Month: October 2024

If you cry in the rain will anyone notice? Or do they just think the rain is running down your face? Perhaps if they know you well enough or are just perceptive, they indeed will look into your eyes and see the truth. Pain and sorrow are often hard to hide when someone looks directly into a person’s eyes. Tears are the cursor that many people are alerted by.

October 31^st, Halloween, 2012 was a rainy deary day such as the one today. People being silly, scaring peeps in good humor, the delight of candy without guilt, and children in costumes walking, skipping, and rushing in pairs, trios, and groups having fun. 

Yet I was hiding tears in the rain.

Halloween of 2012 found me on the last day of my second year as the amateur cow whisperer saying goodbye to a feisty young bull named JoyBoy. Today, Halloween 2024, finds me a week from my last day as the amateur cow whisperer, with the first of three loads to various cattle sales. Saying goodbye to my three oldest cows, Orca, Spice, and Clover. Orca has just turned twelve and the other two are nine. They have all been good breed cows and my daily companions of many moons.

Life moves forward and with that constant flow of the waters new chapters in one’s life are always coming. My new chapter will not include cows, well, not my own at least. Just like the teenage days of my youth when I raised sheep. I was good at tubing newborn lambs and so for years after leaving sheep and lambing to someone else I was still called on in those emergencies. That is until my aging fingers could no longer feel the tube through the lamb’s throat potentially causing risk to the lamb. I ponder what the years look like ahead with the end of this cattle chapter. Will I be called in to lend assistance as a cow whisperer? Perhaps.

ACW Journal Entry – 10/31/2012:

In the days, months, and years leading up to this day I had never once thought I would mind saying goodbye to the little bull named, JoyBoy, but I guess you can get attached when you care for something every day for almost two years. It is fitting that my “cow year” ends with JoyBoy and Erin as it was with them that I began my first experiences with the cows on the ranch.

JoyBoy was the first calf that was born on the ranch that first year Erin and I tended the cows. We didn’t expect that little Angus bull calf, let alone know what to do with him, or even what would be normal for him to be doing, that very first day calves began to arrive. It was amateur day #1 the day JoyBoy was born. 

JoyBoy was an all-black stocky little bull calf. After a few short months he became very shaggy and fluffy. Like all creatures he transformed over time and just shy of two-years old he was his father’s bull. JoyBoy is now tall, lean, and sturdy with a sleek black coat and his ever-big alert style ears and inquisitive nature. 

Erin was home from college a few weeks ago and when she heard JoyBoy would be going to the bull auction she had to have her picture taken with him. It most assuredly displayed a much different size image than when he was a newborn calf. Of course, JoyBoy wouldn’t cooperate entirely with the “formal picture” and so Erin had to settle for a shot with her kneeling in front of his face while he was eating hay. A picture of Erin was found from when she was four-years old and with a set of twin calves on the ranch. Just as creatures transform with age so do humans. Erin and JoyBoy had both grown into beautiful images.

As I fed JoyBoy his breakfast this morning and then happily said a farewell to him after he grabbed the pitchfork full of hay and caused it to tumble over to the wrong side of the feeder, I also thought “good-ridden”. Later at work, sitting at my desk, I received a text from Richard that he had loaded JoyBoy up and was headed for the bull sale. 

A few hours went by and in between Medicare clients another text from Richard came in that said, “Almost shed a tear when he walked out of trailer – he stopped turned to look directly at me with what’s going on look…” And then, right there at my work desk, I lost my composure. The tears began to fall. 

JoyBoy had only ever known the ranch. Never once had he been off its land, what was he thinking? No one even realized I was crying. It was just my troublesome autumn allergic watery eyes and outside the pounding rain. 

Today no one was any more perceptive of the tears than that day twelve years ago. The rain was falling, the breeze blowing it sideways, and the fog so thick that it helped hide my face. These three old cows, Orca, Spice, and Clover had been trailered many times over the years. They trusted my voice and followed commands. They were happy to be trailered and go for another ride, together, as cow friends. The drive in the rain was uneventful. They exited the trailer as easily as they had embarked for the journey. 

Now back at home sitting in my comfy desk chair in front of my giant computer screen, alone, in the silence of the house. The rain has ceased, the wind still, the fog lifted, but my tears continue. So many emotions going through my brain and heart as the pen is lifted on this chapter of my life and the ink begins to dry. My tears do not. I own the fact that a huge piece of me has just evaporated like the rain drops on the windows.

