RIDING DRAG / FIRST ROBIN OF SPRING

 May 14, 2013

 My grandmother always said seeing the first Robin of spring was good luck as their song summons spring. I shared this with my friend Ruth Anne who had never heard this little piece of superstitious lore. Being an open-minded individual, she took this to heart and throughout the dreary gray months of January and February, March and April she looked forward to the first robin and his song. I too looked for the first robin and so was taken a little aback when Ruth Anne called the second week of May with a question.

 “If the first robin of spring that you see is lying on your front porch and the cat is ripping his throat out, is that a bad sign?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, “it doesn’t look good.”  

I had intended to write a parody of the old song “When the Red, Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob Bobbin’ Along”; but I’ve reconsidered; mostly because I couldn’t come up with one that wasn’t totally gruesome.

However, I will share this with you. Winter has been harsh across the nation. We have survived it rather well out here on the plains. I attribute it to our self-reliant culture as Ranchers and Farmers. It has been a long winter and everyone is looking for signs that spring is truly headed our way. Ruth Anne told me that she was very tired of winter weather and asked if one robin means spring is coming, would over a hundred of them at once mean that it is coming very soon?

My answer (with apologies to F.P. Church)…Yes Ruth Anne there is a spring. It exists as surely as Ranchers and Farmers. It exists through our belief that the coming spring will make for better crops and livestock. It exists because we will it to. It springs eternal in every cabin-fever infected soul.  And it lives in the heart of every robin, as long as we control our cats.

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*For more information on Debra Coppinger Hill go to AlwaysCowboy.com.

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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

GIFTS

Ranching and farming present the participants with great gifts.  We receive knowledge because every day is a learning experience. Treating our animals prepares us in many ways for dealing with childhood illness and accident by teaching us to remain calm so the patient (two or four legged) will remain calm. We receive the gift of a sense of humor and the ability to deal with any situation in an upbeat manner. We have been given the ability to survive regardless of the circumstances and the gift of forgiveness, both by us and towards us. Livestock babies are our gift each spring, assuring us that life goes on no matter what. The list is endless.

The greatest gifts I ever received were my family and several life-long friends. God put them in my life and blessed me with ranching and writing. I thank Him every day for all he has given me. But none of it is as important as His one gift that He gave to all mankind…the life of His Son for our sins. The list for why this is important is endless too. We will celebrate this week the glory of Christ rising from the dead.  He is there for each person who will simply believe and follow.

I came back and edited this column after sending it to one publication that sent it back and asked that I write something a little less “controversial”.  I guess I could do that, but I don’t want to. Instead I will ask them to rerun a column of their choice at no charge and when their contract is up at the end of April, I will not renew it. I will not compromise my personal belief in Jesus Christ as the Son of God and the Savior of man for a check and the sake of political correctness. I would rather be wrong in the eyes of an editor than in the eyes of my Savior.

I would like to mention one more thing. I have never met a Rancher or Farmer who did not have a deep abiding Faith in God. And I believe with my whole heart that stewards of land and livestock are also one of those gifts God gives the world. Spring will come and someone somewhere will shout that the wheat is up or that there is a new baby on the ground and I know who they will thank. I know who I will be thanking. He is Risen!

 

*For more information on Debra Coppinger Hill go to the poetry section at AlwaysCowboy.com

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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

FALSE SPRING

I have lived long enough to understand that a warm day in March doesn’t necessarily mean that spring is here. Sometimes it pretends to be the perfect weather for gardening to lure you outside and get you started cleaning up your garden with visions of fresh veggies dancing in your head. You will work the warm day away and go to bed thinking of all the things you will accomplish tomorrow. Tomorrow arrives with temperatures 45 degrees lower, a misty cold rain and a view through the window of your garden tools leaning against the fence mocking you for leaving them out because you were sure you would be using them early the next day.

I used to fall for the temptations of the first warm days. I would work myself silly getting my first of spring chores started only to be stalled by the following cold. I would have to start over several times throughout the end of winter months of February and March. Several years ago I recalled something my Grandfather told me when I helped plant his garden; ‘Never plant anything before April Fool’s Day.’ I now take his words to heart and follow them to the letter.

Yesterday it was 79 degrees and I spent the day outside. But instead of working in the yard I spent it sitting at the picnic table while my grandsons ran circles around me. We ate a snack, drew on the porch steps with chalk and watched the horses run and carry on in the south pasture. We filled the water tanks, laughed at the cat chasing a leaf blowing by and discussed why we don’t put grass in our mouths that comes from the part of the yard where the dogs go to do their business.

Today it’s 36 degrees and yes, there is misty cold rain falling. We are trapped inside, but instead of staring out the window at yard tools demanding we come out and put them away before they rust, we are drinking hot chocolate and talking about what fun we had yesterday. You see, the secret to a good garden is to not get into a hurry. My Grandfather told me that too.  I am sure he also knew this was the secret to growing a good relationship with our kids and grand-kids. Mother Nature likes to play games with us by teasing us into believing spring is here. The key to enjoying spring when it really gets here is to enjoy the final days of winter. Now, if you will excuse me, my grandsons and I have some corn to pop and a rousing game of Hungry, Hungry Hippo to play; it’s the perfect weather for it.

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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

RIDING DRAG / TOO MANY IRONS IN THE FIRE

I was feeling a little over-whelmed earlier today when I started making a mental list of all the things I have to do in the next weeks to come. After transferring the list to paper because there was too much to remember otherwise, I realized that I have a common ranch-wife condition. ‘Too many irons in the fire’ is a malady common to many of those of us who live a rural lifestyle.


