A few weeks ago on one of the first warm days of not-quite-spring, Little Sister made her way out to the ranch after school. We didn’t have any plans in particular, except that we both felt like we needed to take advantage of a sunny afternoon and then throw something on the BBQ for grilling.
Maybe we’d clean up the ditches.
Maybe we’d walk to the top of the rock hill in the east pasture.
Maybe we’d search for crocuses.
Maybe we’d catch the horses and take the first ride of the season.
And because that last idea sounded like the best idea, we called up Pops to see if he’d join us. But Pops was likely out on his own spring day walk-about and so, understandably, wasn’t answering calls.
We could have taken a ride by ourselves, just the two of us, but something about it didn’t feel right.
So Little Sister and I meandered, up to the top of Pots and Pans, where we kneeled down to inspect the crocuses, then along the top of that hill and across the fence to the fields where we followed the trail past where once, a million years ago, Little Sister watched me jump off my horse and emerge from the weeds with a concussion and a crooked and broken wrist.
We followed that trail down to where it met the road and we talked about everything and nothing like sisters do. Taxes and deadlines, summer plans and new recipes, our funny nephew, our mutual hatred for wood ticks, traffic and how things have changed around here.
Then we took a left off of that road and walked down to the hay pen where we used to feed cattle in the winter. Where once, when I was little, I watched dad get chased down by a mad momma cow while he was ear-tagging her calf.
It’s funny how all of these places out here hold different obscure memories for all of us. I doubted that Pops remembered that momma-cow incident, but at the time I was sure it was the closest he’d ever come to death.
Because, even as a kid I was aware that this life was fragile. I think growing up on a ranch surrounded by the sometimes cruel realities of nature helps a kid understand these things.
It’s a lesson I am glad to have, but sometimes I wish I could tuck away the worry as easily these days as I did back then.
See, I’ve told my sister, and I’l tell you, that ever since that long, cold week in January spent sitting next to our dad and willing him to live, to take more breaths with us, to keep pumping blood through that heart, I’ve been jumpy and much too aware that at any moment everything could change.
And I’m planning on it wearing off, that worry melting away from me as the sun warms my back and the tips of the long grass. I plan on unclenching my teeth and dropping my shoulders a bit as I remember that we can only know what’s in this moment, and in this moment we’re fine.
My sister talked about the future then and where she might build a house someday and we walked up the hill toward my house, then headed for the trail in the trees that would take us back inside, stopping to take a look at the Blue Buttes and how the sun hit them that evening, turning them purple…
And then we turned around, two sisters standing side by side. Two sisters who cried over the idea of their father’s last day on earth and took turns sitting with him during those long nights in the hospital, me from 10 to 2 am, her from 2 to 6…these two sisters who learned to ride horses by his example saw that dad riding towards them up over the crest of that hill.
His first ride, the one we prayed for, the one I promised him he’d have again if he just held on.
Last weekend I stood next to my dad on a stage behind a guitar and we sang out into a small crowd of dancing people words to songs it seems we’ve known forever, if forever was a promise we ever believed we were given.
But it doesn’t matter now. Because these things we do, the things that unclench our jaw and soften the hard parts of living, I believe they pull us through with their own promises, not to live forever, but to simply and fully live.
Coming Home: Some things in life are uncomplicated
by Jessie Veeder
“…I’ve been jumpy and much too aware that at any moment everything could change” – I can empathize so much with that feeling. In 2012 I took a year out of college to look after my mum when she was really ill and had life-saving surgery. Thankfully, she is better now but the worry still clings to me at times, the realization that life will always be uncertain…. But you are right: it’s a cliché but we need to live in this moment and not worry ourselves by trying to foresee what the future holds.
Beautiful pictures and beautiful words.
That’s a dandy, a little moist in the eyes here………..
Please discontinue my subscription to this Blog, getting waaay too many to keep up with; an interesting Blog spot wit so many beautiful photos but just can’t handle any more. Thanks!!…
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Beautiful photos, beautiful day. This is beautifully written… so peaceful and so good.
I enjoyed this post. Very moving.
Beautifully written, thank you for sharing it.
I absolutely love this post! such a meaningful story. I love how you included all the memories within the story. The pictures are so serene and the writing is very well written.
I understand this very well. I was one who went over the horizon to satisfy my curiosity and seek my fortune. I tried several times to go home, but there was no secure place for me.here I am at 69 with my one and only grand son in Wisconsin cultivating family ties, but I don’t live here,never did. I don’t live or truly belong any place. I am a tumble weed stuck in a fence in Northern Cal. Never to return to my roots. But that is OK because my home is with my maker. We have walked many a mile together. The trail is not long anymore. I wrote a poem about this once but I think I lost it. I hope you know my Lord.