Keep It Simple, Cowboy

This old world keeps us hoppin like a frog on asphalt. People scurryin off to work to get more money to pay the bills, and then to buy more things that, of course, requires more money, generates more bills and…well, you get it. And  all at the speed of sound. Many of us spend our lives runnin after material things in the misguided belief that material, finite things can supply true happiness. For instance, our car has to make a statement, our trucks too. Has to be new and  impressive, even though a new vehicle is just about the worst investment a man can make. It depreciates in value the instant our name goes on the title.

The house we live in has to have “success” written all over it. Whatever ‘Success” is. Used to be a person could buy a house and be reasonably certain to make a profit, even if you sold it after one year. Not the case any more. The real estate crash changed all that.

 Some folks have found themselves buying beautiful houses, thinking they would be beautiful homes. Only to find that, well, fine houses are only fine homes if fine people live in them. Good families can make fine homes out of any old house.

Sometimes, I think God must look down and see a world full of people lookin like ants at a picnic. Hurriedly coming and going, running into each other just long enough to say “Hi”, carrying more weight than we need to, from daylight to dark, and just to gather up all we can in this life. And then we’re too exhausted or frustrated to enjoy our gains much of the time anyway. Oh, I’ve been there and done that, but one day I said whoa, drew up the reigns, and wondered ...why? It may have started me thinking when I went to a nursing home one day many years ago. Patty and I visit a nearby nursing home often to check on some old friends, and to help get one of them to church. It is there that I am often struck by what life can wind up being for some of us.

“See that man there? That’s Mr. so and so, he was a bank president for years. Over there is Mrs. somebody, she owned a chain of hardware stores. That man there owned 6000 acres and was a political big shot”. The nursing homes are full of rich people, successful people, once powerful people, and poor people, who all together stare at old black and white reruns or out the window, and wait for the highlight of their day... the next meal. All their material possessions in this life have come down to their favorite chair, and maybe a television set. And memories, for those who can member. Once they were separated as the 'haves and have nots'. Today they were all the same. A shell of a person with nothing but their memories for companionship. It was a lesson in what matters to me.

I want good memories. Our life is, after all, the sum of the memories we've made. And I want to be remembered fondly, for good things, not for my material acquisitions or any place in society that I may have attained.

Now, I’m not saying we shouldn’t provide for ourselves and others in the best way that we can. It is our duty and responsibility to do so. We must work to keep food on the table and provide for ourselves. But, where is the line that separates necessity from vanity? When does good enough finally become good enough? For some of us, I'm afraid,good enough doesn’t come until all that glittered gold has cost us all that really mattered.

 I appreciate a photo my daughter gave me. It is a picture of an old man and a small child fishin on a dock. The caption reads,"Your grandchildren will not remember you by the material things you gave them, but by the memory that you cherished them”. Amen. Love, kindness, compassion, those things stay behind after we've long gone. Simple things are lasting things. Spiritual things are eternal things. I want to dwell more on lasting and eternal things.

At the feed store one recent morning, I found a mixture of folks standing around the counter, eating popcorn, and drinkin coffee. Big hats, ball caps and Carhart hoods. Farmers, ranchers and hired hands.  When I walked in the door, the snow blew in behind me. As I closed the door and dusted off my cowboy hat, one of my friends’ ranch bosses asked ,“ Did you bring this snow with you cowboy?” “Nah, if I had that kind of power I’d a brought 2 more feet and dumped it behind your truck, Buck” I answered. Everyone chuckled and we talked about snows past, present, and predicted.

The girl behind the counter finally asked if I needed the usual supplies and named them. I answered yes. One of the men good naturedly asked my neighbor what he thought of “borderin up to a chicken rancher”. We all laughed, and I joked with them and the shop clerk that I needed to order rubber boots for my chickens, since the snow was gonna hang on all winter. After that, I said “see ya” and headed out to the storage building to start loading feed. Before I went through the door though, one man looked up from his coffee cup and said of me, "That ‘chicken rancher’ is a good neighbor.” Now, in Midwest rural America, being a good neighbor is a grand way to be remembered. That’s why the State Farm company slogan became such a success. Good neighbors mean something here. Simple statement, powerful meaning.

As I guided my old rusty red pickup through the snow to the feed barrels, I thought about the simple things. I tightened my bandanna around my neck, and appreciated its warmth against the 25 degree chill. Pushed my Stetson down on my head a little tighter, and unloaded the bags of feed. I looked over the fences at the multi- colored hens against the white snow, and enjoyed the picture of contentment it presented. Hershey, my dog, placed his big ole head on my leg for a rub. I patted him on the head and he scurried off to run in the snow. As I finished my chores, I felt a cup of coffee coming, and a piece of homemade pecan pie.

I stood for a minute and looked at the snow on the trees. I marveled once again at Gods ability to paint such glorious pictures as that of the Blue Jays and Cardinals against the green and white of the snowy pines. I thought of the owl outside our window at night that often hoots me to sleep, and the sound of the coyotes as they sing through their hunting. I thought of the music of the wind in the cedars, that I hear from my back porch. The smell of cookin in the kitchen when I come through the back door. The dance of flames over split logs, and the feel of warmth as I stand with my back to the fireplace. Sweet memories to add to my mental store house, there to draw from when I need them. Simple pleasures all.

As I climbed back into the truck, it appealed to me that simple things, all poured into a tin cup and mixed together, add up to a powerful drink of happiness. ‘Keep it simple cowboy”, I often think to myself.
It’s gonna be my mission this next new year to be less carnal and material minded. To dwell on the eternal things, on lasting things. I don’t want to be consumed by the rat race or caught up in the dizzy unending spiral of great material gain. No, I want take pleasure in simple things, and be a simple man.
I’d like to leave a head stone behind someday that says “ He was a good neighbor.” Yes, that's it. Plain and simple.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM THE CHICKEN RANCH

Snowy Evening at The Chicken Ranch

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas here at the Chicken Ranch. Yesterdays blizzard of snow and 55-60 mile per hour winds, left trees and ground alike in a cotton covered blanket of white. Cedar and pine trees have green needled limbs that are frosted with cake icing layers of snow. The branches bow under the weight, but bear their snowy burden gracefully. Pond banks are bounded by drifts that taper down to the glassy edges of the frozen water. I notice tracks from a small critter who came for a drink and left disappointed. Snow will have to slake his thirst today.

The wind that brought  snow with the howl of a freight train, has now subsided, and the late afternoon is still. I love the way snow muffles sound and covers ground to create an atmosphere of peace. I am sorry to disturb the quiet by crunching my boots forward of me as I walk to feed the chickens. The muffled crunching sound as I walk alerts a squirrel, that jumps from a limb above me, and sends a powdery shower to my cowboy hat and the ground below. I think squirrels must have a sense of humor.

The chickens mill around close to their house, where the wind has whipped much of the snow away. Each of the hens wait for the grain to be thrown to them, and then scurry excitedly for their portion. I check for eggs and find few today. The cold has slowed production, as much as the reduced sunlight that comes with winter months. They could stand the rest, after all, spring and full production will come again.

