It's the life of a rancher.....

Yesterday morning dawned crisp and cold, but the sun was rapidly making headway against the chill. By nine o'clock breakfast was a distant memory, the chores were complete, and I was at work in my office. As I walked to the kitchen to refill my coffee I stole a glance outside......and there she was.


She was all alone, standing on a small rise not far from the house. The rest of the herd was still milling around the feed bunk, searching for that last crumb of food that by now was long gone. She, on the other hand, had wandered off by herself to find a perfect spot to give birth.


I was transfixed as she walked in small circles, settled down in the tall grass, and two minutes later, stood up again. She alternated between standing, lying down, walking in circles, and generally trying to find a level of comfort that only ends when the labor is complete. It wasn't the first time I'd viewed the process from afar, especially with these mature cows who've been through the experience many times.


I watched for awhile, then retreated to my office to make a dent in the heap of paper that needed to be sorted into more manageable piles.....neatly stacked so I could pretend that I'd made progress. But, the lure of new life drew me back to my viewpoint. An hour later she was still struggling, and I decided to make a visit. As I got into my coat and boots I saw that she had finally completed her arduous task. She was busy cleaning her new baby, so I decided to give her some time to bond before I ventured outside to check the results.


There's something about the birth of a new calf that still gives me a small thrill. As I walked across the pasture I anticipated the moment when it would struggle to its feet and seek both nourishment and comfort from its proud mama.


Something was wrong. The calf was lying too still and too awkwardly......not a good sign. Mama was still licking and nudging it as she tried to somehow will it to live. Alas, it was not to be.


It's not unusual to lose a calf, but it's always sad. I've had many years where we were 100% successful, but not this year. This was the second death and we've only just begun the season.


I could lament the loss of productivity and the loss of dollars, but quite frankly, it's the loss of life that bothers me the most. I hate to see the mournful look in that mama cow's eyes when it becomes evident to her that there is no life in her baby. Then, for a few days she will traverse the pasture, lowing in a sad and lonesome manner that's almost human.


Some will say that it goes with the territory, but if that's the case, I don't much care for the territory. I'm hoping for better days ahead, and for short memories of the bad times.


If you're going to be a rancher you have to deal with the bad and the good. I understand that, but nowhere is it written that you have to like it......I certainly know that I don't!  



 

Listening, a lost art....

I spend a great deal of my time listening....

I listen to business clients as they share their most treasured secrets; their fear of failure, their fear of change, and their fear of the great unknown.

I listen to community leaders as they struggle for answers to declining populations, to declining tax revenues, to businesses closing their doors on what was once a thriving Main Street, and a fear of the great unknown.

I listen to school superintendents as they lament the lack of funding, the lack of parental involvement, or worse, too much parental interference, the declining enrollment, and the fear of the great unknown.

I listen to young people who see too little opportunity in their future, too many obstacles between them and where they want to be, and a fear of the great unknown.

Of course you see the common thread is fear. Fear paralyzes our ability to act. Fear takes away our confidence so that we prefer the discomfort of where we are instead of the unknown, even though the unknown may hold great treasure.

So I listen, listen with all my heart and soul. And after I listen, I speak to what I've heard. If you've listened first, and truly heard what was being said, you've then earned the right to speak.....not before.

My job, as I see it, is to help people cope with their future and take away some of the unknowns. If we can get past the fear, the decisions become more manageable, the future less intimidating, and the course of action less uncertain. Whether you're a business owner, mayor, school principal, or student, we're all faced with tough decisions.

Conquering fear sometimes requires nothing more than a sympathetic ear; A friend to whom we can share our concerns and who does not pass judgment. Such friends are to be treasured. They help us through the tough times and are there to listen when we need to talk.

I get paid to listen, but to be honest, I'd do it for free and often do. My clients are just friends yet to be confirmed, and their well-being is important to me. I hope they feel the same, but as always, What do I Know.

High heels and pointy toes.....

Has it really been  fifty years since Beatle Mania descended upon our fair land?


Boy, do I remember that evening when we all gathered around our little black and white television, tuned it to the Ed Sullivan show, and watched intently as Mr. Sullivan introduced the latest singing sensations from England.


My older sister was not enthralled with the young Brits, as she still idolized Elvis Presley, however, the rest of us were quite curious to get a glimpse of these dashing young lads. My dad, whose musical tastes leaned toward Hank Williams and Ernest Tubb, was quick to state his opinion.


"They only know three chords and three lyrics, and repeat them over and over."  Then, he went back to reading his latest Mickey Spillane thriller, while I too, tried to figure out what all the fuss was about. Little did we know that it was the dawning of a new era known as the British Invasion.


Soon thereafter, youngsters in our town began to emulate everything "British"; the clothes, the hairstyles, and the Cockney accent.......with a Midwestern twang, of course.


Paul White owned the local shoe store, and my mother worked for him. I was a young teen who should have been at the forefront of the movement to embrace the Beatles as the greatest thing ever; I was still lukewarm to the idea.


One day my mom came home with a box under her arm and said, "Paul ordered a few pair of these "shoes" to see if they would sell. He sent a pair for you to wear to school to see what the kids think."


"Mom, those are just plain ugly! I was looking at a pair of half-boots, with pointed toes, high heels, and zippers up the side. "I will not wear those to school and be laughed at all day."


But, with a little persuasion, and because of my fondness of her boss, I relented. The next morning I pulled on the first pair of "Beatle Boots" to grace the halls of Roosevelt Junior High......


It was with much trepidation that I walked through the doors that day, but almost immediately I was engulfed by my friends.


"What are those? Are those the same boots that the Beatles wear? Did they come from England?


And, of course, Mr. White's favorite question of all, "Where can I get a pair?"


He was a marketing genius, and soon, everyone in our school was sporting half-boots with pointed toes and high heels......


The fad was relatively short-lived, and it wasn't long until most of us returned to more comfortable footwear. It wasn't the last time I played "guinea pig" for Paul, but it was definitely the most notable.


Perhaps it's time to recreate it for the fifty year anniversary. Now where are those boots......