Moving the Playhouse

November sits quietly. She has nothing to prove. (Why do things in nature carry the feminine?) Even the tradition of Thanksgiving is a bit modest. We don’t have to buy stuff for the holiday, other than food of course; thinking about all the butter, sour cream and whipped cream purchased the week before Thanksgiving.

I should make a harvest wreath. And of course get out the ceramic turkey Grandma Barb painted. It’s plump and sits firmly in the middle of the autumn-colored table runner. It's comforting, as if everything is as it should be this November of 2024. And of course it isn’t, but traditions help us navigate change, accept passages, and perform the relentless adjustment and adaptation we must face as we live our lives.

The sun is coming in the south facing windows. On a cold November morning, just writing that makes me feel cozy. The clouds are sprinting across the sky, the angular sun sculpting the mountains with shadows.

Mark has been pushing, pushing, to get the calves weaned and home, the herd vaccinated, the young cows checked for pregnancy, treating for illness, getting the fences loosened for winter, in general getting a ton of work accomplished before we bring the herd home for the winter. Now that the irrigation streams are turned off, our crew can focus on using the day fully without the morning and evening chores of changing water. Luckily the summer days are long when the work is long. Now if Mark comes in by dark we actually have some time to relax. I re-upped our Netflix subscription for the next 3 months. Such an indulgent time of year.

I’ve been bugging Mark to move the playhouse his Dad built when our kids were little. When we started getting our own grandkids, I asked his folks if we could move it to our house. They said yes, but the actual move was a special kind of chore. This Fall it finally happened. It took two tractors and a trailer, two drivers, a few spotters. It took finagling through gates, and adjustment and readjustment to get it facing the right direction when we got it to its new home. 

Anita and Gary helped. Anita said it was one of their best days in a long time. It’s such a cute little building, and sturdily built. I’m reminded of the story of the “shingle shed” over to great grandma Bonnie’s house, now Seth and Leah’s. The tiny shack with wooden shingles covering the exterior was at her mother’s home, and was given to Bonnie, “only if it will be a playhouse for the kids!” But in those hardscrabble days, outbuildings were rare and covered storage so needed, that Eldro used it to store his saddle and other tack supplies. One episode of the habitual relinquishing of Bonnie’s “space” to accommodate her husband and the ranch.

Anyway, I got the playhouse and all the old toys that came with it including the stenciled bookcases built for Mona and the rocker of Anita’s when she was a little girl. The playhouse has now made the list of my most cherished possessions, of which there are only a few. The rest of my stuff is just stuff. This keepsake has a story, a history – a gift from the artisanal hands of my grandkids’ great grandfather. And though it's been cold outside, Emma has already served food from the mini oven and pressed cloth on the tiny ironing board. Thanks Gary.

Lou, Gary and Emma

and below with Anna and Seth

                    

"just a skosh more"

We made it!

A new home

That One Summer

It was hot. Now the cool has come and it’s so lovely it hurts. I made a promise to myself to savor every single day in September and now it's the 25th. What?

We’ll remember this summer. The one where Seth broke his collar bone just as we were getting started. The one where Mark brought an orphan lamb home for Emma from the mountains. The year of water curtailment.

Both Anna and Leah were pregnant this, the summer of ’24. We had Ruthie, Em, Louis and Freya and our world felt complete. Then Anna and Cole’s Inez arrived 11 days early (in the car, on the way, to the birthing center) and now this is our new wonderful normal!

This was the year of Izzy, our lively apprentice. She’s tended cattle all summer on the home pastures, started her horse, Vudu, flood irrigated, fenced (both permanent and portable, barbed wire and electric), and destroyed enough weed seeds to fill a bus. She tested her limits of endurance over and over. She still claims that starting the ditches, the heavy pitching of debris carried by the first stream in the spring, was the most challenging job. I don’t know - that was before it got really hot and Izzy melts in the sun. She always has snacks with her and a giant water bottle and often some sort of hydration supplement. She’s been a breath of fresh air when things got stale and bedraggled. She has a ready smile and enough enthusiasm to get you off balance and back in a good mood. We'll say goodbye too soon and wish her God speed.

