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.