Our dog Hershey plows through the snow, churning up powder as he turns, runs and jumps. His dark brown body is a stark contrast to  pure white snow. He has a white dusting upon him by the time he explores the nearby woods, and follows a rabbits trail. I give him a short whistle and he runs back home excitedly, and gulps down his food. After I finish my chores, I turn up my collar, pull on my leather gloves, and head to the shed for another armload of firewood.

The sun has long set, and the stars are brightly twinkling through the clear canopy of cold night air. “All is calm, all is bright” I hum to myself. As I step on to the back porch and kick the snow from my boots, I look over at the cedar tree that my grandson Karter and I wrapped in lights for the holidays. The wind stirs the branches a little, and the snow reflects the multi-colored light over the tree and to the surface below.

Yes, it is beginning to look a lot like Christmas. And feels like it too. I head inside and hang my hat over the peg on the mud room wall. I think it's time for a cup of hot chocolate in front of the cracklin' fire. And then... a long winters nap.

Merry Christmas to you, everyone. And as Bing Crosby once sang so beautifully, “May your days be merry and bright…and may all your Christmases… be white.”

Why? There is no answer.

 NOTE : AFTER THE RECENT MASS MURDER EVENT IN ORLANDO, FLORIDA, I WAS REMINDED OF THIS POST I PRESENTED IN DECEMBER 2012.

Over the next few days, weeks, and months much will be said about the heart breaking and mind numbing event at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut . Focus and energy that should be placed on the broken lives of the parents, grandparents and siblings will soon be shifted to blame placing and, unfortunately, political rhetoric. Much will be speculated, some things will be confirmed, positions will be entrenched, and....there will be plenty of finger pointing.
 
Some will argue anew for the removal of all guns from American soil, in the naïve notion that that could ever be accomplished in a day of a world wide economy, where one phone call gets an entire shipment of deadly weapons delivered from overseas in a week. Some will cry for stricter laws, in absentminded blindness to the fact that, assault with a deadly weapon and cold blooded murder are already against the law, and that one deranged human being broke those laws, over and over and over again, in a blood letting rage, until 26 adults and children were dead.  The Law means nothing to a person prepared to break it.
 
Others will argue that we often arm guards in shopping malls to protect retailers and customers, but don’t have universal protection for our most  vulnerable and precious resource, our children, in public schools. Our future is our children after all.

Some will say it is Gods will or he would have stopped it. Many will argue that God could never will the slaughter of innocent children, that mans inhumanity to man comes from the will of Satan. And a persons lack of concern for Gods will.

  Many will cry that if there had been no guns on the street, this wouldn’t have happened. Still others will shout that if some adult in that school had had a weapon, and knew how to use it, maybe some of those victims could have been spared.
 
The frustration, positioning, and rankling, and the psychoanalyzing and theorizing, all come down to one thing. None of us have the ability to wrap our minds around the reality that a man would murder tiny, beautiful, fragile, innocent children. And yet, in the name of war, it happens routinely in some parts of the world. Hitler had no problem doing it.  But not here…this is America.
 
No, the truth is, all these debates are just pent up grief, anger, and frustration due to our total lack of ability to answer the question on all of our minds. Why, for Gods sake…why? And that answer has alluded us since Cain killed his own brother Able, thousands and thousands of years ago.

There has always been, and always will be, an element of society that will be injurious to the other. The only thing that we can do about it is protect ourselves, and learn better how to bend our knees, fold our hands.... and pray.
  All we can do is try to protect ourselves…and pray. God help  us all.

A Time for Leaving Part IV

 

Dale looked out across the miles of desert to the mesas beyond. Their upper walls and rims were aflame with the glow of the setting sun. The tall, flat topped rock formations that erosion had left behind, stood stubborn and proud against the desert background. The valley was beginning to welcome the cool of evening shadows, that grew longer with each passing minute. It was the rugged spaciousness of this land that Dale loved the most. Here, there was freedom to ride for days and not see a settlement… or another living soul. Wide, wild, rugged and free, that was this land in a nutshell. He never tired of it, he only loved it more with each passing year.

This was not the Dan River area of Virginia with its great plantations, rolling hills, and valleys. That was the beautiful place where he had been born. But that place wasn’t the same after the war, and never would be. And it was becoming crowded. He had come west looking for room, and he had found it, he thought, as he began riding down a ridge, to the floor below to look for water.

It was when his horse, Stonewall, snorted and raised his ears, that Dale noticed the shadow in the distance. Dale was heading for a grove of trees to make camp. It was later than usual for him to start camp, but he had pushed hard through the day. He was heading to Mexico and had been delayed a day by the business he and Willie had attended to. Rescuing those young women from kidnappers took priority over his original travel plans of course, but now he needed to make up for lost time. He sat silent on Stonewall and eased closer to the boulders where the outline of a horse took shape. As he got closer he could see that the horse was saddled. It wasn’t tied, and no rider was in sight. Stonewall kept fidgeting and flaring his nose occasionally . “Something’s not right, is it ole boy?" Dale whispered as he patted his mount. He eased off Stonewall, and quietly slid his rifle from its scabbard.

Dale looked all around him as his senses heightened. Carefully, he walked towards the horse and listened for any sounds around him. As he rounded a sage bush, he could see what appeared to be a body with a foot in the stirrups of the saddle. He cautiously moved at an angle to the horse, looking in all directions as he moved forward.. He soon saw that the body was a young man in Mexican vaquero gear. Satisfied that there was no one else waiting in ambush, Dale moved out to the horse and body.

“Well, he’s alive Stoney” Dale said to his horse, “but he ain’t gonna’ to be hat dancin’ anytime soon.” He looked the man over and discovered much blood on his jacket. Closer examination found a shoulder wound that looked like that of a rifle shot. Four years of war had taught him to recognize and care for all types of gunshot injuries. The mans shirts had clotted off the bloody area, so Dale applied his wild rag in a soft knot to keep the wound from opening again. He also noticed an ugly abrasion on his head, whether from the fall or from a deliberate blow to the head, Dale couldn’t be certain. The vaquero did not waken as Dale washed the wound and wrapped his head in the Mexicans' bandanna.

Dale went to the grove and gathered some limbs. With his rope and blankets, he fashioned a travois behind the mans horse, placed the young man on it, and covered him. Dale could see from his clothes and saddle that this Mexican cowboy came from money.

The horse was well bred and the saddle was adorned in silver and turquoise. The gun the vaquero carried was a Colt, and it was housed in a finely engraved holster. His boots were not over-worn and were well made. Dale looked out toward the horizon. This horse had been headed toward water and food. Dale decided to let the horse lead the way. He gave the animal a gentle slap on the rump, and fell in behind him as he headed west into the evening sun.