This was the summer the wind energy developers came for our range. And as a consequence we explored a conservation easement as an alternative. There’s a line in a Brandi Carlisle song: “There’s more than one answer to these questions.” We’ll keep searching for those. We know we love our land the way it is. I have a large watercolor my Mom painted of the Blackfoot River with my Dad riding Buck along the canyon. If there had been wind turbines in my Mom's time, would she have painted them in? I don’t think so. I keep pondering this.

I turned 65, and Mark turned 60 this summer. That’s enough to remember a summer by itself. Mark’s milestone birthday was not much fun. He has much to be thankful for, yes, but it’s tragic to realize he’s leaving his little sister behind. She died of cancer in December and won’t be celebrating any more birthdays with her grandkids around her like Mark did. This is heartbreak.

It’s quiet outside. The birds have mostly moved on or fallen silent. As much as I love autumn, there’s a sadness to it that hangs over the beauty. Something about saying goodbye, about moving on, about missed chances and the unrelenting march of time.   

Emma reading to Shadow

fritallary butterflies on mint, a favorite moment on the range

wild aster in September, important late season pollinator food

watching and listening for pollinators in the garden

Father's day, good Dads all

Izzy and Myrt, good friends

 

Couple Time

Mark and I rarely do couple time. You can’t count mealtime and bedtime. We’re cooking and eating on the first hand, and sleeping on the second hand. Yes, we spend a lot of time together, but we’re mostly absorbed in the routine of living and ranching.

I counted an evening last week as couple time. We drove to one of our outlying fields to check the bonfire of limbs we had burned that morning. The cattle were close by and when we got out of the pickup, Mark said “there’s my friend!” The little spotted calf that we had cared for in the barn came over to greet us. She is still attached to humans and Mark had been encouraging it by scratching her neck and back periodically as he drives through the herd checking health. The calf walked on over and of course Mark obliged.

The sun was setting, the fire had settled, the cattle were content in their new pasture. I was happy to have some quiet time with my husband on the land. The moments don’t come often enough. Well, apparently they come just often enough to keep me committed. For commitment it takes.

We come from committed ancestry. I was rolling out homemade noodles for the branding crew one morning (I never make homemade noodles) when I had a moment. I was kneading the dough and rolling it out on the counter when I had a distinct feeling of my Mom doing the same thing. It was like I was watching her hands and mimicking her movements, rather than actually knowing how to do it myself. It was strange - as if I was accessing my childhood imprints instead of my 40 some years of cooking!

Our young people don’t realize how quickly the generations flow by and how much our present day reality has to do with the actions of previous generations. They will one day.

And it’s not just within a ranching family. It should resonate, but I doubt it does, with newcomers to Idaho. Do they have any idea how our water works? About the vast Snake River Aquifer and the connection between it and the canal diversions the pioneers made in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s? How we really have only one water? And that building large homes with large lawns in the countryside have unintended consequences?

Do any of us realize, newcomers and oldtimers alike, that in reality we don’t know if this is sustainable or not. It was only 150 years ago that our neighbors, the Shoshone and Bannock tribes, lived on this land with little impacts. Now we have vastly changed the character of the land and there’s a very real possibility that the true consequences are in our future. And that change is only accelerating.

I know I’m sounding old, but I have always believed that the wisdom of the old combined with the vigor and optimism of youth was the only way to navigate our world. I was once that vigorous youth, and still feel the same way. I just need to know we're creating a future together, with full knowledge and acceptance of our place here.    

Lots of Calves and Izzy gets a Job

Last year in mid-March our community was flooding. This year the ground never froze, so the heavy snows of the last two weeks are melting into the soil. It makes calving better, but it's still been a challenge. 

We had a relatively mild winter and thought calving would be a breeze after last spring’s horrific conditions. Then it started snowing on the first of March and kept it up with high winds to go with the snow. It was a full barn, cold calves and weary humans for 12 days or so. We thought we were in a vortex repeat of last spring. But the sun eventually came out and we’re back on top of things - well, if we ever are!

Now we’re getting sick calves and Mark is monitoring for that as well as calving issues. Seth and Cole cover nights, plus we have our regular employees that keep the cows and yearlings fed every day. For the most part we feel blessed.

