(Photo Copyright Thomas Meredith 2019)
It’s pretty well established by now that I am rarely, if ever, at a loss for words. And yet last night, as I sat to tackle this week’s topic—The Long View—I had more than a few false starts. This morning I feel no better equipped to capture in words what I’m experiencing as Tiny T Ranch hits its 8th anniversary. But I will try.
I think in movies, which, until I heard a Temple Grandin interview about visual thinking, I had no idea that anyone thought any other way than in pictures. Possibly because of my PTSD but maybe simply because disasters are often more memorable than happy times, the cinematic montage that floats in when I reflect on my time at the ranch is mostly pretty dramatic and not in a good way.
There’s me, during last year’s ice storm, standing, crying in the bitter cold watching hose bibs around the property burst—despite extensive preparations—and let loose an impromptu Hillbilly Homage to the Bellagio fountains. There’s me, four times in about as many days, dealing with visits from sheriff’s deputies who were called out, all four times, on false reports made by three disgruntled roommates/employees upon being fired for their shitty attitudes and told to vacate the property.
The dead animal tales are legion, this due in part to my habit (now broken I hope) of adopting old and sometimes sick livestock. More recently though, the heat dome was to blame as the relentless triple-digit temperatures took out two of my beloved sheep. Mother Nature also gets credit for the tornado that tore across the front yard six months into my time here, felling twenty-six large trees but, thankfully, leaving the tiny chapel unscathed.
And despite the fact that the overwhelming majority of weddings I’ve hosted have been wonderful, I admit I keep getting stuck on the images of a handful of super loser brides who got in my face as if I, personally, had concocted covid to ruin their big days.
I remember the ex-con would-be horse thief I had to threaten with a shotgun to get him to back down. Which he did, eventually apologizing and telling me in a rambling voicemail that god had told him to let me keep Tiny the one-eyed horse—who’d been abandoned at the ranch before I bought it. He swore the horse had once been his before he got sent to the big house. “His real name is Butterscotch,” he told me.
At last I have landed on a positive common denominator for these and other over-the-top crazy bad events. And that is this: I got through them. I am, as the pop song goes, still standing.
The biggest reason I have managed to navigate these and other ranch disasters is, of course, thanks to Bob. I could live here another fifty years and still, I know, never again will I ever have any greater fortune than when that old Indiana farmer took up residence here for the last fourteen months of his life.
I knew precisely zero about ranch running when I got here. This, combined with my natural born impulsivity, led to many disastrous decisions early on. Beginning with the first shady contractor I brought in to convert this abandoned meth lab into a venue, I have been ripped off to the gills more than a few times. But Bob’s arrival started a process for me that continues to this day. He didn’t just show me how to deal with the outer workings of the property, he taught me how to deal with the inner workings of my heart. He did not always use kid gloves when educating me.
“Sucker,” he would call me when I fucked up and let yet another loser take advantage of me. I didn’t totally appreciate his bluntness, but the message got through. More than schooling me on livestock maintenance, Bob taught me how to better deal with the most problematic species of all: human beings.
I still get taken advantage of, but with far less frequency. And when a so-called bad actor does appear these days, I am far quicker to recognize the problem and far, far quicker to resolve it. For example, I doubt the asshole that broke the chapel window will soon forget the big empty vodka bottle I hurled at his head. (Sadly, I missed.)
In short, while I don’t mind shoveling literal bull shit—because, as I’ve been taught, bull shit means the bulls are alive—my tolerance for human bullshit has diminished exponentially. I am way tougher now than I was on October 2, 2015, whereupon hearing the ranch deal had closed, I cried so hard I couldn’t speak.
Some things I have learned since I’ve gotten here:
If you have a pickup truck, people will want to borrow it to move their shit.
If you have a ranch, people will want to store their shit for free at the ranch.
If you have both a pickup truck and a ranch, people will want to borrow the former to bring their shit to the latter and leave it there indefinitely.
It is never, ever a good idea to hire employees or choose roommates from AA.
No matter how sick or sad or freaked out you are, there are no days off. Animals need food and water and they don’t care about your panic attacks, your illnesses, your busy schedule or the weather.
Even Sisyphus would beg for mercy if he had a ranch.
Today’s crisis to be resolved is The Refrigerator Situation. Ever since I put myself on the cash-only diet awhile back, repairing or replacing what is broken happens more slowly and, when possible, more frugally. Which is why, for the past couple of months, I have been squeezing a few last miles out of the fridge, which has, at random intervals, been making sustained noises that sound like a plane going down. Mostly I unplug it, let it sit for a spell, plug it back in, and hope for the best. But this past weekend, I knew it was time. So I tracked down a new used fridge for cheap on Craigslist, and even managed to have it delivered for a mere $40.
Of course I forgot that to get the old one out its doors must be removed, and to get the new one in, same thing. This is beyond my skill set. Thus the amount of money I saved going secondhand will now be handed over to the handyman who can make these things happen.
Then, tomorrow, a doorknob will fall off or a tenant will clog a toilet or I will run over some mesquite and wind up with a flat tire or two. These ongoing events are why taking The Long View is not something I have time for.
And yet, as Birthday Number Eight loomed, I channeled Bob and encouraged myself to take a little time to think about my accomplishments here. So many weddings. So many funerals. So many concerts. Marshall Crenshaw slept at my house. So did Tommy Stinson. During the Ice Storm of 2021 my power stayed on and I housed a crowd of folks who did not have such luck.
Every spring, without fail, no matter what else is going on, I have stood in awe on the lawn, looking out over a sea of wildflowers. I have witnessed a group of cows surround and console the cow that lost her baby after a protracted, nightmarish labor. I have held a wild cardinal in my hands, having rescued it from its panicked, wall-smashing attempts to escape a shed. I have, most of all, done the thing I feel best-suited to do on this planet: answer the call to foster community.
I have also heard myself say, more times in the past year than collectively across the eight, that it is time to sell this place. I am getting old. The machine is wearing out. When I got thrown into a wall by a 200 pound sheep not interested in being sheared, I did not bounce back quickly. My taxes are breathtaking as Travis County has become one of the most expensive places in the country. In short, I am plum worn out more often than not.
But for now, here I am still. Home sweet home. This place is forever the shelter and forever the storm. This anniversary is a big day. It is also just another day. I got up, as I do now, before dawn. Fed the inside animals. Fed the outside animals. Soon I will continue the long to-do list that needs to be conquered before the next big wedding, coming right up.
I will get through it all. Then I will get through the next round of whatever arises. And I will remember something else Bob used to say, far more frequently than calling me a sucker. “You’re the strongest woman I know,” he’d insist. I can’t say I fully believe that, but I take comfort in the memory. I keep shoveling the shit, literal and metaphorical. I stay strong.
NOTES:
Y’all! Thank you SO MUCH for reading. If you are in a position to subscribe for $5 per month/$50 per year, I am gently urging you to do so. Your wonderful support helps me keep this money pit running. Also, if you know someone who would dig my substack, please share it.
I have a piece in this month’s Texas Co-Op Power Magazine about The Tiny Chapel of Kindness.
I am taking on a very small number of one-on-one writing coaching clients now. Holler for details.
Happy Birthday Tiny T!
Great writing. Always worth watching these movies.