I’ve experienced the death of my spouse not too many years ago and the grief that accompanied the loss. But one can grieve the loss of a dream too. It is a valid feeling. The saying – for something new to take place something old needs to die; there is grief in that. It’s okay to grieve that loss. Perhaps particles of the lost dream can be repurposed into a part of the new dream. My tears and grief over the cows will cease in time. 

I’d like to wrap this blog with an upbeat and happy inspiration. My dream of raising beef cows is ending but in fulfilling that dream it gave way to a long-lost dream of writing. Over a decade ago I was in the barn with the cows and the words just began to flow. My fingers sailed over the keyboard as my cow experiences with the cows turned into quirky tails of cows and humans. That opened the door for me to impact, inspire, and relate to others through writing. 

If I can repurpose my cow dream into my dream to be an author, then you my peeps can do the same for your lost dreams. I do not take credit for this, God, has given me the talents and it’s my responsibility to share that with others and give him the glory. 

The Amateur Cow Whisperer isn’t going anywhere! I’ll still be blogging the cow stories as they come to me – after all, I have fourteen years’ worth of material to pull from.  

As I lost the battle of holding the flashlight between my chin and chest this morning in the pitch-black darkness of the wee morning hours I had a moment of blindness. The magnificent beam of the high strength flashlight my son-in-law had given me a few years ago had flicked off when it hit the ground somewhere with lumber all around. From there it must have rolled into the only crevice anywhere around the spot it dropped.

Even after a few moments of adjusting my eyes to the darkness I could not find the flashlight. Finally, I relented and took my gloves off, pulled my cellphone out of my jacket, and turned the flashlight app on. It was then that I saw there was a crevice between the lumber pieces and eventually saw the shiny black metal glimmering back at me.

Within two minutes or less I surmise before I was out of the blindness. What if the blindness was a permanent physical attribute? How would I find my way around the barnyard and cattle herd? I have often said over the last fourteen years that I could drive myself blindfolded out to the ranch as I make the trek twice on a minimum each day – almost 365 days a year. Sometimes I get a few days or a glorious week off for good behavior! 

Just because I could drive blindfolded and navigate my way out to the ranch be certain dear readers, I wouldn’t. Why, not even on a double dog dare? The answer is simple. I may know my way by heart and feel or tread of the truck tires but there is one huge variable, what might come into my path that I can’t obviously see, wouldn’t necessarily hear, or smell being contained in the truck. Quite often I have more people suddenly interject themselves into my lane of traffic than animals but there are those too.

Just yesterday I had to slow to almost a stop while the car in front of me (out of stater) decided to full on stop for a flock of turkeys crossing the road. Even if the license plate hadn’t signaled me to the fact, they were out of stater’s I would have known they weren’t from this neck of the woods. Turkeys are large but they are foul animals and can most definitely fly. Yep, you heard it, if you didn’t already know it – turkeys can fly!

How do I know this? Well, each night for the last couple years since 100 wild turkeys have called the ranch home, they fly up into the tallest ponderosa pine tree they can find. That is also why they multiply and aren’t picked off by predators. They don’t sleep on the ground. That is how they stay blind to nightly predators, and you don’t find them beak up on the asphalt. 

This morning, I had to come to a full stop and let four deer of various sizes and ages cross the road when they blindly jumped into it in front of me. When they did this, it gave me more thought on blindness. I’m sure the deer wouldn’t have avoided me if I was blindfolded driving down the road if the roles were reversed. 

Having known two blind individuals in my life, I know for certain that they may indeed have a disability but that doesn’t stop either of them from living life to its fullest nor avoiding activities that they enjoy even if more challenging. In fact, one of them would be quite indignant with you if you even said they were “disabled” because of their blindness. 

One of my most sweet, beautiful, young Hereford cows became blind after a double pink eye infection in 2017. The condition was so grave that we weren’t sure at the time if she wouldn’t lose both eyes as well. She was born in the year of flavorings when it came to naming the calves and so this cow was named Spice. Her best cow friend, Clover, was born just a month after her. Fortunately, Spice was the only cow that acquired the infection from the mass number of flies that year up in the summer pastures. 

