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...... 

But really, who's keeping track....

As a part of my "job" I write a weekly column. Some weeks it's a chore to sit in front of the computer and come up with 350 words that fit together in a cohesive, yet informative and entertaining, way. Other times it's a struggle to condense all that I want to say into the allotted space.

Never, I repeat, never do the words jump from my muddled mind to the computer screen in the way that I intend.

Sometimes I pray to simply be in that "happy place" where all things align themselves into perfect order, and where I'm fully satisfied with the result. But, to date, I've written 245 columns, and have never been totally satisfied with a single one. Just this morning I was reviewing some of my past work, and couldn't resist the temptation to edit and rewrite nearly every paragraph.

I can't decide it it's because I'm a perfectionist or it's just my obsessive compulsive nature forcing its way out of the tightly sealed box where I keep it securely locked away. Nah, I'm not obsessive nor compulsive about anything......

Two hundred and forty-five weekly columns; nearly five years (actually it's 4.71 years); eighty-five thousand seven hundred and fifty words (approximately); four hundred and ninety hours (two hours per column).....and so on and so forth...

But really, who's keeping track, certainly not me.

My partner and I recently developed a website for our company.....it's pretty cool, even though I know nothing about how things like that work. If I truly was obsessive and compulsive, I'd constantly be meddling with it; changing this and tweaking that.....sometimes ignorance is bliss.

Our marketing advisor has suggested that I write a weekly column, or blog, for the website. She says that it will help to give our clients an insight to the personal side of things......now that's a scary thought!

I'm considering it!!

Another deadline, another struggle with words, logic, sentence structure, content, ideas, advice, and writers' block........what am I thinking!

As usual, not thinking leads me right back to that "happy place" of What Do I Know.

Another piece of America's lost.....

Earlier today, for the first time in a long time, I donned a suit and tie.


For years it was a regular routine, rising early and dressing appropriately for a workday requiring such attire. I don't miss it much, and I rarely feel the need to dig deep into the closet for the aged suits that hang near the back. My work, such as it is, doesn't require that I march to the beat of the corporate drum, nor that I "dress to impress" or "dress for success". Neither my clients nor my cattle seem to care much what I wear.


I often chuckle when I receive an invitation to a meeting that identifies the dress code as being "business casual". I suspect that my idea of casual dress is somewhat different than their intent. In fact, I've been known to say that I'm probably the only one attending who has to dress up to get to the point of business casual.


Occasionally, however, I find that it is necessary to revert to my old ways, and today I was dressing out of respect. Respect for the passing of another dear friend.


In today's society it seems to me that everything has gone to "business casual", including the most somber of events. The sanctuary was filled to capacity, but dark suits and white shirts were in short supply. There was a time when every man there would have been sporting nearly the same suit; dark gray or blue, spit polished shoes, black of course, and a white shirt.


Today, if it had not been for all of the other old-timers, I would have almost felt out of place.


Guess I'd better get used to it......don't like it much, but I suppose I'm the one who's out of step.


It reminds me of the words of an old country song, "This is the last cowboy song, the end of a hundred year waltz, another piece of America's lost....."


I think we've lost more than just a piece of America.......but, as always What Do I Know.

Hard work, sweat, and trophies....

It was late, and everyone was exhausted from three days in the oppressive heat of the endless Kansas summer. Now, even as the time on my dirty, sweat-stained watch approached the witching hour, I could barely keep the sweat from my bleary eyes.

Crack! That unmistakable sound of a well-struck ball brought me out of my stupor. My head jerked upward to see the baseball soaring into the night sky......it seemed to hang there forever, and time stood still.

I was coaching a group of fifteen year-old baseball players in the final game of the regional tournament. The winners could look forward to playing in the State tournament while the losers would see their season come to a sad end.

 It had been three days of baseball, played in 100 plus degree heat, and it had brought this group of young men to the point where they were pushing themselves beyond where they thought they could go. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, they were drained. We had lost an early game in this double elimination tournament, and through sheer grit and determination, had made it to the finals. We were down to our final pitcher and although he was tired, he had done a masterful job of keeping us in the game, keeping the opposing hitters at bay as he protected a one run lead.