After about an hour of travel the vaquero began to moan. Dale stopped the horse and carried a canteen of water to the man. The barely lucid man took a few swallows and said “Apaches..kitchen” then faded back into unconsciousness. Dale checked the wounds again. Dale wondered at the mans words. He knew he was in Apache country, and they had been a bad lot to deal with since the Army had pulled out. But he couldn’t understand why Apaches would leave him alive, or not steal his saddle and horse. He had no idea what the Mexican might have meant about the kitchen. He started the mans horse on through the darkness. It was well nigh two hours later when Dale heard barking dogs in the far distance.

These were hunting dogs Dale knew. The sound of the howling that faded and rose told him that the dogs were running on a scent. Tracking a cougar perhaps. The sound faded after a bit, and he figured the trail had gone cold. But the sound of the hounds had meant that there was a ranch near.

Dale was suddenly very tired. He and Stonewall had put many miles behind them today. The horses kept a slow and steady gait. He slowly drifted off to sleep.

“Everything alright Cap’n?” Dale nodded yes, “Fine, Sergeant Major, just surveying the Field.” Dale looked at the devastation that lay below the ridge. Horses and men lay in grotesque, twisted positions of death. Some men were still barely alive, and begging for help, while those who were able stumbled along and looked for help. Wagons and caissons were shattered, splintered wrecks. The air was mostly clear of smoke now, but the smell of gun powder yet lingered in the air. Uniforms of blue, gray, and butternut covered the ground in front of him. Some of the uniformed men were horribly mangled from rifle and cannon shot, while others looked as those they had only lay down to rest.

“It was a grand day for Old Virginia today, Sir,” said the Sergeant Major “ We put those Yankees to flight, yes Sir! What is before us is a glimpse of glory to come. We will win this war, and soon.” Dale looked down at his saddle and sighed. He looked out again over the scene before him, “Sergeant Major, if this is a glimpse of glory, then Almighty God spare me  from a glimpse of hell.” The old sergeant took off his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He replaced his hat, and looked over at his Captain, whom he greatly admired , then back over the field. “ Yes, Sir” was all he said.

The groans of the men suddenly became more audible, and then a shot rang out.

Dale awoke suddenly. He was re-oriented by the time of the second blast. He heard the dogs, and recognized the sound of animals on the attack. He dismounted and tied the horses to a deadfall. As he worked his way around the rocks, three men with lanterns came in to view.

The men were calling off the dogs and pulling them back. “Big cat” was all he could make out from voices in the distance. Light rolled up and down the trees and rocks like glowing waves upon a craggy shoreline, as the lanterns swung back and forth in the men’s hands.

Dale returned for the horses and rode around the rocks toward the men.

As he approached, he shouted “ Hello up ahead.” Dale didn’t want to come upon the men unexpectedly, that was a good way to get shot. The men turned and held the lanterns out to catch a glimpse of who was coming. “ I’ve got a wounded man here. I’m comin’ in.” “Come on in then,” came the reply. Dale noticed the man with the scatter gun was reloading, and holding it at the ready. Dale ambled up and looked down at the older man who appeared to be in charge. “I’m Dale Armstrong” he said as he lowered his hand to shake, "big cat there". The man returned a firm grip
“ Calf killer... I'm Bob Kitchen, these are my boys, Henry and David” The young men came and shook Dales hand.
Bob Kitchen was a tall,thin man with a mustache that hung nearly to his chin. he had the look of man that was quite confident in his abilities. This man was no slouch.

Bob started for the travois, “ I know this horse. Say you have a wounded man? What happened?” He carried the lantern over, and held it up to get a look at the wounded vaquero. Dale got down as the other two came to join them.

“Can’t say for sure what happened” Dale said. “ I came upon him eight or nine miles back. He had a foot caught in the stirrup, but I don’t think the horse drug him very far. He came to just enough to mumble something about Apaches and… what did you say your last name was?” “ Kitchen”, Bob replied.
Bob Kitchen took off his big hat and brushed his pant leg with it. He turned to look at his oldest son and said ,“It’s Jorge”.

Chorin' in the Rain

I put on my slicker and big hat and head out to feed and water, and to bring in a load of firewood.

The cold mist drifts in the air this day at the Chicken Ranch. Fog has draped around us like a thin grey curtain. Water drips from tree branches on to the backs of tiny birds, and they shake their feathers and shiver against the cold wetness. It is the kind of dampness that settles in a old cowboys bones, and offers an achy reminder that he has used his body for a machine too many times over the years. Knees and shoulders telling me I should've used a tractor to move things, or to carry loads that were too punishing on joints and cartilage. Young, impetuous, and impatient once. Not young any longer that’s for sure, not impetuous either. Impatient? Yeah, afraid I’m still there.

The sounds are few and muffled in the watery air. There is little activity around here this winter morn. Many of the chickens have decided to stay in their houses where it is dry, and wait for the cracked corn to come to the yard.

Hershey, the Chocolate Labrador Canine Security System (his official title), peeks his head out of the dog house as if to say, “Miserable ain‘t it?” “Some sentinel you are” I tell him. He reluctantly leaves his warm, dry bed of straw, and runs along while I carry water. He lets me know that a hen is out, and chases her until she gets to the edge of the fence and flies over. He has never hurt them, but just herded them all these years. It figures I’d have a  labrador retriever that hates water, and thinks he’s a Border Collie.

A fox squirrel sits on a tree branch above the chicken yard. He’d give his back teeth for a nibble of the corn being tossed to the hens. But, after calculating the risks, i.e. big rooster, dog, and me, he decides to just move on and forage in the nearby woods.


 After I feed the rabbit, our resident free loader that is my grandsons’ pet, I turn to head up to the woodshed. The smell of oak, hickory, and other woods fills my senses as I enter it. Happiness is a large wood pile, that’s one of the many things me and old Davy Thoreau agree on. I never tire of that split wood bouquet. I have appreciated that smell all of my life. My earliest childhood memories are of wood stoves and wood piles on the farms of Armstrong Valley and Shelby County, Kentucky. Two places that are the base of my DNA, down there in Gods country.

I gather up an armload of firewood, and head to the house. Won’t need but a low fire today. Just enough to dry the air a bit, and provide some visual comfort while I sip a cup of strong black coffee. May do a little writing today, or watch an old John Wayne western. May set up the lighted ceramic village for Patty that we put out each winter. May take a good winters nap in my leather recliner that I love.

I’ll probably do all these things as the day progresses. After all, it’s gonna be a wet weekend, and all these happy things can be done inside…where its cozy, warm, and dry.

Country Back Roads

 The temperature was an unusual 63 degrees. I decided to take a drive along the narrow country back roads near the Chicken Ranch. I rolled the window down, and drifted along at a leisurely 25 miles an hour. I didn’t want to hurry through this winter reprieve. I wanted to feel the wind, smell the woodland air, and soak in the  atmosphere of peace.

