Out On a Limb

4/22/15

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Out On a Limb

            The latest crop of grandkids are tree climbers. It’s genetic; until my early teens I lived among the branches around the home place. One day, when I wasn’t paying attention, part of my brains came in, and it occurred to me that something bad might happen as a result of such carefree ways.

Depending on one’s point of view, I was blessed, or cursed, with parents who let me discover a lot of things for myself. No one told me to “Get down from there before you kill yourself!” So when, from one of those same trees, a youngster hollers, “Look at me, Grandma,” I bite my tongue to keep from calling attention to the size of a limb in comparison to the size of the kid.

Mom may have hoped I’d choose an easier occupation than ranching. Dad never said much one way or another, but he allowed me enough up close and personal experience to realize it could be as scary as falling out of trees. Both of them thought I should take up a profession to fall back on, “just in case,” but my pattern of self-determination was well entrenched. Ranching was in the genes, and there are hints of that heritage in the young tree-toppers of today.

A few decades ago, as one of my sons and I discussed changes to the operation, he leaned back in the pickup seat and asked if I ever wondered what his dad, my dad, and my granddad, who started this deal, would think of our decisions. “Only every day of my life,” I said.

This much I do know. Granddad and my dad couldn’t have imagined today’s land and cattle prices, let alone taxes, nor would they have bankrolled any of the new methods we’ve embraced. Years of experiencing the consequences of their choices, as well as choices the weather and economy made for them, taught them that going out on a limb can end badly. Because of their conservative practices, my sons and I have had opportunities to scramble up into higher branches, and gamble on some long odds.

Right here, right now, we spend more for a bull than Dad budgeted for annual expenses, and the check we’ll write for land taxes would have bought a good chunk of meadow in his day. An acre of ground in the Sandhills costs about what he paid his hay crew for the whole summer.

Right here, right now, the hills are trying to green up, but we didn’t get any moisture in March, and April started out dry and hot. I hope by the time you read this it’s raining on your branding and your corrals are running mud. I’ve lived long enough not to lay bets either way.

Dad hung on through the thirties, and never got over it. I lived with stories he and his neighbors told of those times, and never got over it. So, I’m sitting up here in the little branches, peering at the horizon, and deciding how to play my cards, but I get dizzy when the wind blows, especially when it changes direction. Probably a lot of you are in the same fix. The only advice I can offer is what I keep saying to myself.

Hang on for dear life. Test the strength of that branch before you put your whole weight on it. And don’t look down.

One More Thing

4/29/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

One More Thing

            Einstein is reported to have said that the purpose of time is to keep everything from happening at once. We’ve come to terms with the time change now, and last time I checked there are still twenty four hours in a day. So, why does it seem like everything is happening at once?

            Because it is. Every day, someone insists on adding one more thing. Anyone with kids in school can testify that each department has suddenly realized there are only a few weeks left in which to accomplish the yearly agenda. One more track meet—yeah, we can cram that in. Trips to scholastic contests, speech, music, or drama competitions; don’t forget prom, spring concerts, and graduation practice. These in addition to whatever regular commitments your family may have; music lessons, community projects, oh, and your work, if anyone has time to do any.

            Civic organizations and churches arrange fund raisers and yearly conferences for spring without consideration for their members’ already crowded calendars, or that ranchers are calving, branding, and fencing, while farmers are in the fields from dawn to dark.

            Preparations are in full swing for the Mother Daughter tea, the Alumni Banquet, and Memorial Day gatherings. Who’s doing all the footwork for these? The same people that canvassed for donations to the After Prom Party, decorated for a graduation reception, harrowed the meadow, planted several hundred trees, baked ten pies for branding, and sang in the Easter Cantata. Some of them are also planning a wedding or family reunion.

            Who has time to attend all these events?

Nobody, but they’ll go anyway, especially the ones who are too tired from preparing to enjoy any of it.

            Who will step forward and call a halt—suggest to the school board, the church committee, the club president, pre-school teacher, or Aunt Susie, that the last thing any of us need is one more thing; another place to be, competition to practice for, presentation to give, event to plan, or occasion that requires buying new clothes.

Nobody. The ones who could make that case don’t have the time or energy. They’re already running on fumes, making lists of people to call with a reminder of the Relay for Life, and feeling guilty for missing the athletic banquet last week because it was scheduled the day of their chemo treatment.

            An woman I know says that a diagnosis of cancer gave her permission to say no. To decide what it is that she wants to do, and will regret not having done, if her journey is shortened. To put herself first, for a change, rejoice in the ordinary, and discover the joy of simplicity.