I had discovered it when doing my weekly check and by the time I was able to get back up to the summer pastures with a trailer in tow the infection had worsened. Luckily her calf was a good calm one that allowed us to trailer them without incident but not before Clover and her own calf jumped in the trailer too. Once Spice was back at the ranch the vet was called, and the eyes were both treated and sewn shut for several weeks. Blindfolds were also glued to her face around the eyes to keep them as clean and protected as possible to allow healing to begin. The hope was that she wouldn’t lose her sight altogether.

Since there were no other cows on the ranch during the summer months, I became close to this group of four. They were fascinating to watch. When the calves weren’t suckling milk or sleeping as calves do, Clover would walk slow swishing her tail to allow Spice to feel and smell it allowing her to follow and wander the ranch’s pastures and graze with her. This amazed me. How did Clover know? How did Spice know to follow? How did they communicate this? Over time Spice could be seen meandering the familiar pastures and trails around the ranch by herself as her other senses had picked up where her eyes could not. 

Around the six-week mark the blindfolds began to wear away and eventually fall from her face. I’m sure she scratched her face against anything that felt good too. The heat and stiffness of the blindfolds probably caused quite the itching. The sutures were finally removed and as suspected her beautiful eyes were cloudy. Her left eye had enough vision that she could easily be spooked. Most likely she only saw shadows but there wasn’t really a way to know for certain. 

I just learned not to come at her quickly without speaking first as she recognized my voice and seem to take comfort in it the same way whenever Clover was with her. Spice adapted at being 90% blind and is still with me today. She is one of the most peaceful cows on the ranch and if there was a best cow mom award it would certainly be hers. You will often still find Clover and Spice together resting in the shade of the ponderosa pine trees or grazing on one of the ranch’s pastures, friends forever. 

However, each summer following Spice and her calf of the year would have to remain on the ranch while the rest of the herd went to the summer pastures. It was just too wide an area with unfamiliar terrains for Spice to traverse even with Clover as her guide. It would be as dangerous as me driving blindfolded to the ranch. Blindness is a vulnerability to what lays in our path. 

Sometimes we humans are “blind” without the impairment of physical blindness. We have obliviousness, unawareness, inattentiveness or absentmindedness towards a person or situation that can be just as or even more treacherous than driving blindfolded. 

We are unable or unwilling to discern such as “blind to a loved one’s faults”, or unquestioning such as “blind loyalty”, or having not regard to rational guidance such as “blind choice”, or lacking a directing or controlling consciousness such as “blind chance”, or “to turn a blind-eye” in which you intentionally ignore or overlook something especially if conscientiously you know it to be wrong.

I know I’m not alone or embarrassed by saying that sometimes I need a Clover in my life to swish her tail diverting me back out of my own blindness and into full vision of what lay ahead. When? Well. Someone saying all the right things in your ears but actions not aligning with the words, but you keep listening. Continuing to take someone’s defense without relenting because there’s no way you’re going to admit you were wrong about them even when you know you are. A little ache or pain that’s easy to blow it off as aging or random only to end up in the er or emergency surgery. Hearing something about someone you care about but not wanting to “get involved” or have people look at you, and so you wave it off and pretend you didn’t hear it. 

Any of those sound familiar? There are always lessons to be learned from watching the cattle herd. I’m not saying that I don’t have faith and belief in God, but he formed us with brains, hearts, and with free choice. He isn’t responsible for our blindnesses. That is completely on us! 

I wouldn’t often tell others to “act like an animal” but in this instance perhaps it’s fitting. I’m not going to use “blindness” as an excuse and I hope you won’t either.

Last autumn (2023) as I walked the hillside pasture my hands floating over the hip high grasses with the smell of Lupine hanging heavy in the air a tear ran down my cheek with the realization there wouldn’t be many more times I would experience this. My cow herd was following me true to fashion. A couple younger calves were walking in unison with me. A few teenage cows were running ahead not even knowing where I would end up. And my older cows true and faithful friends were ambling behind picking up the rear of the herd. My protectors ready and willing to stay with me should I falter.

Truth be known tears are cresting over my eyelids as I finish this blog some 12 months later.

Something so simple and instinctual such as walking had become laborious, painful, and unsteady. My tenacity, strength, and of course stubbornness that I come by naturally had brought me this far in my fourteen years as the Amateur Cow Whisperer. As my daughters were both grown and raised with family and careers of their own that left me in solitude most days with the cow herd. 