The roads rose and lowered like ocean swells, and the little red truck responded like a sailboat in the wind. Narrow ribbons of blacktop and gravel flowed through field and forest, just like the watery creeks on either side of them. Some dirt roads led through fields and woods, and then out of sight, making me wish that I could explore each one to solve the mystery of where they went. Did they lead to a pond or stream? Was there an old barn or abandoned house to explore at the end?
I could make a life of following roads,  gravel and grass and dirt, just to see where they lead. Just to discover what secret things lie waiting at the roads conclusion.

The wind was blowing strong from the south, and danced hop-scotch across the prairie grass, leaving its ghostly imprint first here, then there, until the vegetation was released and rose to height again. Occasionally a gust would strike the truck and loosen my cowboy hat a bit. I just pushed it tighter to my head, and enjoyed the fresh air on my skin. Tree branches, with only a leaf or two intact, rose and dipped in the southerly breeze.The few leaves that fell blew briskly across my path. Corn husks, blown from un-plowed fields, skipped in front of the truck, like so many tan seahorses on parade.

A few red and copper colored leaves were nearly all that remained on the trees around me. The faded green leaves and red berries of bushes along the fence rows, stood out against the darker green of the cedar trees. Golden brown grasses lined the bottoms of rusty barbed wire fence, which clung to sentinels of gray weathered posts. Here and there, weary wooden gates stood guard, sagging under the weight of time and season.

Crows noisily peppered a harvested cornfield, while a flock of wild turkeys scratched for what was left in a bean field on the opposite side of the road. Occasionally, a red fox squirrel would scamper across the road. He needn't hurry, he was in no danger as I putted slowly along . The cattle dotted the knobs and valleys, grazing contentedly. Only the cows close to the fences raised their heads as I passed, then went back to feeding on the tough winter grasses. Birds flitted from bush to bush and limb to limb. A multi colored pheasant stood by one road, and watched cautiously as I rolled by. A honking gaggle of geese glided slowly down to a farm pond. It was time to rest from their journey south.

All the time I was driving, clouds had rolled steadily in. They now covered the sky from horizon to horizon like a blue/gray veil. The air began to cool with the departure of the sun. Day mellowed softly into night, and the smell of rain was on the wind. I rolled down my shirt sleeves and cranked the window some, but couldn’t bare to put it all the way up just yet. With the sun lowering into the western sky, I reluctantly turned the truck down a black narrow thread of road that headed off to the west.

There was no mystery in this particular stretch of oil and gravel. This curvy country road offered a hot cup of coffee, a warm fireplace, and supper on the stove. It wound its way through the woods and fields, through knobs and hollows, and ended right where I needed it to. This country  back road led the way home.

Mark Twain Christmas Walk

Patty and I spent a balmy evening with Jody and Jodie Mauck, dear friends we have known since we were teens. We all met in the Mississippi river town of Hannibal Missouri, the hometown of Mark Twain. The annual Christmas Parade was this night. And the town was all atwitter.We browsed a local antique shop and waited for the parade to begin. After perusing a shop or two and dining at a local grille, someone on the street announced to all that the parade was under way.

It was like any small town parade.  Fancy convertibles with pretty Queens and Princesses of one association or another, all dressed in their best, and with glittering tiaras on their heads. There were fire trucks and police cruisers honking loud horns and sirens. Many gaily adorned floats were seen (one even showered the street with artificial snow) and, of course, Santa and his elves. Yes, it presented all the Christmas flare of a typical December night. The difference was that everyone was in their shirt sleeves. Many of the parades' pretty girls were in their best summer attire and I think poor Santa was roasting in his suit. With temperatures in the sixties, it seemed more like Easter Parade weather than a December event. However, though the temps were spring-like, the atmosphere was all North Pole and Christmas.

The streets were alive with excited children, some with red stocking caps, holding bags in great anticipation of candy and other gifts. They shouted in delight when they heard “HO HO HO”, and a jolly white-bearded man in a red suit rounded the corner, in the company of green and red clad little folks with pointy ears. The many Christmas lights in the shop windows lit up the night in a dazzling display of color. Garland hung from the old style street lamps and red bow adorned wreaths hung on nearly every restaurant and shop door. Shopkeepers took a break from their tasks to stand in their doorways to watch the happy event. Some would even tell the few disinterested customers “Take a look around, I’ll be right outside the door when you want to check out.” This was an event not to be missed.

We stood outside one of the many antique shops along the riverfront area, and watched the folks waving and smiling, enjoying the evening. I was struck by the thought that, in front of these same old buildings, Samuel Clemens himself had similarly witnessed the arrival of Christmases 150 years ago. One of the floats even carried the winners of the Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher contest, both wearing period dress. Cute kids for sure. They smiled and waved merrily to the crowd. Yes, the night was filled with cheery folks and goodwill.

The waitresses at the cafe where we dined were extra congenial this night. Store owners did not seem as weary at seven o’clock in the evening as they usually would. In fact, one owner stayed open past her usual closing time while we browsed, and as I struggled with my desire for an antique rocking chair. I wanted it. It was exactly like the one I remember my great grandmother kept in her bedroom to sit in. But I ultimately decided against buying it.

 As we checked out with the small purchases our friends had made, the owners smiled brightly, and in passing conversation only, did we find that we had gone past closing time and that these poor folks hadn’t had their supper yet. We apologized and hurried out, even though I still had a longing for that chair.

Every shop had their best Christmas displays in the windows, and besides the usual bistro aromas, the street smelled of peppermint, cinnamon, and pine from the food and items presented for the holidays. Nearly everyone we met smiled and said hello, and remarked on the beauty of the evening. Feeling generous myself, I paid for the dinner with our friends. It was a bargain price for a grand evening of great weather, laughter, food, and friendship. And we ended the evening back at our friends house for desert. A wonderful beginning to the Holidays. And if I had held any doubt that the Christmas Spirit was alive and well last night, it would have been gone today.

I awoke this morning and thought about that oak rocking chair with the big thick cushion. As I poured my coffee, I said to Patty “ I would like to go back to Hannibal after Sunday Meetin' and buy that old chair.” She looked up from her cooking and smiled, but shook her head no.

“We can’t”.  Oh, okay.  She grinned and said “ I have already talked to Jodie and she is picking it up for you today after they finish dinner.”  Really?  Well...Merry Christmas to me. And to you as well, Sam Clemens... say hello to Tom and Huck for me.

Thanks For All

There’s more to our Thanksgiving than turkey, dressing, and pumpkin pie. Oh, we celebrate the holiday in the traditional sense here at the Chicken Ranch. Besides the standard fare, there is always an over-abundance of vegetables, snacks, finger foods and sugary delights to serve the 30 or so guests that dine with us on this holiday. Garden veggies and herbs from each years bounty are always part of the turkey day table fare. There is every kind of drink imaginable to quench the thirsts of all. And we all eat and drink too much. But, this is only partly why we come together.