            Several of us were chatting over coffee after church the other Sunday. An elderly rancher mentioned visiting family in California a few years ago. “I swore I’d never go back,” he said. “They shoved us around the airport, and on and off of planes, like cattle going to market. Now I have a grandson graduating out there…”

            “So, you have to go out for that,” someone said.

            “Oh, I haven’t decided,” he replied. “About the only thing I have to do at my age is make the trip up that hill south of town and someone else will be in charge of that.”

            This gentleman had traveled fifty one-way miles on two consecutive days, to spend time with an old and valued friend who happened to be in the area. That was his choice to make. So is the graduation trip, and I doubt he’ll allow himself to be railroaded into a decision by someone else’s expectations.

           Granted, it’s easier to get by with setting limits if you have cancer, or are ninety years old, but we teach people how to treat us every day. Go stand in front of a mirror right now and practice your speech.

            “Sorry, that won’t work for me. There isn’t room in the schedule for one more thing.”

It’s the truth. There isn’t a minute of room. Everything is already happening all at once, and it will, until we tell it to stop.

Going Home Again

4/15/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Going Home Again

            Who recalls a song about the “dear hearts and gentle people that live in my home town?” I’m pretty sure I’ll hear from Delores on this one, and when I do, I want her take on whether most of us who reach a “certain age” often revisit folks from long ago.

            My hometown was small enough for everyone to know everyone else, and a bit of everyone’s business besides. We had a lot of diversity, but it was mostly focused on personality or family structure, and folks seemed to just accept one another at face value.

Shirley’s father lived in a shack next to the soddy where her mom and the kids resided, and made no contribution to the household, but he ate meals with them and his wife did his laundry. Any commentary regarding this situation was never aired in public.

One young woman and her son lived with her father. I never knew if the husband had left, or been killed in the war. 

The music teacher managed to ship her spouse off to various ranch jobs between sprees. Milt worked for us off and on, and was good help, until his thirst overcame him. His wife was often seen dragging one or the other of her boys home by the ear, after some escapade. If she had  thoughts of using that method on Milt, no one ever heard it from her lips.

An elderly man and his middle aged son lived across the street from Grandma. Both sat on the porch to smoke and sun themselves, weather permitting; that was as far as their ambition stretched. Next door was an older woman whose two grown sons worked at odd jobs when they felt like it, but seemed content to put their feet under the maternal table most days.

Charlie and his ma, who was seldom seen except at church, lived at the edge of town. Due to his aversion to soap and water, Charlie was unpopular with his classmates, but the teacher put up with him until the day he killed a skunk on the way to school. She sent him home, and none of us saw much of him thereafter. He may have been old enough to quit school, but I’m not sure anyone ever investigated.

Ray rode his bike to a dairy near town every morning, milked the family cow that was kept there, and rode home with a full bucket balanced on the handlebars. His dad was an invalid, and there were a passel of kids who worked at any job they could find. Their clothes were often patched, but the mom, who took in wash to earn a living, made sure they didn’t resemble Charlie in manner or grooming.

It was a railroad town, so a lot of the men worked at the roundhouse or had jobs on the section. Wives raised gardens, canned, tended chickens in their backyards, and walked to the post office or store, stopping to chat with anyone they met. I never saw one of those town women drive; even the ones whose husbands could afford an automobile.

I was a country kid, as were most of my close friends. We all had fathers in residence and moms who, of necessity, drove whatever conveyance might be available, but few of us had central heat in our homes or indoor plumbing. Poor as we all were, I think we realized we were richer in many ways than Charlie, Shirley, and several of our other classmates.

My mother’s parents lived in Omaha. The other week, while there on business, I asked if we could drive by their former home. I have memories of a small, but comfortable, house in a middle class neighborhood, and was curious to see how much that area had changed. Unsurprisingly, the neighborhood, although hardly a slum, is a bit run-down. On the way out of town we drove past today’s middle class homes, which my grandparents would have considered luxurious, and then through a section of dwellings that could only be described as mansions. I’ve found myself thinking often about those people from my past, and how our society’s standards have changed.

If my grandparents aspired to a larger home, or more than one automobile, it was never voiced. I really believe they were content with what they had, and grateful for it. By the same token, none of the folks in that old home town of mine complained about their lot. Surely the moms would have liked nicer clothes, but there was no place to wear them, and no one to impress. Some of us had more to eat than others, but it was all plain fare.

Helping hands were there, in an unobtrusive way. I doubt Ray’s family could afford to pay the keep on that milk cow, and am pretty sure the dairyman never presented a feed bill. I lived in that home for several years and never heard mention of anyone on the milk route being behind on their account. We delivered at Charlie’s house same as we did at the bankers.

Here’s what else is different now. Those who had less to do with whined the least, and seemed to smile the most. They are people worth remembering, and perhaps emulating.