The other night a pretty strong storm blew through. Because it is April and because I am prone to visceral sense memories, as I listened to the rain pounding the metal roof I was transported back to April of 2016, the 29th to be precise, also known as The Night a Tornado Ripped Across the Ranch. Or maybe it was what is known meteorologically as straight line winds, though given the way 26 trees were twisted and uprooted around my property, everyone in these parts forever recalls it as a tornado.
It was a terrifying night. My son and his then partner were visiting and, though I am loath to even remember he was ever a part of my life, so was my then partner. The whole thing went down after midnight, so loud and ferocious that we all gathered in the dining room, startled awake by the sound, unclear on what exactly was happening, only that it was very bad. Envisioning an explosion of glass shards killing us all, I shooed the partners from the windows, which they were peering out of, striking me as dumb city slickers the pair of them, though I myself was only six months into rural living. In one closet, water poured down the walls, this courtesy of a section of the roof that had been ripped off.
I have a few distinct memories of the aftermath. For as prone as I am to panic, I also have a very peculiar pragmatic streak. The latter often precedes the former, a dissociative calm before the storm of reality fully descends. Toward this end, I clearly remember thinking that, despite the adrenaline coursing through me, it was crucial that I find a way to lull myself back to sleep, to get much needed rest before an early morning wedding at which I was due.
As I lay in my bed trying to coax my breathing to a slower pace, I heard the most remarkable music I have ever experienced in my life. At the time, I don’t think I even knew the term “dawn chorus.” I only knew that outside my windows, filling the quiet that had followed the whistling wind, came the sound of hundreds of birds raising their voices in song. I was beside myself. How could it be that they, mere ounces each, had survived this thing that had snapped trees in half like toothpicks?
Though I’d quit religion decades before, this lively melodious song immediately called to mind an old unforgotten bible lesson, the one about Noah and the Ark and the rainbow he saw representing a covenant with god that never again would there be such a deadly flood. Oh those little birds were my aural rainbow as I finally drifted off.
Another memory I have is seeing, upon sunrise, both the utter destruction and, more shockingly, that which was spared, namely the tiny chapel I had bought and moved to the ranch just two weeks prior. There was not a scratch upon it, which did not inspire me to rethink my nontheistic stance, but sure did appear to be proof of dang good luck.
And then there were the neighbors. I don’t remember how many showed up, but it seems to me there were a good number of them, outside my gate, waiting with their chainsaws to help. Most pressingly urgent were the chickens who, courtesy of a massive fallen limb, were trapped in their coop. (Every one of them survived.)
These people did not know me. They just showed up. I return to this memory often when I contemplate all the political strife consuming us now. Though I am not the only screaming liberal in this little unincorporated community of ranchettes, I am most certainly in a tiny minority. My conservative neighbors surely knew at least this much about me that day. But we didn’t stop to exchange voter registration cards or judge each other in any way. They simply demonstrated great neighborly kindness. I’m happy to say that over the years I have been able to return the favor, offering the ranch for free or cheap for various weddings and funerals and family gatherings.
While I will never be glad for that storm and the devastation it wrought, my aftermath gratitude is as strong now as it was on that morning after. The anniversary of the occasion also invites me to reflect on all of the storms—literal and metaphorical—I have weathered out here. I don’t do that as often as I should as I’m usually entirely too busy putting out daily fires to stop and savor how much living here has changed and shaped me for the better, how much I have learned.
The education has been, at turns, organic, accidental, frightening, whimsical. Mostly I have run these thirty acres in the spirit of that old story of how, aerodynamically, bumblebees are not designed to fly. Still, they fly, their secret being that they don’t know they can’t.
Now, nearly nine years into this adventure, I recount with wonder—and often horror—some of the choices I made, how often I bit off way more than I could chew. The worst choices involved trusting untrustworthy people. I let far too many of this sort work for me, live with me, convince me (wrongly) that their ideas were better than mine. The biggest unchewable bites probably relate to the cows, and when I think about cows I remember my son once gesturing to my herd—at that point up to ten—and pointing out that probably I didn’t need that many. What an understatement. And how long it took me to realize that, adorable as it might appear, keeping a free roaming bull for a pet and treating him like a chihuahua wasn’t a terribly good idea.
I have learned that having a ranch is like having a pickup truck, only exponentially worse. When you have a truck, it is inevitable friends will want to borrow the truck to move their shit. When you have a ranch, it is inevitable that friends will want to move their shit to your place. And when you have both, well then, yes, they will want to borrow your truck to move their shit to your place. Also, it will not be at all unusual for the tank of the returned truck to register empty.
There have been more than a few times when I very seriously thought about selling this place. Most recently was during last summer’s heat dome, which killed my sheep, my grass, and my spirit and left me sitting in the house crying, surfing Zillow for property in Upstate New York and New Mexico as I dreamed of cooler climes.
I tell myself I am getting way too old to be heaving fifty-pound sacks of feed around. I try to imagine what my life would be like if I did not have the Sisyphean tasks of keeping dozens of animals alive, of coaxing a few more years out of this ancient plumbing, of air traffic controlling the long and short term tenants whose rent I need to keep it all rolling, but who, despite all warnings, also sometimes use fancy ass toilet paper, necessitating another thousand dollar emergency call to Hector, my septic guy.
Then I think: Hey! I have a septic guy! This pleases me. Ten years ago I didn’t even know what a septic system was. It also pleases me that when any crisis arises out here, it takes me roughly two seconds to think of who in my ample mental Rolodex might be able to solve it. Rompe the Jack of All Trades Triage Guy, Brandon the Cowboy, Charlie the Plumber, Derek and Justin the Quarry Guys, Wesley the Electrician, Oscar the A/C guy, Doc Huddleston the Mobile Livestock Vet. Some do work for free or discounted or trade. Often they show up after hours or on weekends. These men have been such a part of the fabric of my ranch adventures that I consider them friends and my gratitude for their knowledge and support knows no bounds.
This morning I headed out into a chilly spring sunrise, out to feed the pigs and goats, the ducks and chickens, the dogs and the sole survivor sheep. How routine this has become for me, these daily chores that must be done no matter if it’s ten degrees or a hundred and ten. I listened to the happy racket—the call of my feed bucket, the response of their cries, fussing like they ain’t been fed in a month of Sundays. What an ass-busting glorious privilege it is to be here on this land. How I have grown to embody the words of my beloved Louisa May Alcott who wrote: I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.
NOTES:
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FUNDRAISER CONCERT with James McMurtry and John Doe.
May 18, 2024 at Tiny T Ranch in Garfield, TX 78617
Each icon will do a one-hour set. It’s an early show from 6-9. Seats are very limited. $50. Come hang out on the lawn with us.
We are raising funds for Desiree Venable who is a Democrat running for State Representative District 17 in the Texas Legislature. It’s (long past) time for women’s autonomy to be restored. Please help spread the word. Thanks.
Perspective is a powerful equalizer. Last week my brother-in-law had surgery to fix his broken neck. After a week at my sister's, I came home to my messy house and my beautiful, healthy family. Infinite gratitude.
STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS. Dark and Stormy night is terrific, even by Crone Life standards. I call this Stream of Consciousness not in the usual sense of a sequenced flow of sounds, images and ideas that often are not even tenuously strung together by theme or place. As we all know, the mind can take improbable leaps.
This journal entry sets down on paper a train of thoughts and experiences lived in real time. Your paper, in turn, has set that train of thoughts in mine. I’m sharing a space with you on your ranch of consciousness. Thanks, Jim