Now I found myself fighting the almost hidden from outward appearance but terribly painful internal debilitating disease PsA otherwise known as Psoriatic Arthritis. This type of arthritis is far from the typical aging or sports induced arthritis. In fact, why it is even labeled as arthritis is a misrepresentation of the disease. PsA is an inflammatory autoimmune disease. Instead of your immune system protecting you against bacteria and viruses it mistakenly attacks your joints, ligaments, tendons, and sometimes skin. Some seventeen years ago I had been misdiagnosed with Fibromyalgia instead of PsA. That is a story for a different time. 

Sadly, instead of pushing myself and my body through the pain I was experiencing because it was in soft tissue and would do no damage; I instead had been unknowingly destroying the tendons and ligaments in each joint. My days with the cow herd had always brought me such peace and joy. Pushing through my pain and tiredness to care for them whether moving hay to feed them or hiking on foot to move them from pasture to pasture. No wonder why my worst joints were shoulder, fingers, knees, and feet. My gait increasingly worsening never to be fixed. 

Nutella, my oldest cow, who was beyond breeding days now, came to walk beside me. She nudged my hand over the tall grasses, and we stopped in unison. I began scratching the sides of her face as she enjoyed. No words were necessary between us. She and I knew each other’s pain. We had walked many dry dusty summer and icy snow laden paths together over the years. From the year she was born just three days after her best cow friend Brownie, they had both been my most loyal cows. It’s no secret that they will always be my all-time favorites. 

She and her best friend, Brownie, had stood with me in the pastures and listened to my sobs when my late husband, John, had died. And just six months ago I had stood with Nutella over Brownie’s final resting place when all efforts to save her were lost. That day mimicked the day of John’s sudden death, both were intense, ugly, brutal, and in the end fruitless. Yet, both would be imprinted on my heart and in my mind forever. Nutella and I were the last from those early days of my amateur cow whisperer experiences. The learning experiences of those infant days with the cow herd would forever be secrets between she and I.  

Pets from lap dogs or cats to my own cows are often creatures that are more in tune and comforting than our own fellow humans. Even with our best intentions, we humans cannot always offer fellow humans what they need in that moment of grief and sorrow. Someone close to me uttered these words shortly after John died, “I’m sure your heart still hurts but it hurts me more to see you this way.” Hearing the words come from their lips instantly insulted me and ended the conversation immediately as I had no words in response.  

Really? At first, I thought the person was trying to make some sort of poor joke. But they really meant it. Worse yet, they heartfully meant it. I wanted to push the “unfriend” button, unfortunately unlike social media in real life there is no such button. Instead, you shake your head and move forward just like grief itself. You don’t get over it, you move forward, and carrying it gets lighter as the world gets bigger around it. 

After much time went by and still perplexed by that statement I thought about it a bit more unbiasedly. What I realized is that perhaps for some people seeing another in pain does cause them so much hurt because they care about that person so much that it prevents them from offering anything of themselves as comfort. That’s okay. We each process and react differently. But, frankly, even if I felt that way I would never say those words to anyone in response to their grief. So, I’m putting it out here in this blog, if you feel that way, please don’t say those words that were uttered to me. There are so many other words one could say. You don’t even have to say anything at all. You can instead just hold their hand, sit with them, pray over them, or give them a gentle hug in silence.

Nutella and I once again began walking out of the pasture, down the hill, and on the path by the creek until it forked three ways. We took the fork in the path that led to the lower barn. Once there I went through the human door and Nutella went around to the feeder side and stood with the rest of the herd.

I didn’t normally have to feed in September, but it had been an abnormally dry year and there were no grasses left even in the creek bottoms. It was strange to be feeding hay out of the feeder in the dry and hot not so chilly air. To be taking comfort from the blaring sun in the shade of the barn’s roof and feeder was a first and had a rather odd feeling. 

Much too soon the winter months would be upon us, and I would have three layers of clothing on, below zero muck boots, and heated feeding gloves. Even with all that attire to ward off the weather my joints would be snap, cracking, and popping and as cool as my grandsons thought those sounds to be, they were anything but delightful. Just hearing them now in the warmth of the autumn day I knew in my heart this winter would be my last with the cows, in this second home of mine. It was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever made but I had to protect my joints from further unrepairable damage in the ways I had control over.  

Yes, the sweet-smelling barley and alfalfa hay would be aromas I would have to conjure up next winter bringing a smile of joy to rest across my face on a cold dark day; or the feeling of warmth being engulfed by the cows in the feeder while I raked hay out providing a blanket of coziness to my lonely heart as I rested in my overstuffed chair watching the snow fall. Each season that came this coming year would supply me with memories I could hold unto for all times sake. This last year of being the Amateur Cow Whisperer I would take in stride with all the tenacity I could muster up. 