We have a new face, an apprentice, on the ranch for the next 8 mos. Izzy arrived just as calving was getting underway. She gets on a horse most mornings and does Mark’s bidding to fix whatever overnight brought. She helps me in the barn and is game for any task. She’s good with animals, made evident by the fact that she’s already made friends with Myrt, the puppy who is scared of most everything.  She grew up near Lake Erie in Ohio and comes to us by way of the Quivira Coalition, an organization dedicated to regenerative agriculture and which specifically promotes “new agrarians” by matching interns with ranchers. 

This morning Izzy hauled straw to keep the stalls fresh and then I helped her load dead calves into the pickup to be hauled away from the barn. No we don't save them all. She talked about how far she’s come from that girl who declined to participate when the rest of the class dissected animals.  

She meets with other apprentices for a few days next week. We’re anxious to hear how her experience thus far compares with the other newbies. Welcome Izzy!

Calving season is stressful. It just is. We’ve made it through the worst of it with everyone doing their share, and more. I’ve been tending the three little kids so Anna and Leah can move cow-calf pairs into new fields. It’s been fun to have the kids all together and it’s good for them to have to share toys and books. Getting them all on my lap to read a story is an event! They object to the other kid being too close or trying to turn the page, etc. and etc. But they have hugs and kisses for each other when they say hello and goodbye. Taking the good with the bad. Sounds like life doesn’t it?   

Izzy and Jane, a good pair

What we dealt with at the start of calving season
Seth is still in good spirits!

We've had some beautiful sunsets

For the Juncos

The juncos are flitting around my flower bed. I leave it “as is” in the fall, so there’s lots of plant material to sort through. I’ve seen the birds jump up on standing grasses, ride them as they fall to the ground, then feed on the seed heads. Let’s all let a corner of the lawn seed out next summer!

If you go on-line to find out how to attract juncos to your yard, you’ll only learn what type of bird seed to buy, not how to grow real seeds from real plants. Nothing against bird feeders, but think about all the side benefits real plants provide: roots reach into the soil to feed microscopic organisms, blooms feed butterflies and bees, beneficial insects burrow in to the stem to ride out the winter, they provide shade and cover to a myriad of species, and besides that, standing stems make a pretty picture against the snow.

There’s a new set of wind turbines on the skyline. They’re about 10 miles away. When Emma, our almost 3-yr-old granddaughter saw them, she said, “What are those spinners going round and round?” She’s the oldest, so will be the only grandchild that notices a change in the view. The others will think the windmills belong there. Beware the shifting baseline syndrome. We only know what we grow up with. And as each succeeding generation becomes accustomed to a new reality, we collectively lose. I know we need renewables, but let's acknowledge the impacts. We need to be conserving energy at the same time. Where’s the discussion? Where’s the incentive? Conservation has been unpopular since Carter asked us to wear a sweater. 

It's been a mild winter, but wet. Mark's had to take the tractor quite a lot to help the feed trucks get around in the mud. And since we're mostly sand, that's saying something. I hate to see calving season come. Winter, a slower time for us, is slipping away. I’m not like other heroic ranch women I read about that say they love this time of year. Not me. Once the calves get on the ground, it’s non-stop ranching until next winter. We wasted our off-season Netflix subscription and now it’s all over. I’d take February for a few more rounds.  

  

Watching "neigh neighs" graze the lawn

Sunday feeding crew

Sale Day at the Blackfoot Livestock Auction

A Melancholy Christmas

We’ve had sad Holidays before. I bet a lot of readers have too, as it seems like death comes around this time of year. It makes it hard yes, but there’s something special about it as well, with memories of grief and joy all mixed up together, full of meaning and poignancy, some tragic, some beautiful. Christmas makes us think of times and people long gone. Mourning, in a way, seems almost natural.

We lost Mark’s sister to cancer this week. She carried Jesus close, so it’s fitting for her to return to him during this time of celebration. Every year her family will remember the mourning, the staggering loss, all blended with the meaning of Christmas and the renewal that comes with a new year. Or that is my hope for them. 

