We took Kate with us to move the bulls. Dogs are much better at running through deep snow than one woman in coveralls. Now Mark is sick, and he’s too valuable to the ranch to stay in the house like I did when I was sick, but I did urge him to stay in the pickup and let Kate and I wallow around in the drifts.
We strawed the calves last night. They love a fresh bale of straw. They play in it, eat it, and mostly lie in it. But then things went downhill when the tractor sprayed diesel all over Mark’s down coat. Then just at dark he found a sick calf.
I hate to burn the last of the dry wood, the rest of it is buried under this miserable foot of snow that blind-sided us in November.
It is beautiful, though.
Remember that line from Lonesome Dove when Gus is talking to Lorena, the sweet local whore, who is pining for adventure and real happiness? Gus says life is about enjoying the simple things, “a glass of buttermilk, a drink of whiskey of an evening.” I am reminded of my college art class when we drew the negative spaces - instead of drawing the object, we drew where the object wasn’t. We all need to do a better job of that, look past the challenges, the disappointments, and see the wonderful margins; think about what we have, not what we lack.
This morning I celebrate the luxury of free speech, the sun streaming in the south windows, a steaming mug of coffee, and being able to breathe again.
|sunrise over Higham's Peak|
|what's left of summer|