God had already begun to make way for new dreams to come to life for me. Paths I had long ago diverted from were now right at my fingertips, literally, a publisher had just accepted one of my manuscripts. Yesterday they had called and offered me a contract. 

I looked down the feeder one last time before heading home, thirteen cow faces looked back at me. By weeks end there would only be ten. I shook my head in disbelief at the thought. Ten cows. All those years ago I started with ten cows and now I would finish with ten cows too. In the hundreds of cows that had been born on the ranch under my care I could still remember each of them and all the seasons that brought me to where I was today. How fitting to begin and end the same. God continues to bless me!

I started this blog a few years ago but didn’t finish it and it was lost in my writing files.

This morning, I ran across it while sorting my writing files. The memory of it is much more humorous now after time has gone by than in the moment of it. If you’re a Granger, you’ll find it even fitting with National Grange just around the corner.  

The gatekeeper replied a second time in a hushed annoying tone, “The Word?” At this my heart began beating so loud it was like thunder rolling in my ears and my face was flushing into deep shades of crimson colors. 

Once I had learned “The Word” I had repeated it time and time again out loud to myself. Usually while doing cow chores over the past few months. I had even made up a silly cheer song in which to remember it by. 

When I had obtained my 5^th and 6^th degrees at State Grange a few months ago they had said how important “The Word” was if you were going to gain entrance through the doors at National Grange’s 7^th degree ceremony. I had not taken this information lightly. I was no spring chicken. Perhaps that was the problem. Maybe I was too old to retain new information?

No. I had been given “The Word” in secret by a mentor Granger to gain entrance at the State Grange’s 5^th and 6^th degree ceremony. And it had worked and that was only a few months ago.

The cows had raised their heads, and you could almost see the distain on their faces, and the rolling of their eyes at me as I had sung my made-up cheer song to them repeatedly in those few long months. “I’m a Granger D-E-T-E-R-M-I-N-E-D to remember the word determined. Yes, I’m D-E-T-E-R-M-I-N-E-D to get the highest Grange degree. Go determined, yes, yes, yes!”

Now, at the “gate”, well the entrance doors into the 7^th degree ceremony at National Grange in Sparks Nevada. Surrounded by the glitzy lights and the snazzy outfits that were everywhere, a place where my cheer would have fit right in. Well, laugh out loud, maybe not! 

The gatekeeper on the entrance doors was a tall and burly guy who even though his arms weren’t crossed sounded just as firm without as he asked me again, “The Word?” and as I said, “determined” again and he shook his head almost rolling his eyes at me just as the cows had. I was certain he was going to bounce me right out of the lavish and ornate event hall. Later I wouldn’t even be able to tell a tall tale about being bounced for being wild and crazy!

Out of thin air a familiar voice was whispering a mind twister in my ear and if I could answer it then I would have the correct “word” because the word determined was only the yearly word for State Grange! Really? I had paid close attention to the 5^th and 6^th degree work and ceremony, and I could not recall having heard that. The poor cows. They had listened to that silly cheer for months needlessly. I wouldn’t tell them and no one else could either 😊

Thank you, Martha! I will never forget your graciousness at helping a Granger newbie. I’m so happy that you like so many other Grangers from all over the Nation have become friends of mine and I hope one day I can pay your kindness forward to another newbie.

I looked way up at the gatekeeper (because I’m short) one last time and met his eyes that appeared to be screaming, “Are you going to get it this time?” and yet he asked me one last time, “The Word?” This time I answered correctly with, “______,” and he made the signal with his hand that I could enter. Yep, he didn’t even open the door for me. No balloons or glitter fell from the ceiling like it does in prize shows. No fanfare yelled, “YAY”. It was a quiet memorious moment for me to remember with a chuckle once it was over.

If the cows had been there on either side of me like when I stand in the feeder chucking out their hay they would have at least swung their heads from side to side saying, “You did it Amateur Cow Whisperer, you don’t need a code with us, we love you,” and with the swaying of their heads the hay mucous spit would fly through the air slapping me on the back. That would have been good because on most days it hits me in the face… 

Life is too short. Try new things. Treasure the one’s you love. Laugh daily (even at yourself)!