It starts innocently enough; “Can you make the feed run?”-sure, “Can you design a new sale flyer?”-sure, “Can you sell stuff for the fundraiser, clean out that shed so the calves can get in, wash and vacuum the truck, get the tractor serviced, iron me some shirts and jeans, look up some internet information for me, get the dogs their shots, take the baby to his Dr. appointment, see how much Bermuda sprigs will be next spring, go get lumber for the trailer project, go back and get screws, caulk and saw-blades, put the new filters in the fridge, trucks and heat-pump, feed all those guys coming over to look at horses AND by the way, can you run by the bank and set the mouse traps in the feed room?”-SURE.

We say ‘Sure’ because it is easier than explaining why we can’t or even why we don’t want to. We also say it because we all think we are Superwoman. It’s not that we really believe we are, but because most of us are raised by women who we know without a doubt truly are or were Superwoman. We marry men who work as hard as we do and we wouldn’t think of not holding up our end. We also have kids who work hard and as mother’s we will do anything to lighten their loads. And don’t get us started on what we will do to make things go well for our grand-kids.

Friends are another matter as most of us have friends just like us, who wouldn’t dream of adding fuel to the fire where all our irons are heating up. They ‘get it’ and will do anything to help us, thus adding another iron to their own fire.

I was going to write a cute little poem about the Superwomen I know, but after doing all the things I said ‘sure’ to I still have my own set of irons to take care of before bed. Dishes, laundry, letters and bills to go out tomorrow, trash needs taking out…oh, and writing and sending this column, all hopefully will be done before midnight. It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Super-Ranch Woman! Is that a branding iron in her hand?


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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html

RIDING DRAG / LONG SHADOW DAYS

After the recent loss of our old Kelpie cow-dog MiMi, I received a lovely condolence letter and some poetry from one of my readers in Albion, NE. She said I wouldn’t know her from a bale of hay but that they had raised farm dogs since 1945 and she wanted to share a couple of pieces of poetry with me. They couldn’t have come at a better time. It has been a month since MiMi passed through the gates and it is finally hitting home that she is really gone. The opossums have grown bold and come up to feed from the cat bowl and we miss having her warn us of approaching storms. There is a hole we can never fill.


No, I don’t know Donna from a bale of hay, but is because of people like her that I write each week. Our lives as stewards of land, livestock and ranch critters are filled with stories worthy of being told. These tales of truth document people and animals that comprise rural America and preserve a way of life vital to this country of ours. With this in mind, I dedicate this week’s column to Donna M. and I thank her for her lovely expression of sympathy.

*Tuff pads across the hot gravel at the end of the drive, his shadow following long and lean. He is old this dog. I do not say “this dog of mine”, for he is independent; owns me more than I own him. No longer youthful, he has long ago given up chasing rabbits, so Mr. Bunny sits among the nasturtiums and gobbles the bright blossoms.

At the corner of the garden Tuff pauses to drink from the old turkey roasting pan left just where the leaky faucet can drip fresh water all day. I could fix it, make it like new and save on the water bill; but then who would make sure he has a cool drink when I am away? My day job is in town now; an office position taken when the horse market went thin and kept ‘just in case’.

Tuff used to lie at my feet where-ever I was. His rhythmic panting setting the pace as I went about my chores. We were constant and consistent comrades and I missed him once the job started. I snuck him to work once when I thought the Boss would be gone all day. Tuff lay beneath my desk, his head on the toe of my boot, content like the old days to just be touching me. As co-conspirators we’d have gotten away with it too, if the Boss and his son hadn’t showed up late in the afternoon.

Tuff could ignore the Boss, but he doesn’t like the son, so he stuck his head out and growled real low. I made the excuse that I had to take him to the veterinarian immediately after work and needed to save gas and time by not back-tracking home. The Boss said it was ok just this once and petted Tuff, while his son said he never could understand why dogs don’t like him much. I allowed that some dogs are just that way and they went on about their business. Tuff and me, we know the truth and agree that some folks just deserve growling at.

I watch as Tuff settles on his rug on the side porch and stares off towards the east pasture where the cows and calves used to stand in the shade. Sometimes I think he misses them and that he is reflecting on the old days, when he was a real jaw-snappin’ cow-dog with the world by the tail. Maybe it’s just me, sliding into old memories of when I was just as young and bullet proof.

The sun shifts and I realize it is getting late. I drive on down from the top of the hill where I have been watching and stop at the gate to pick up the mail. Tuff’s ears go up and he races across the yard and circles the fence to meet me. I open the truck door and he jumps up and wiggles in next to me. As I shut the door he sticks his head out the window. To anyone coming along our road it looks like he is driving; our little joke on passers-by.

I park by the chutes and like a young pup Tuff bounds out of the truck, barrels full speed across the yard and barks at the rabbit in the flower bed. I smile at his attempt to fool me into believing he stays on guard all day. I praise him, call him ‘good dawg’ and laugh as he picks up his rug and shakes it.

He dashes a few feet ahead of me as I follow a nightly routine of walking to the barn to feed the horses. His shadow and mine mix together and form a creature of mythological proportion. Looking back to where I lag behind, he pauses and waits for me. I envy his patience, his contentment with his life as it is; find comfort in his unconditional companionship. I catch up and we walk on, two shadows before us, touching now and then in that familiar way of kindred spirits.

I like to think that the road to Heaven’s gate is like this; an easy walk along a frequented path with a good friend. In these long-shadow days it is comforting to know there is someone there who loves us for no other reason than we are consistently there. As evening falls and the shadows stretch out far ahead of us I realize something. They do not show age. They are as we were. And with Tuff by my side, that is enough.



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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html