In the bottom of the previous inning he had taken a wicked line-drive off his shin, and after throwing out the runner, had limped to the dugout. I grabbed a bag of ice, took a quick look at the growing knot on his leg, and knew that he was done for the night. I told him to keep the ice on it and stay on the bench as we went to bat. It was a quick inning, we didn't score, and I was racking my brain to think of who would pitch the last inning. When I got to the dugout to begin shuffling the lineup, I noticed a half-melted bag of ice on the ground.....

Barely able to walk, but limping out to the mound anyway, a boy was fighting his way into manhood. When I tried to stop him he waved me off and said, "I can do this coach!"

Against my better judgment I decided to give him a chance to finish the game. Four pitches later I was searching furiously for a replacement as the first batter trotted to first base, but again, he waved me aside. The next  batter hit a slow roller to third and the throw to first recorded the first out. The runner advanced to second on the play and was now in scoring position. A passed ball allowed him to move to third, and I was again searching for answers.

Earlier in the game I had moved our shortstop to second base to protect his sore arm. He typically would have been called on to close out the final inning, but his sore arm wouldn't allow it. Sometimes those coaching decisions pay dividends, and when the next batter hit a pop-up toward short right field, he made a nice running catch for the second out, and kept the tying run at third.

The sky was jet black, the stars were vivid, and the baseball appeared as large as the moon against that backdrop. Nothing a coach can do now; But, coaches don't play the game, players do. Our center fielder had a bead on the ball, and though he had been known to occasionally misjudge a fly ball, this was not one of those times. Every player on the field knew that he would make the catch, and he did.

Game over......Region champions!

I just stood outside the dugout and watched the joy in their faces as they piled on each other on the infield grass. There's nothing quite like that experience you know; being the underdog and overcoming adversity to beat the odds.

They had worked hard, fought through the heat and pain, and walked off with the trophy. It doesn't always work out that way, but on that hot August night it did. I believe it was meant to be, but really, what do I know. 

Who knows what lurks in the forest??

Kind of quiet here at the ranch this time of the year. Calves have been weaned and sold, feed for the winter has been arranged, and it's a good time to enjoy the beautiful autumn weather.

Last weekend all the kids and grandkids came for a visit, which called for the annual bonfire with roasted wieners and s'mores. I've never much cared for marshmallows, but throw in a little melted chocolate and a graham cracker and I can manage to join in the fun. Lot's of laughter, sticky faces and hands, and one little one who kept asking for scary stories which we never got around to telling....we didn't have to.....

It was a cold, dark night as we pulled our chairs closer to the fire. The heat from the dying embers felt good against the chill of the darkness, and the adult conversation drifted aimlessly from topic to topic. The flickers from the flames cast an eerie glow on the faces of those sitting closest to the fire, but no ghost stories seemed to come to mind. Soon, the grandkids lost interest and asked if they could take the lantern and walk to the playhouse at the edge of the woods.....

"Sure, go ahead, but be careful. " said Miss Elizabeth, as they grabbed the lantern and headed off into the darkness. We watched as they disappeared from sight except for the gentle sway of the lantern as they walked toward the playhouse about 100 yards away. I suppose when you're three years old it might as well have been a mile. Did I mention that it was a cold, dark night....

Soon we were back to our own thoughts and conversations, and forgot about the little ones playing at the edge of the forest. Oh, we could hear an occasional squeal of laughter drifting across the yard so we assumed that all was well.

Suddenly, we heard a piercing scream followed by the appearance in the distance of the bouncing light from the lantern as it emerged from the darkness at a much faster pace than it had left. Ten little legs were pumping furiously and covering ground as fast as they possibly could.....back to the safety of the bonfire. Apparently there were unknown visitors lurking about....

Three year old Wesley, breathless from his run, was the first to say,

"Grandpa, there's a monster in the forest!"

Soon after, the others chimed in about the alarming sound coming from the darkness down by the shop.....a loud, unidentified roar that was certainly a threat to us all......"Can we go in the house now?" seemed to be the consensus of the group; the laughter at the playhouse long forgotten.

I've not yet decided whether to explain the noise to them, or to just let the legend live on. In time, one of them may figure out that it was just the air compressor in the shop, but for now, whenever they ask about the "monster in the forest", I'll simply say, What do I know??