On cold Thanksgiving days the fire place adds comfort as the flames do a spirit dance around the logs. Folks take turns  keeping the fire stoked with the oak and hickory wood from the hearth. The young folks play football out south of the house. Some of us older ones sit on the back porch, if the weather permits, while in the house, a game of Scrabble, dominoes, or cards is engaged by others . At times, someone is at the piano, or I play my guitar to furnish a bit background music. A few folks just sit and visit, and the conversation is always lively and laughter-filled. But, this is only partly why we come together.

We are as diverse a group as one could imagine. We are not all conservative thinkers that gather here, and we are not all liberal leaning. We are not all wealthy, nor are we all poor. We are not all union members or all business owners. We are not all of the same faith or religious ideology. We are not all Irish, Scottish, Mexican, or Italian descended. We are not all white, nor are we all black. Our commonality is not what we have, what our opinions are, what we do, or what we look like...  for we are a mixture of all the aforementioned things. We are as different in some ways as wind and water. No, being all the same is not why we come together.

We come together at Thanksgiving because we are family. We gather here at the Chicken Ranch to celebrate our gratitude for life, and for one another. We are each one of us different. We are each one accepted. We are bound by blood, and  bound by choice. And we are together... a family.


We come together in thanksgiving because we live in freedom, because we are healthy, because we live in a land of plenty. We come together on this holiday, as I am certain many other folks do... to celebrate our thankfulness for life. We gather here because we are one family, bound together in love.

So as we prepare for the onslaught of aunts, uncles, cousins, grandkids, in-laws and more, we are happy in our anticipation of food, fun, and most of all... family.

From all of us at the Chicken Ranch, we hope you have as happy a Thanksgiving as we plan to, and may God bless you and yours.

Saturday Morn

The sun is as bright and welcome as Edison’s first household light bulb. The sky is a perfect blue, brushed here and there with wispy fair weather clouds. The air is crisp with with a freshening breeze. Silvery patches of frost sparkle here and there as the sun rises over the Chicken Ranch.

The steam rising from my coffee mug dances upward and finally dissipates into the morning chill . The Chickens are already busy scratching the ground in anticipation of their coming breakfast of ground corn and garden refuse. Hershey, the Chicken Ranches’ chocolate lab security system, makes a couple of half hearted woofs to let me know that one little red Plymouth Rock  hen has left the confines of the pen, and is digging for food in the garden patch. I should clip her wings, but  I’ll let her roam awhile first.

Inside, breakfast is being prepared by the capable hands of the best cook in America. Patty has eggs and biscuits working on the stove, as she sips her hot tea from her favorite cup.

Fresh eggs, with their dark golden centers, are compliments of our red hens. I can’t eat eggs at a restaurant or buy them from the store. A commercial egg is six months old before it reaches super market shelves. An honest to goodness, true farm-fresh egg makes the commercial variety look and taste anemic in comparison. Our eggs are the real deal.

The biscuits will be hot and buttery and topped off with honey from a friends  bee hive, which is located a few miles east of here.

I’ll head for the bird feeder soon and give the song birds their morning meal. Georgie the cat is incessant in her plea for a filled dish, and left a mouse on the step for trade. I tell her to eat more mice and help me to reduce the feed bill around here. She looks at me in that “you poor ignorant human” kind of way that cats look at you.

All in all it’s shaping up to be a wonderful Saturday morning at the Chicken Ranch. Another day of life and health granted to me and mine by a merciful and kind Providence.

I may start another painting today. Write another chapter for my book. Take a walk along the lake and woods near here. Any or all the above.

Yes, its another day of living here at the ranch, on this beautiful autumn Saturday morn. And, today life is good.

My Favorite Poem of All

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost


  I loved this poem from the first time I heard it, and as I became a young man it began to mean even more to me. Over the years, I have  most certainly come to understand and fully appreciate its depth of meaning. Whether in work or play, in love or friendships, life is a yellow wood of diverging roads.
What is the wise choice? What is the heart choice? What will the result of those choices be?

Well I understand the danger of following ones heart when conventional wisdom would suggest an altogether different path. But, often the choice of the uncommon path has brought greater happiness to me.  I know many prefer not to take risks in life decisions. It is easier, and perhaps "wiser", to take the path trodden down by a majority of others before you. But I have found that anything worth experiencing comes with some risks attached. And I have seldom found the majority to be a wise authority.

There are career or work choices in life. It is only natural for us to want a guarantee of stability or security in our lives.  But some things that most people turn to for stability and security, I have  found to be drudgery and suffocation. What others have strongly felt was safe and solid choices,  became dull and mind numbing rigor for me. To paraphrase Henry David Thoreau, If you love what you do for a living, you'll never have to work a day in your life.

Oh, I have tried at times to be that person who could settle into one thing and be contented to live within that constraint. It would have saved me (and others too) hurt at times if I could have kept myself there. But I couldn't, and in the end, I would have missed  the adventure in a thousand different things if I had.

I have always felt that it is not enough to just be alive, I want to really live. Seize each day, and what it brings, and wring every last drop of joy and experience from it. Life is joy and sorrow interwoven. It is rain and sun, storm and beautiful sunsets. Every day of life is a wonder.

It has not always been the wisest choice to take the other road, but it has most often proven to be the choice that provided me the most life lessons, personal growth, and experience.We live with the choices we make. We are often the product of our choices, so I want to choose what is best for me and my family, regardless of the path thatt the majority may choose.

So, I am thankful, even though at times it has come with considerable cost, that rather than take the well worn path of others before me, I have quite often chosen the road less travelled. And, for me, that truly has made all the difference.


 

Wild or Mild Outdoors ?

The first time I saw it was on a dark, early November morning four years ago. It crossed the road in front of me at a lope. I turned the wheel of the pickup so that the headlights followed it into the field. I instantly recognized what it was, but still couldn’t believe I was actually seeing it. Just two days later, just before daylight, at a point five or six miles south of the first sighting, I saw the golden body and overly long tail of the cougar again. It was ambling down a bank along the creek. I hadn’t seen a cougar since, until two days ago, in a photo taken six or seven miles south of the Chicken Ranch.

The cougar, mountain lion, panther, puma, whichever name is placed upon it, is not usually found so far east of the Rocky Mountains. It is most abundant in the western states where human populations are less dense. These cats are nocturnal and loners most of the time, and typically shy away from people and populated areas. That’s why, for years it was easier convincing folks that you saw Elvis shopping in WalMart, than that you had spotted a cougar. The Department of Conservation categorically denied the existence of cougars in Illinois for years, despite good evidence to the contrary. Bow hunters have asked repeatedly for permission to carry side arms for protection while they hunt for deer and turkey with bows. Permission that has still not been granted by Conservation. Not enough sightings to convince them? After those two encounters in one week, I have not personally spotted a cougar again.  But, others have.

