellowstone"

K.L. Dennie  June 2013