'Fraidy Cat

If you’ve read some of my earlier blogs, then you already know Smokey, our resident cat-in-charge. Mornings are when Smokey is the most full of vim and vigor; he stalks the goats, climbs trees, sharpens his claws on fence posts, and races around the pond and barnyard in an apparent attempt to startle as many birds and mammals as possible.

Smokey’s morning started the same way it normally does: the little Viking scratched my favorite chair, bit my arm, and was promptly evicted from the house so he could plunder and pillage elsewhere. As usual, Smokey reappeared when Bodie (the dog) and I were doing chores. Without acknowledging our presence, the little hotshot just strode past us with that Lion King-Joe Cool swagger of his. I made mention of the mouse I’d seen in the barn the day before, but, apparently, he had more pressing business.

I’d finished chores and was headed houseward when I heard a peculiar banging sound coming from the barn. “What could that cat be up to?” I asked Bodie. Before long, I found Smokey, balanced precariously on top of a 2X10 at the top of the barn wall, eyes round, his pupils dilated with fear. Since I have a fear of heights myself, I well understood that miserable, panicky, how-will-I-ever-get-down-from-here feeling!

 “Mmrroww, mmrroww!” Smokey entreated me to rescue him. I dragged a ladder over to a large round straw bale lying near the wall, then lugged an even bigger ladder up on top of the straw and rested it on the wall close to the cat. The top of the ladder was only about 18 inches from the cat, so I was sure that he could easily climb down. I waited. I encouraged. I reassured. But, “Mmrroww, mmrroww!” was the only response.

 I remembered working on a shed roof with Hubby. When it was time to climb down the ladder, the heights-panic hit me, and suddenly it seemed as if the roof was miles from the ground instead of just feet. And the first time I went down a ski hill, the mild slope looked almost as steep as a cliff. (One definition of “fear” is False Evidence Appearing Real.) In both instances, I just froze. If people hadn’t been around to more or less force me down, I might still be up that ladder or mountain!

Well, my mountain climbing-kid was in India, and Hubby was miles away at work, so I was Smokey’s only hope. Up the ladders I went, counting on the promises of Psalm 91 (see below). Smokey stretched down to where I could grab him by the scruff of the neck and lower him to the ladder, then followed me to solid ground and the house. Temporarily deflated of pride and bravado, he slept soundly on the bed for the rest of the day.

As for me, I felt kind of proud of myself. For most people, ascending and descending that ladder would’ve been no big deal, but for me, it was a victory of faith over fear. For once, the ‘fraidy cat was actually a cat and not me!

He ordered his angels to guard you wherever you go.
If you stumble, they'll catch you; their job is to keep you from falling.

                                    Psalm 91:11-12

October Shining

October must be one of the most photographed and painted months of the year, and, indeed, it’s a month worth bragging about. In our little corner of Wyoming, October sets the gold standard for weather—not too hot, cold or windy—and, of course, the color gold. Gold seems to glow from nearly all of October’s best gifts:

·         The brilliant golden marigolds, black-eyed Susans, and calendulas still blooming bravely, even though the mountains in the distance are covered with snow.

·         The tawny Yukon gold potatoes that we’re digging from the garden. (We’ve got lots—want some?)

·         The honey gold haystacks concealing their green treasure troves of protein-laden, nutrient-rich alfalfa.

·         The golden orange of the buttercup squash and carrots that we’re squirreling away; added to all the sweet corn in the freezer, we’re pretty much fixed for vitamin A this winter.

·         The lemon-gold pears, my favorite fall fruit, which was not picked from our pear tree, but, hey, maybe next year.

·         The glorious shades of gold in the cottonwood, willow, and quaking aspen leaves.

·         Last but not least: the vibrant gold-and-navy of the Montana State University Bobcats, who, by the way, are having a stellar football season thus far!

Even the October sunlight seems to have a golden cast as it glistens off the early morning frosts or the shiny new winter coats of the horses and cows.

Gold-the-mineral seems to be worth a lot these days as our American dollar is singing the blues. Hubby and I don’t have any gold bars or bullion, but we are rich in carotenes, xanthophylls, Bobcat sweatshirts, and touchdowns!

“For God Who said, Let light shine out of darkness, has shone in our hearts….”                                          (2 Corinthians 4:6 AMP)

A Memorial

Jessie, our beloved and somewhat spoiled dog, passed away this week at the age of 14.

Born in a pig barn on a Montana ranch, Jessie was soon adopted by Robin, who celebrated the occasion by sticking the pup in the bathroom sink to scrub away the pig smell. Jessie didn’t care for that or any other bath, although certain skunk encounters necessitated them.