There have been many stories (and hoaxes, unfortunately) over the years concerning these big cats. Dogs killed in their pens mysteriously, tracks leading to a tree with a small deer carcass hanging in it. My own mystery, of some animal that was killing my chickens, that carried off the double spring trap I set for it … chain and all. Whatever it was, the mystery critter at my place destroyed the top section of a wooden gate getting out of this particular pen. Most accounts of sightings were credible, but you had to take a persons word for it. These cats are night creatures, so photographic evidence was tough to get. Until, more and more hunters began placing “critter cams” to track deer movements. The cameras revealed the nightly movements of, not just deer, but all nocturnal creatures… including cougars.

One critter cam owner made the papers all over the state recently. As the picture from his camera clearly shows, there’s a cougar on his property. The cougar is unmistakable in this photo. The Department of Conservation has agreed publicly. So… cougars are among us.And very close to the Chicken Ranch. I’m not sure how I feel about sharing the woods with an adult human sized predator cat that can tip the scales at 200 pounds or more.

Now, anyone who knows me can tell you that I am a wilderness lover. I love nature in its proper element, wild and free. A caged animal is only a shell of what it could be. Removed from its free roaming, natural habitat, a zoo animal always looks depressed to me. I love to walk trails and hills. I love to hunt, and I welcome the return of animals that greed, ignorance and stupidity nearly made extinct. Wolves, white tail deer, buffalo, and black bears come to mind. I am happy to see a conservation program that promises to restore North American Wildlife .

My retirement dream has always been to raise a herd of buffalo. Lots of work for sure, but what a magnificent symbol of what our nation used to be. So, I first thought, “Cougars are back, great!” “They will help control the exploding deer population.” Then, I reminded myself that cougars are killers by nature, and that it is not always a comfortable arrangement when humans and predators share the same space.

 
According to Wikipedia, at least 20 people in the US were  certainly killed by cougars between 1890 and 2011, including six in California. Out of the twenty fatalities 10 have occurred in the last 20 years.  Cougar attacks are extremely rare and occur much less frequently than fatal dog attacks, fatal snake bites, fatal lightning strikes, or fatal bee stings. But,children are particularly vulnerable to cougar attacks.. The majority of the child victims listed as fatalities were not accompanied by adults.
Attacks however, as reported by survivors, are on the rise. The big cats seem to be growing less concerned with the presence of man within their wide ranges. Like bears in some suburban areas, cougars could someday  also become a curbside menace. Illinois Department of Conservation  states that a cougar was killed by a Police Officer in 2008 in a Chicago suburb. The big cat was sleeping under a residential porch. You can find the story on You Tube. So... it is real. The big cats have come to call.

 I am not exactly sure where I stand on the cougar issue. I hate to see them killed by hunters. There is this primal part of me that loves knowing they are out there in the woods, watching as I hunt. But, do I feel the same way about them watching my young grandsons? If they kill livestock or poultry will I as readily accept them as part of our rural community? Am I willing for the woods to  become truly wild again, or do I only want a tamer version of wild? These are questions I ask myself as I think of my evening walks in the 16,000 acre woods and prairie near my house. I don’t have all the answers yet. But certainly, as I prepare for these walks, I’ll grab a bottle of water, a snack bar, and now... strap my pistol  to my waist.

Quilted Lawn

The leaves have blanketed the ground completely here at the Chicken Ranch. Our aged maple trees have shed much of their wonderful golden foliage. Walnut, hickory, apple, and cherry trees add their own fall contributions to the fields and lawn. The weight of recent rains, and the wind that accompanied them, have encouraged a mass migration of color here. Trees that were resplendent with crowns of varying hue are now increasingly skeletal, and bare before the autumn sky. The beauty that set each branch ablaze has fallen upon the ground below, and turned wood and lawn into a sea of color.

 When the north wind blows, tides of leaves rise and fall with the wind. Like the ocean before a storm, gold capped waves of leaves fold upon a shore of green grass.The foliage lifts and rolls then settles again.

Tornadoes of swirling leaves spin around the house and barns in a kaleidoscope frenzy, then float again to the surface. Unfortunately, the leafy carpet will soon be swept away, not just by the wind, but by my hand also. I lament that I have to peel away this colored quilt that covers the lawn before me.

It’s not the raking I lament, for autumn labor is joyous to me. I am rewarded in my work this time of the year by air that is dry and crisp, a sky of varying blues, and a colored ticker tape parade of leaves thrown in all directions around me. I enjoy the company of the variety of birds that have lived farther north this summer, and have stopped by to rest on their journey south. The last butterflies of the season drift in and out among the marigolds and ice plants. The myriad waterfowl flying overhead honk and quack in chorus.

 

 Working to remove the acre and a half of lawn leaves is not really laboring at all. For me, it is invigorating to be outdoors in autumn... for pleasure or for work. No, I hesitate to remove the leaves only because the ground is never as colorful and alive as it is when blanketed in fall splendor. But, remove them I must.

 To allow the leaves to lie there all winter would destroy the grass below them. So, I herd them carefully to the ditch and mound them in a windrow, then light the fire that sets them aglow. I know that air quality advocates and those unfortunate souls with respiratory illnesses hate leaf burning. As an old Respiratory Therapist I am sympathetic to their concerns. And, I try never to burn wet leaves, which cause the greatest smoke and often an unpleasant odor.

 I must admit, however, that I love the smell of dry leaves burning. To me, it conjures up thoughts of a warm hearth from the evening fires ahead, of hot chocolate with Buttershots and marshmallow cream, and of a good book read while the crackle of the fire provides the soundtrack to the story.

 The warmth provided, as the leaves surrender to the flames, is a comfort against the evening chill. And like the lightning instigated fires that renew the prairie grasses, leaf burning rids my ditch of weeds and allows the new grass room to sprout in the spring. Yes, leaf burning is an old autumn ritual of mine.

I put my rake again into this coat of many colors, and in doing so, I say goodbye to the summer, and welcome the change of climate. I take the matches from my blue jean jacket pocket and light the row. One leaf, then two, then many begin to burn in a ring of fire that grows with each gust of wind. As the fire spreads, the smoke rises ethereally, as if from some ancient alter. And, I think to myself, there has been a sacrifice offered here. From the trees that tower over me, to the bushes along the fence rows, all have given over their magnificent coloration to paint, at least for a while, the ground at their feet.

 I lean  my back against a sycamore tree and gaze up at the blue and gray sky. I see clouds gathering in the west, and the chilly wind blows hard for a few gusty seconds. A solitary brown leaf bounces off the brim of my cowboy hat, down to the grass at my feet. “You’re late”, I think to myself, “the show is almost over.” As I reach to pick it up, the breeze carries it through the smoke, across the ditch, and into the north field. And there, unlike the countless others I have raked before it, it can rest unhindered... all the winter long.

 

Autumn Evening  Terry Redlin

Autumn Day

Autumn Day

 

Standing at woods edge this Autumn day

I see the fields last cutting of hay

Oh, I know that winter’s on its way

But isn’t this day sublime?

Yellows and oranges, reds and browns

Come tumbling, tumbling softly down

From trees that wore such regal crowns

And will be very bare in time

Grasses so golden, blown by the wind

Lofty clouds wrapped in rich blue skin

Ah, Autumn I hate to see you end

But isn’t today sublime ?