Mona was a year and a half behind Mark. There was just the two of them, so they were close. Mona never took to the ranch, though, so their paths were different. While Mark followed cows around, she was all about homemaking and relationships. She liked nothing better than deep conversation. She and I could go there immediately whenever we were alone together or on the phone. We shared a family experience, a history of 30+ years. We had our children in tandem. And she was just catching up to me with her own grandchildren when she was taken. Two infants that will only know their Nonnie from photographs. Well, that’s not true. They’ll know her because of the rich garden she planted and nurtured every day in her own children - their parents.

She told me the babies looked deep into her eyes with knowingness. It seems plausible to me. The veil would be very thin to newborns and those facing death. There are so many unknowns, so many miracles we take for granted.

I’ve been trying to remember what Mona wanted. Most of all she wanted her death to mean something to the ones left behind. That we take extra good care of each other and really focus on our relationships. That we realize the gift of life and enjoy the small pleasures. To her it was these, a cup of chai, delicate hydrangeas, a heartfelt visit, that made a good life. We talked a lot about the value of being present every day in the small acts of living and how gratitude follows that practice. I'll keep working on that.   

And life, as they say, goes on. It's snowing big clumps as I write. The cows are home from the mountains. They’ve been sorted and vaccinated, the calves weighed, and now they're finding luscious grass under the snow.   

Our hope is that however this holiday finds you, you have peace, a thankful heart and a warm bed to retreat to on these long winter nights. We hope you find joy in a handshake, delight in a child’s giggle, someone to hold your hand, a chore that needs doing and the strength to do it. Happy Christmas. 

Lou and Grandpa

Emma's turn

Meet Me in Montana

We had snow for Thanksgiving. It doesn’t matter how early or late the first snowfall is, we’re never ready. I was tromping around in the cold putting extension cords together to heat the trough in the horse corral. Then I noticed the outdoor furniture hadn’t been covered.

We’ve entered another sister retreat in the books. Donna came all the way from Maryland. Then we loaded up in Kit’s rig, and the five of us drove to Montana to see our sister Janene. We stayed in a swanky house overlooking the Bitterroot Valley. Apparently some cast members from "Yellowstone" were supposed to be staying there, but canceled because of the actor’s strike. Oh darn! We enjoyed the wood stove and the big kitchen and a bed for each of us.

The day we left was Friday, which is our local livestock auction’s weekly sale day. Donna and I had just enough time to meet Rich at the auction café for coffee. Donna caught up with an old classmate who works there, and we got to meet some of Rich’s friends that he hangs with every Friday. Then we went upstairs to watch the first cattle sell to the sing-song of the auctioneer. The scene goes way back to when we were kids and Dad would sell his weaned calves, a year’s work, on sale day and hope the buyers showed up to compete for the offering.

For our sister trip this year, Merle had the idea to prepare a “talk” of sorts to share with the other sisters on a topic we were particularly interested in. We learned about Sasquatch and spontaneous human combustion from her. Becky shared the Jimmy Carter story of eradicating guinea worm. Kit talked about the history of religion, and I talked about the monarch butterfly's life cycle. Donna’s presentation was the most fun. She's moon crazy so shared her moon app and other fun facts she's learned. Did you know we always see the same face of the moon as it rotates in sync with the Earth? Donna was standing at the front of the room with her notes in hand. We heckled her a bit, raising our hands and saying, “Mrs. McWilliams . . . Mrs. McWilliams! What about. . . ?”

Our brother Rich and his wife, Charlotte, drove up for a day too, which was a real treat. 

We’re getting some wear after living this long. We have disabilities of one kind or another, and you might think we’re not as sharp as we once were. But those issues fall away when we have such fun together. We laugh and reminisce and the conversation never dulls. The seven of us siblings are closer than we’ve been since we lived together in the same house. 

After a lifetime of hard work, raising kids and grandkids, navigating illness and disappointment, we don’t have terribly high expectations anymore. And what a gift that is. We just want time together, with these dear people that we know so well and who share our common history. It's uncommon and so very blessed.     

Me, Kit, Rich, Janene, Becky, Donna, Merle