Jessie was a quiet, undemanding dog who loved walks, rides in the truck, scratches on her tummy, and food—especially people food. She also liked to haul home various pieces and parts of decayed carrion or rotten afterbirth, always depositing them on the front lawn before chewing them up.

Blue heelers are notorious for aggressively protecting their home and family; however, Jessie was an exception. A sweet soul who never bit anyone, she even served as a much-loved therapy dog at a women’s prison for a time.

Blue heelers are also known for their cattle herding prowess, but Jessie preferred to herd horses, rabbits and neighbor cats. The only cow work she volunteered for was accompanying Hubby in the tractor while he fed round bales. And one winter when Hubby calved out of a breezy cabin heated only by an old cookstove, Jessie kept him from freezing to death by cuddling next to him on the bed.

             Also known as Jessie Pig and Jessie Pooh Bear (in reference to her ravenous appetite and subsequent stature), Jessie’s only vice was stealing food from the other pets, which she did up to the day before she died.

Jessie is survived by a big brother, Zach Lentsch; her parents, Marcus and Robin; her buddy, Bodie; and the cat, Smokey. A tough but sometimes unwise dog, Jessie herself survived quite a few unfortunate events: torn ACLs from rabbit chasing, poisoning from the neighbor’s antifreeze, over-sedation from a recent veterinary school grad, several near-drownings in irrigation systems, and a vicious attack by a protective mama Angus.

Jessie was buried in the place of highest honor on the ranch, Robin’s rose bed, where two special rose bushes will be planted next spring.  She is sorely missed.

In lieu of flowers, memorials, or casseroles, just remember that life is short, especially for dogs, so don’t pass up a chance to share a table scrap, a pat, or a ride in the truck.

“In His hand is the life of every creature….”

Job 12:10

Cheer or Drear?

It’s one of the most physically demanding jobs we have here on the ranch, and today it was all mine: wrestling irrigation pipe. This particular stretch of pipeline was relatively short, but every one of those  30-foot long, 10-inch diameter PVC babies had to be hoisted out of a ditch, aligned, lubricated, pulled and pushed uphill. Gravity isn’t that big of a deal if you’re strong like Hubby or Zach, but it is for me! To complicate matters, the pipeline follows a curved burm; pipes can’t be fitted together unless they are both straight and somewhat level.

As I huffed and puffed, heaved and hoed, several whiney, toxic thoughts sprang to mind about certain unnamed persons off traveling while I was home doing jobs that most farmers around here hire illegal immigrants to do. But since I’ve learned from experience that self-pity is a drag and anger is no fun, I decided instead to fight to keep my joy and peace.

“‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me’,” I grunted. “I’m thankful that at my age, I can still work this hard,” I panted. “I choose to do this with a loving attitude,” I gasped. “‘Love never fails!’” I wheezed.

At last, the mission was completed; that corner of the hayfield was now ready to irrigate. “We did it!” I exclaimed to God and my dog, who’d been lending moral support from the road. I was tempted to collapse on the ground to rest, but alfalfa stubble isn’t much more comfortable than a bed of nails.When I walked home, I had something of an epiphany: If I had given an audience to my negative thoughts, the job would have taken the same amount of time, but I would have carried my sour attitude around with me for hours afterwards. As it was, I was free to enjoy the rest of my day!

“The joy of the Lord is your strength.” Nehemiah 8:10

The Deprived and the Not-So-Deprived

Hubby had to do all the chores and irrigating last night, since I was on the bi-monthly pilgrimage to Billings, Montana, to pick up a round bale feeder and vacuum cleaner and to stock up on cheap groceries. He called with an AAR (animal accommodation report) as I was headed home.

·         Hubby brought the goats into the barn and fed them, but they protested loudly until he figured out that they didn’t like the stemmy hay that he’d given them. He gave them some leafy alfalfa; they shut up.

·         He let the cat in and deposited him in front of a reasonably full bowl of cat food. The cat wouldn’t eat, however, and meowed pitifully until Hubby remembered me saying that Smokey insists on a scoop of fresh food at every meal. (Not only that, but, once a day, he orders up a side of dog kibble or biscuits.)

The cows, horses, and dogs were more agreeable and, for once, didn’t lobby for more than they were given.

For a few glorious weeks in late summer, we humans feast on sweet corn while the bovines devour sweet corn shucks, cobs, and stalks. When the corn disappeared, I rotated the cows to another pasture which was lush from irrigation and rest. One would think that the herd would be satisfied with green grass up to their knees, but not so—early the next morning they showed up, looking for their sweet corn breakfast!