K.L. Dennie 2012

A Time For Leaving Part III 'Revenge'

'

Setting up camp for the third night after leaving the Leaning Y Ranch, Dale spread his blankets over the sandy ground. He threw another piece of mesquite on the fire on his way to his saddle bags, for a tin of beans. As he was bent over his bags he saw, more like felt, movement just outside the light of the fire. He began pulling his rifle to him when he heard “Hello the camp!” in a voice he easily recognized.

 “Don’t shoot Boss, I ain’t ready to meet my maker jist yet," came the good natured call. Dale smiled and eased his hand off of his Henry. “Come on in, I could use a good cook about now.”

Willie appeared out of the darkness, walking his painted horse, and smiling as he came into the fire light. “ Howdy Boss, I knew this was yo camp. You always try to find some place that gives you a wall.” “ Never know when your gonna need a place to hide” Dale grinned. “What in blazes are you doing out here?” Dale noticed that Willie had a pistol strapped to his waist. Willie was a rifleman, he hadn’t worn a pistol rig in all the years that Dale had known him.
 
“Travelin’ some,” Willie answered. He unsaddled his horse, and set his gear near the fire. While he was rubbing down the painted mare he looked back at Dale “ You wonderin’ why I’m heeled up so, Boss?” Dale raised his head from his coffee cup, “I reckoned you’d get around to telling me soon enough. From the looks of that paint of yours, you haven't been wastin daylight any.”  “Truth is” Willie said, as he moved to the other side of his multicolored horse, “ I been pushin’ through mighty hard”. “Why are you looking for me? Something happen back at the Y ?” Dale asked. He poured two tins of beans in a pan and set it near the fire. Willie pushed his hat up on his head and put an elbow on his horses back, “I thought I might catch up to you, Boss, but I’m chasin some men…bad men. That’s why I’m here.”  "I see... well, I haven't seen any men, bad or good, for three days now. Must be moving west of me."  "Yes sir, Willie confirmed,
"they have been."

Dale stirred the beans on the fire. Willie finished with his horse, and then sat down on his blanket and leaned against his saddle. Dale looked at his friend and tried to read his face. Willie was a war veteran, former slave, and a solid ranch hand. He had seen and done things in his forty plus years that most men wouldn’t experience in three lifetimes. Willie Mathus was never given to exaggeration or dramatic expression. The strained look on his face this night came from a depth of feeling. Maybe it was anger, maybe fear,or both... sometimes the two are one and the same. Whatever it was, Dale had never seen him like this before.

The fire popped and cracked. Its light made the shadows jump and dive like ceremonial dancers across the boulders. Near  the camp an Great Horned Owl announced his presence to the prey he sought. Dale felt a shiver as the desert chill set in, and raised his collar. He poured a cup of coffee for himself and Willie, then placed the pot back on a stone next to the fire. After a bit, he looked across the fire at his black friend and asked “Who are you following, Willie.. and why?”

Willie took off his hat and ran his hand across his head, then he looked up, “ You remember Mose Dixon and his family, they work for Charlie Sapien at his ranch on the Rio Rico.” “Yeah," answered Dale “they left that wagon train you’d been on at about the time you came to the Y. Nice family. Four or five kids I think.” “That’s right, Boss, Mose is one good horseman”, Willie nodded ,“ two boys and three girls.. .until two days ago.” He reached for the plate of beans Dale held out, then went on as Dale sat back down. “Mose and his boys were in the canyons looking for strays, when these five men come to the house. Annabelle and the girls were in the house fixin dinner fo the men. The gang stormed in, then grabbed Beth and Sissy . They fourteen years old or so, I reckon. Annabelle tried to get the shotgun from the corner, but one of ‘em hit her over the head. When she woke up, Lilly, the youngest little girl, was crying over her. Beth and Sissy were taken. Lilly only escaped cause she run and hid when she see the men riding in.” Willie stopped eating and looked over his plate at Dale. “ They aim to sell them po girls in Old Mexico I ‘magine, Boss. Mose is all stove up from being bucked, and can’t ride much, so… I aim to get them girls back myself, if I can.”

Dale looked out at the darkness for a minute before asking “Five you say?” “ Yep, Annabelle said two Indians, that looked like Chiricahua, two Mexicans and a white man. She said the white man talked different, like French maybe. She was still hurtin , and not thinkin real good though.” Dale thought for a second then looked at Willie, “Chiricahua are a ways from home, these are some real travelin’ Pistoleros.” He got up and poured water from his canteen to wash his plate. “ You know about where they are Willie?” Willie nodded as he swallowed a mouthful of beans and scraped the  bottom of the tin plate for another, “They camped out just over a mile from here, in a gorge next to a little creek. I didn’t get too close, but I know the tracks they horses make. It‘s them alright.” Willie washed his plate also, then sat back down and removed his boots.

Dale quietly thought about it all, then stretched out on his bed roll, “We’ll leave before first light then.” Willie threw a blanket over himself. “I appreciate the help, Boss, I know this ain’t yo fight.” Dale shook his head, “Woman stealin’ is every mans fight. We’ll see what we can do to get those girls back to Mose and Annabelle.” “I reckon we got a day ahead of us then,” Willie said, as he covered up and pulled his hat over his eyes. Dale asked after a minute,“ Do you have plenty of ammunition?”  but Willie didn’t reply. He had been exhausted, and was now fast asleep.

Dale and Willie rode in the pre-dawn light to within a couple of hundred yards of the outlaws camp. As they approached on foot, they saw the shadow of a man wrapped in a blanket, squatting at the edge of the gorge. “Probably the night watch.” Dale whispered. The man was not looking in their direction, but staring intently down in to the gorge below. A mistake on his part that would soon prove fatal.“ If you can move around to the side of him and make a distraction, I can sneak up on him Boss.” Dale started to protest, but Willie had already pulled his knife from its leather sheath and was moving around the rocks. “Right,” Dale said to himself. He made a wide circle and came quietly to the mans right. He could see that the fellow was still looking into the gorge and, as he moved closer to the rim, Dale heard agitated voices below. He recognized one of the voices as female.

 After he felt that Willie was in position, he threw a stick within a few yards of the outlaw. The man stood and turned toward the sound. Just then, Dale saw a hand cover the outlaws mouth and lift his head back. Willie plunged the knife straight in, just above the breast bone and into the hollow of the mans neck. The outlaw made only a slight gurgling noise as he slumped to the ground. Willie released him, wiped his knife on his pants, and motioned to Dale.

Dale worked his way over quietly. A Chiricahua Apache lay at Willies feet in a pool. Looking below, Dale and Willie saw the other men stirring. One man headed off to relieve himself and another was adding wood to the remaining coals of their fire. The two girls were wrapped in blankets and roped to a small tree. One girl seemed to be arguing with a white man standing over her. The man pulled his pistol and pointed it at the girl. The morning stillness was broken by the crack of gunfire. The white man was spun completely around by the impact of the bullet that entered his chest, compliments of Willies rifle.

Before the other men could react, Dale shot the one at the fire. The man who had stepped outside the camp ran for his gun tucked in his saddle. Willie fired and put a bullet in his abdomen. Willie fired again, and knocked another man to the ground with a bullet in his thigh. As the last one ran and mounted his horse, Dale fired and shot the horse from under him. When the outlaw hit the ground Willie shot him in the chest. It was all over in just under a minute. “I didn’t mean to shoot the horse”, Dale said disgusted with himself, “nice shootin Willie”.

“ That’s six men, but I don’t see no mo. We best get down there, Boss,” Willie was already on his feet. Dale stayed where he was, watching with his rifle ready, until Willie made it down, then followed after him. As Willie attended to the girls, Dale surveyed the area. The man with the bullet in his thigh was the only one able to speak .“You’ve killed us all,” he said as he writhed on the ground. “Not all” said Dale as he looked down on the man, “but it’s early yet.”

They helped the girls out of the gorge and away from the carnage, then Willie and Dale gathered up the outlaws gear and horses. Willie went back for the last horse. Dale stood comforting the girls when they heard a shot from down in the gorge. He walked quickly to the rim and looked down to see Willie placing his pistol in his holster and mounting his horse. The man with the gunshot to his thigh lay dead. “Willie?” Dale called.“He cursed me to Hell,” Willie said, as he turned his painted horse around to start the climb up, “ I told him maybe he should go first, and make the place comfortable.”

When he reached the top, Willie rode up next to Dale and said in a voice low and bitter,  “ He was the buyer, Boss. Long time ago, two men like these took my sister and then left her for dead, she was never the same after that. Just sit in the house all the  time starin'...Then one day she put a rope 'round her neck and jumped from the barn loft." Willie paused for a few seconds and looked away, then said, "These men won’t hurt no mo women folk. No Sir.” Dale looked up at Willie and patted him on the knee “ No… I reckon they won’t.” Willie looked at the still shaken girls, then back at Dale. He took a deep breath, then said more calmly, "Alright then".
They then began to busy themselves preparing for the trip home.

 Willie and the girls were on the horses that the dead outlaws provided, with the outlaws other horses tied behind.“ You sure you don’t want to come on back with us, Boss?” Willie asked. Dale looked across the horizon as he checked a rope knot, then back up at Willie, “No, friend… I think I’d better keep headed south.” Willie stuck his hand down and Dale shook it, “ Good days to you Willlie, these girls are in good hands now.” Dale walked over and mounted his horse and started away. “I’ll tell Miss Rebecca you doin fine.”

Dale turned and just nodded, then gave Stonewall a kick and headed across the sandy plain.

Sangamon Valley Morn

Small areas of foggy mist hover over the river in an ethereal shivering.  The river flows quietly, with only the leaves floating by to indicate its motion. A small splash and resulting ripples comes from a fish, who is just hungry enough to venture topside for food on this chilly autumn morning.

The water begins to slowly brighten and take on color as the sun rises in the east. A  Sandhill Crane lumbers through the fog. His big wings waving silently up and down, as his long neck straightens and curls in navigation. He pulls himself upward and flies over to an island before gliding to a stop.

The Mallard ducks swim out from the banks, and bathe themselves in quiet splashes. They duck their heads in the water and then under their wings, and then splash and shake themselves dry. They make a quacking noise only occasionally, as if they want to respect those who may remain sleeping.

A doe and her yearling appear out of nowhere, and step into the shallows to drink. They raise their heads and look in the direction of another splash, as the ducks continue their cleansing, then the pair go back to drinking.

The sky is lighting up with orange , blue and gray color, and wisps of fair weather clouds begin to appear on the horizon. The breeze picks up just a little, and leaves loosen their hold and kaleidoscope down, ever so gently, to the waiting water below.

The air is crisp and smells of water and woods. I fill my lungs, breathing deep and long through my nose. The earthy fragrances enliven me, awakening my senses... and preparing me for the day.

It is good to be here. It is a beautiful thing to behold, this Autumn awakening of the Sangamon Valley.

A Welcome Wind

The limbs of the maple tree rise and fall gently, waving hello. The long feathery limbs of the weeping willow sway back and forth like svelte young dancers around a Maypole. Branches lift their weight, and then drop the fruit to the ground, as the apple tree bends and bows. Countless movements of dip and sway in tree, grass, and bush, reveal the arrival of our seasonal guest. The northwest wind has returned to the Chicken Ranch.

Autumn has requisitioned this wind that bears a chill upon its wings. Its presence is required to initiate a host of fall events.  From the caress of this chilly air and the frost it encourages at night, the leaves are convinced to change into their best dress… before they say goodbye. Geese are prompted to southern climes, and squirrels convince us of their prudence, as they busy their bushy tailed selves by burying hickory nuts in the soil. Riding the motion of this wind, a myriad of summer songbird lift from branches to catch the train south, where the promise of warmer temperatures lures them.
This cool wind plays cupid for the deer. With their noses lifted, and the chilly wind ruffling the hair upon their backs, the need for procreation saturates the herds’ senses. Soon the rattle of bone against bone will be heard as bucks, young and old, lock horns and battle for the favor of a waiting doe. And it is not only the animal kingdom that feels the change upon their skin. Humans too are prompted to alteration, due to the smell and feel of this winds' chilly air.

Old sweaters and jackets appear on the shoulders of folks in the mornings now. Straw hats, that shaded us all summer, are hung on the wall, replaced by the cozy comfort of beaver and wool felt that now sits upon our heads. This northern wind encourages us to bring firewood up to the house, and to inspect the chimney for wear; cozy fires are an autumn delight here, in both the outdoor and indoor fireplaces. Iced tea will soon take a back burner to hot chocolate.  And, last night I made my first pot of Cabinet Soup, a favorite fall and winter dish that I have written about before in this blog.

I watch the trees release a colored confetti of leaves that glide silently and softly into the lake, while a misty rain begins to fall. I watch and listen to flocks of geese beginning there journey south, then  I drink in a deep breath of the cool autumn air. As the northwest wind tickles the water, little ripples appear on the glassy surface, like the goose bumps on my skin. I turn up my collar, seat my hat a little tighter, and watch the effects of the chilly breeze.  

I know it’s a gentle wind just now, behaving nicely, but the northwest wind has another, more aggressive  side. Perhaps one day, before too long, it will demonstrate its ability to howl and moan, while pushing a sea of white before it. I take in the changes happening around me, both vivid and subtle,  and I recognize the north wind as one important prompter of it all.

As I start back to the house, a red leaf blows squarely into my nose, then over my shoulder and on to the ground. I pause to watch other leaves sail across the  garden path. “Welcome back ‘wind of the north”, I smile, “you’ve got things off to a great start here. I’ll be seeing you around.”