Son Zach, who is on a year-long Rotary student exchange to Jamnagar, India, tells us that our animals don’t know how good they have it compared to that of animals in his city. Dogs and cats aren’t kept as pets; chickens, pigs, goats and water buffalo aren’t kept on a farm. No one feeds them. They run wild, subsisting on what they glean from the garbage dumps or their fellow gleaners. Disease (most of the dogs suffer from mange) and parasites are the norm.

Maybe we should send our over-indulged animals overseas to see how their Indian brethren are getting along in the garbage dumps. When they return, they might not be so quick to fuss if their meals are not 5-star rated or, heaven forbid, five minutes late!

Mirth Blooming

                The honeybees love me! Well, at least they never sting me as we work side by side in the flower beds—me watering and weeding, they gathering nectar and pollinating. It’s the middle of September; the nights are cold, but it has yet to frost. The sunny yellows of the marigolds, calendulas and black-eyed Susans have never been so bright, and the scarlet, pink and peach hues of the roses have never been so vivid. Even the sunflowers, purple coneflowers and poppies, though weary and heavy-laden with seed, are still blooming satisfactorily.

                The bees and I know that it’s just a matter of days before the flowers will be frostbitten, their brilliance turned to brown and black dullness. To ease the pain of color-lovers who inhabit cold climates, the good Lord—a master of garden design if there ever was one—has provided for dazzling autumn displays of red, orange and yellow that even outshine the intense, smiling hues of mums and asters. Already the current bushes are turning crimson, and the green is fading in the aspen and cottonwoods.

                In a few months, when there’s nothing but neutrals—white snow, tan grass, grey trunks and branches—I’ll be ever so grateful for the few splotches of color that I still have: the red-orange rose hips and a few young juniper and blue spruce trees. (Why didn’t we plant more of those? I’ll wonder.) And I’ll be even more thankful that our home, barn and outbuildings aren’t the neutrals we’d originally considered, but are a cheery barn red with white trim and hunter green roofs. My color focus will have shifted indoors as I merrily deck the halls in preparation for Christmas. (Don’t worry about the bees. By then, they’ll have been transported to the West Coast and will be buzzing about from one almond blossom to another.)

                Color is a miracle which dictionaries and the science of physics try to explain in vague terms such as, “An attribute of things that results from the light they reflect, transmit, or emit in so far as this light causes a visual sensation that depends on its wavelengths.” (Huh?) To me, color in nature is just more proof that our Creator loves people (hey, He could have designed the world in grayscale and we’d have never known the difference) and that He’s not near as austere as we sometimes suppose. The next time you pass a zinnia or a viola, look closely—you might just see God grinning.

Of Sticks and Sons

“Why are you putting all those sticks in the ground?” asked the little boy, looking down at Hubby and me on our knees in the mud.

“These aren’t sticks,” we laughed. “They’re trees!” He looked dubious, and I couldn’t blame him. The tiny saplings indeed looked like mere sticks—they had no branches or leaves and only a few roots. Fifty of them fit into one bucket!

We planted hundreds of trees that day and have done so several times since, doing our part to enhance the environment as well as increase the profits of companies that produce OTC pain relievers. (Tree planting wouldn’t be so hard on the knees and back if the bulk of the work could be done above ground level!)

Anyone who has planted trees knows the investment of time required to nurse a “stick” into a tree. When I heard the Chinese proverb, “The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago,” I laughed at its truth. Everything else we plant—grass, crops, flowers, vegetables—nearly always grows to maturity in a year or two, but trees take years, even decades.

Wyoming is no Garden of Eden either. Saplings face enemies like sub-zero winters, hot and dry summers, choking weeds, alkaline soil, brutal winds, and munching mule deer . In order for young trees to survive and thrive here, we Johnny Appleseeds have to help them out with irrigation, mulch, weeding, fertilizer, and protective fencing—not to mention splints made from sticks, socks and duct tape!

Tree husbandry can be quite rewarding when a “stick” you planted three years ago finally has a trunk strong enough for the cat to climb, branches sturdy enough to support a songbird, or shade enough for the dogs on a hot summer afternoon. This summer, I discovered a red-winged blackbird nest in a little silver buffaloberry we’d planted just over a year earlier! Even though the nest was partially supported by a thistle, I felt a certain parental pride, the kind I felt when Zach played Theodore Roosevelt in his 2^nd grade history play, or made his first layup in 5^th grade basketball.

The most gratifying thing about tree parenting, I think, is that, after all the investment of time, work and love that you put into saplings, they don’t pack their bags and move to India!